Page 36 of Huckleberry Hill
“I’m falling back into the old rhythm,” I said with a smile. “After I feed the chickens and collect the eggs, I’m going to muck out the stalls and wash the saddle blankets.”
“It’s like you never left.” He lifted his black coffee to his lips.
I paused. “Sometimes I wish I hadn’t.”
“It’s good you left,” he said. “It’s good to experience different things in life. So you know what you’re coming back to.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I murmured.
“Are you missing New York?”
“It’s only my second day of being home,” I said with a laugh.
“So?”
I sighed. “I miss this place when I leave it. When I’m in New York, I have this . . . this aching feeling for the Ridge. I’ve always felt that way.”
“I’m glad you’re home. I am,” he said and then fell silent.
“But? There’s a but just waiting to come out.”
“However,” Dad grinned, but it slipped. “I don’t want you to . . . hide here. You get what I mean?”
“Yeah.” I sighed. “I get what you mean.” I took a sip of coffee. “I don’t think I miss New York. Poet texted that she saw a homeless man throw up on the train. Who would miss that?”
“There are other things to love about a big city.”
“Really,” I drawled. “Like what?”
His brow furrowed. “Fine, I’m the wrong person to talk to about the pros and cons of city life.”
“I miss my friends,” I admitted. “I miss Salem. I miss our tiny eclectic apartment and the four of us running around a city trying to make our dreams come true. I miss the random nights when all four of us happen to be home and we sit on the floor and drink wine and eat cheese. That, I miss. That, I can see myself missing if I . . .”
“If you what?”
“If I don’t go back,” I admitted. “Do I have to go back?”
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
“But like you said, I can’t stay here and hide. And what am I going to do the rest of my life? Live and work on the ranch?”
“You would’ve done that if you hadn’t followed Salem to New York,” he pointed out. “You’ve been in New York for five years, honey. That’s long enough to know if a place is good for you or not.”
I tapped the rim of my mug. “I’m not like them. Salem, Poet, Wyn . . . they love New York. They thrive there. To me, it’s just . . . exhausting.”
I looked away from my father and stared out over the land.
“I can’t breathe there,” I said quietly. “And I think I lied to myself that I could.”
“So, again, maybe this is a silver lining from your breakup?”
“Yeah maybe. How can it be, though? Home for barely two days and I’m feeling more stable than I have in months.”
“You said it: home. This is your home. This will always be your home. This place is in your blood.”
“Salem’s my home, too,” I pointed out.
“You’re allowed to choose yourself,” he said. “You’re allowed to be happy.”
