Page 3 of The Pieces We've Lost

I pulled the tarp off the old pickup truck and suppressed a cough as a thin layer of dust rose into the air. Once the dust had settled, I ran my fingers over the hood and the baby-blue paint before opening the driver’s sidedoor and sliding onto the bench seat. The interior looked almost brand new, despite having a bit of a musty smell from sitting in this shop for so long.

This pickup was my dad’s pride and joy. My mother used to joke that he loved it more than he loved her, even though we all knew that was far from the truth. There was nothing he loved more than her.

It took a little bit of maneuvering, but I pulled the vehicle out of the shop and onto the dusty gravel road. After closing the garage door and making sure everything looked exactly like it had before I got there, I drove the truck toward the highway, away from the view of the main house and my mother’s gaze.

A photo of my parents from the year they met sat on the dashboard. In it, my dad had his arm around my mom’s shoulders and he was smiling at her while she smiled at the camera. I knew I took more after my father, but looking at photos like this one confirmed the two of us were practically clones with our dark hair and athletic build.

My mom and I were opposites when it came to our looks. She had vibrant, strawberry-blonde hair and, unlike my father who always developed a tan while working in the summer, she burned easily in the sun. While my features were sharp, hers were softer, rounder. The one, and only, thing I got from my mother were her eyes. Baby blue.

The radio was set to an old country western station, and the lyrics to George Strait’s “Amarillo By Morning”played softly in the background.

I never touched anything in this pickup, never moved anything or gave the impression that the vehicle was being used, but I always admired the photo of my parents. The only things that made it difficult to keep my driving habit asecret were the fuel gauge and odometer, but I held onto the hope that no one besides me came out to the vehicle, and if they did, they just ignored the numbers or never started it.

I rolled down the driver’s side window, cruising north down the backroads, and let the cool breeze blow my hair to the side. There were no other vehicles in sight. Although I was still driving on a public road, it was not very well maintained, so no one really used it. I took this route every time I drove my dad’s pickup for that exact reason. There was no one who could potentially see me driving the vehicle and report it back to my mother.

It wasn’t that I was breaking any laws by driving the truck or that my mother would be mad that I drove it. In fact, I was so cautious that the only law I could possibly be breaking was driving too slowly. I just wanted to keep this ritual a secret. It was special. Sacred. Just me, my dad’s favorite truck, which I had continued to restore for him once I was old enough, and the endless dirt roads.

I liked to think I was pretty strong, that I could hold my own and not let my emotions get the better of me. My mom used to joke that I was truly my father’s daughter in that way, inheriting every personality trait of his, both good and bad. My dad was determined, confident, and charming, but he was also overly competitive and stubborn as a mule. I didn’t mind being compared to him, though, despite the way I rolled my eyes every time she would say it. Deep down, it made me feel close to him in a way that I had longed for since his death. I considered it a compliment in some ways, to bear resemblance to a man so many people still idolized years after his accident.

Sometimes when I drove out here, the tears just fell. Itwas almost cathartic, the privacy that allowed me to mourn the man I never really got to know.

I wondered what he would think of me today. If he would be proud of me, or if he would be disappointed in my estrangement from the rodeo community. Part of me thought he would understand how painful it was to watch other people replace his memory and legacy. How much it hurt to think about the sport that took his life.

I swiped a tear out from under my eye as I looked out onto the horizon. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds, creating an ethereal scene on the hills before me.

“Hi, Dad.” I sniffed. I talked to my dad all the time, even if it seemed illogical to think he could hear me. I truly wanted to believe he could in times like this, though. “I wanted to take your truck out for a drive again today. I’m taking good care of it, I promise. I know you wouldn’t want it to sit in the shop to gather dust.” He wouldn’t have. He took pride in keeping his “toys” looking shiny and new.

“Mom’s holding up. I know she’s trying to be strong for us, but I also know the weight that this time of year has on her. I can’t believe in a couple weeks it will have been fifteen years. Everyone’s been talking about you on the radio and TV. You’re still as famous now as you were back then.

“I’m not sure what I’m going to do this year. I want to stay here with Mom, but I know she wants me to go out and experience the world. She says she wants me to make the most out of my twenties because, ‘you’re only young once.’ I worry about her, but I know she worries about me too.” I huffed, rolling my eyes a little as I thought about my mom’s lectures about being young.

My mother had assured me she was fine, that she didn’t want to prevent me from getting out and makingmemories, from having things to look forward to. But sometimes I caught her wiping a tear from her eyes when she looked out at the arena in our yard. She stayed so strong for others; it didn’t seem fair to leave her behind. Even the strongest people needed someone to lean on.

“We miss you a lot down here, Dad, but I’m sure you’re up there wrestling steers and having a grand ole time.” I sighed.

As if in response, the sun emerged completely, casting a golden glow on the land. The breeze seemed to pause completely, a melodic sound of birdsong filled the air, and I knew he was listening to me.

CHAPTER TWO

colter

Carson, toss me a beer, will ya!” Mikey, one of the guys I competed with, called out to me from across my front yard.

I reached into the cooler he brought to grab him a cold one and noticed that all that was in there was lager out of the Pacific Northwest. I was pretty sure it had that motorcycle commercial back in the day.

“What the hell is this, man?” I teased.

“It’s cheap, dude. And it ain’t all that bad,” he defended as I shook my head and tossed the can to him.

I was just giving him shit. Truthfully, I didn’t mind the kind he brought; it just wasn’t what I normally drank.

It was a tradition for us guys to get together at my house before a big rodeo to chill with a couple beers and not worry about work, competing, or anything overly stressful. In addition to Mikey, my roping partner, Reid, was there, along with two other guys, Hayden and Jake.

“Y’all packed and ready to go tomorrow?” Jake asked.

A chorus of “yup” went around our little circle, save for Hayden who wouldn’t be coming with us this time.

“I’m ready to get on the road. Not so sure if I’m ready to spend twenty-one hours with you fuckers, though.” Mikey slapped me on the ass as I walked by him to go sit down again.

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