Page 10 of Teach Me How

“I’d have a lot more fun, I’ll tell you that.” She grins. “I’d have that next drink and kiss that boy. I’d say yes a hell of a lot more, and worry a heck of a lot less.” She pauses, shrugging. “It was a different time. So many rules about what a proper woman should and shouldn’t do. It was all bullshit, you know. Because them boys didn’t have to play by the same rules. They was taught to sow their wild oats while us girls were told to stay home. But let me ask you this, if all us girls was staying home, who were them boys sowing their oats to?”

I grin. “The bad girls.”

She laughs. “I should have been one of them bad girls.”

“They have more fun.”

“You’re damn right they do.”

“It’s not so different now.” I say, fiddling with the binder. “There’s still all kinds of expectations.”

“Yeah, I know, honey. But the difference is, you’ve got a voice now. If I was you, I’d use it.” She leans on her elbow. “Don’t ever let a man define what kind of woman you’re going to be.”

Too fucking late for that. If Jonah had told me to wear a collar and had me chipped, I would have agreed. “I needed that advice four years ago.”

She grins. “It’s never too late to start living.”

6.

Skyler

Terry is mid-sentence, talking to the team in France, when the front door bangs open.

I glance over the top of my laptop, watching my dad stomp through the living room.

I have got to remember to lock the front door.

Silver Bend doesn’t have an abundance of realty available, but right now, a hollowed-out tree by the creek is looking preferrable to living across the road to that bundle of stress and caffeine.

Dad grinds to a stop in front of me. Holding up two fingers out of view of the webcam, I finish giving my side of the report.

He bristles, crossing his arms, but waits. The one thing dad values over punctuality is doing the job the right way. I rattle off numbers, talking on auto pilot, because I’m distracted.

Not by my dad’s presence alone, this isn’t the first time he’s barged in on a meeting. I’m distracted by how much he looks like Uncle Don.

Uncle Chad and my dad don’t really look much alike. They have the same big frame, salt and pepper hair. But Uncle Chad has blue eyes and lighter coloring, where my dad is dark. Like Uncle Don.

I finish up, snapping the laptop closed.

Dad gives me a level look. “If you don’t have time to help out around here, I’ll just hire a farm hand.”

He’s made the threat before. And just like the last time, and the time before, the comment draws my gaze to his actual hand. The right one.

It looks perfectly normal, just like his left. But looks can be deceiving and that hand is more or less decoration at this point. He can’t grasp with it, steer a tractor with it. It’s no good. Damaged.

You’d think the guilt would ease after a while. That I’d stop thinking about it, that it wouldn’t feel so fucking fresh.

I stand, pushing my chair in. “I’m coming. That meeting was just running over.”

“Yeah, well, the grain truck is probably running over now, too.”

“You left the auger running?”

He tips his head. “No. But I can’t run the grain cart and the truck at the same time. We got to get that east bin transferred before harvest gets going in earnest or we’ll have nowhere to go with the grain.”

“I know, I know.” This is a different version of the same argument I heard over breakfast. The issue here, is that helping my dad out is a full-time gig. But so is the job with Wheaton. I’d pay good money for a cloning machine, but until the technology comes along, I’m stuck doing both jobs.

It’s running me ragged.

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