Page 6 of Coiled Tight
Animals would always stand over people.
Saúl was in the kitchen when I went back down. He hummed to himself as he leaned against the counter with one plate of what looked like half-eaten pie on hand. Part of me wanted to ask if he didn’t sit down to eat. I didn’t know what his role was in the refuge exactly, but it would be grueling work regardless. Besides, mindfulness experts all said it was important to sit down and enjoy a meal properly.
Instead, I just stood staring at him and all that dark hair and tanned skin and muscles. His father had explained that they were a Chilean family who had moved here—his father and his wife; so, Saúl’s grandparents—and then more of their relatives had started moving, too. He’d explained a lot more than I would’ve expected. I didn’t catch half of it, but I caught on that family was important to him, and I’d be dealing with lots of his nephews and nieces and… more family.
It had been intimidating, given I couldn’t remember the last time I’d even had a meal with my own. When I graduated, maybe?
“Bon appétit?”
Shit.
It came out as a question, didn’t it?
My throat clogged up, my heart rate racing the way it always did when I forgot how to have a simple, basic conversation.
“Hungry?” Saúl took forever to pose the question. There was no way this was only in my head. I could sometimes imagine things, but I wasn’t imagining this much. “I can heat up a portion for you.”
“No, it’s?—”
I didn’t have time to tell him it was fine and I’d already eaten at the airport, because my stomach growled in protest. Instinctually, I wrapped an arm around it. For some reason, I always thought that was a myth—stomachs so loud that others would hear them.
Today was really turning out to be the worst day, and the contract had a 30-day trial period where they could fire me without compensation or anything else, and even if Saúl didn’t know about it, his father did, and they would talk because the other man was big on family values, and Saúl would complain about me, and then?—
“Breathe.” His gravely voice broke through the building panic, somehow. I swallowed. Maybe I should’ve stayed upstairs. People got jetlagged all the time; it would’ve been a viable excuse. “You don’t have to walk on eggshells around here, you know?”
He shook his head before I had time to ask him or process what he’d said. Then, he was dropping his finished plate in the sink and moving to the industrial-sized fridge. If it was only him here, I didn’t understand the size of the fridge, but maybe it hadn’t always been just him. This place definitely had the rooms to hold a whole family or two. I only perused my room quickly when I dropped my suitcase, but the size rivaled that of my old apartment.
“Yeah.”
I glanced down while he plopped the leftover pie in the microwave. It was the only sound I could think of uttering. How did I explain to my new boss that shit was easier said than done, or that he shouldn’t bother with me because I was an asshole who didn’t deserve people caring about him?
“What did Father Dearest tell you about the job?”
I focused on the microwave heating up my food. Sometimes this kind of thing helped me sound more put-together. A therapist had suggested it, back when I was in school and my parents didn’t get me any appointments, but the school counselor found ways to see me during breaks and shit. She had been nice. I should check in on her, but was that too creepy?
I didn’t know.
There were many things I didn’t know.
I could, however, tell him about the job interview with his dad and the contract—and what little it actually outlined.
“There are four headquarters, per se,” Saúl explained. “This house, the lodging where the ranch hands stay, the animal care facilities, and the visitor center. That one is next to the front gate, and it’s just where we take people who want to donate money. Or the ones who can ride the horses.”
I took a step back, my lower back hitting the steel table there. I didn’t show that the sharp edge made me want to tear up—I deserved a cookie for that—No. Bad Cam.
I had to focus.
“But the horses aren’t for profit, right? He said something about that.”
Saúl grimaced right away.Fuck. Was I not going to say the right thing even once?
“He hates it, but no, they’re not,” he clarified. “Right now, our operation relies on something like sixty percent government funding, forty percent donors. And a few of them do gettime with the horses. Keeping them happy means that if the government fucks us over, we can still keep the basics operational. Some of the horses have been through enough, or they’re too old or don’t have the muscles for riding, and they’re off limits, but others are in good shape, and so used to humans, they’re happy to take a few donors on a stroll. I make the rules on who gets to ride who, though.”
“That makes sense.” The mare he’d come to greet me on looked perfectly cared for at first glance. I just didn’t know how to translate that sentiment without making it awkward or coming across as condescending. The world sucked, and capitalism sucked even more, but people loved horses, and horses had been domesticated for so long that some argued they needed humans, too. It would be different if he tried to tell me that they were offering up wolves or foxes or any other wild animal that still stood a chance at full freedom. That reminded me… “What about the petting zoo? Your dad said he was looking into that.”
That part, I hadn’t loved.
Saúl looked like I’d just made him chew on a bitter lemon. “That’s going to be one hell of a headache, isn’t it?”
