Bring the Rain (6 page)

I’d call Dad, tell him how much I missed him and he said he missed me too, but nothing ever changed. It took a few years, but I figured it out. If he really loved me, he never would’ve let us leave.

“I couldn’t lose you forever. This summer gives me an opportunity to build a bridge,” he answers.

I can’t look at him. Why doesn’t he see he already has? Even after reading this, he still doesn’t have a chance. He cheated!

 “I chose your sixteenth summer because it gives me the opportunity to show you who I am—as a person, a man, and a father. Then you can make a real decision regarding your seventeenth year.”

“I’m supposed to live in Paris with Mom my seventeenth year.” It’s hurtful, it’s blunt, but it’s the only weapon I have. He may have put money into trying to secure more time with me, but he still didn’t take advantage of the time he had. He doesn’t deserve a chance. Why is he asking for one?

“I'm aware Paris sounds amazing, and it is. It…” Dad’s jaw clenches. “It wasn’t fair though. Not fair of her to put herself there, offer you that compared to here.” He looks out the window at her garden, not even talking anymore.

“Dad.” How do I explain that I can’t miss Paris because he thought with his dick? No. It’s absurd for me to even feel the need to explain. He cheated. He ruined us.

He touches his nose, then points my way, shaking his head. “Don’t say anything. It’s not time yet. You have until September first to make that decision. Use this summer for that, okay?” I nod, aware again that tears are still slipping down my cheeks. The walls press in, and I need to find a time machine and go back.

Mom was right. Knowing is way too much for me.

***

We can’t get away fast enough. I lean in close to Howdy as he flies forward, galloping toward the sun. The dry heat hurts my skin while the dust bites my tongue. We flee until I sense the rhythm of his stride changing, and he has a first wheeze. I pull off his neck, “Easy boy, easy.” He’s just too old. We used to ride like this forever, or what seemed like forever to a nine-year-old.

He eases into a walk, my legs expanding with his labored breath. I wrap the reins around the horn, letting him wander. My mind spins. It doesn’t matter where we go as long as I can have ten minutes to process this crap.

With only a summer to choose, I’m given an impossible choice. There’s no way I can white-lie myself a sweet excuse so I don’t hurt him. I can’t tell him it’s a friends issue-- I don’t have any friends in Paris yet. Counting Gina, I have more here, so that argument's invalid. I can’t blame my education because I’m enrolled in a private online college where I can start post-secondary courses while getting my high school diploma—I can get my education with a laptop anywhere in the world that has Wi-Fi.

No. In the end, it’ll come down to choosing Mom over Dad.

The sound of his sob is still raw in my ears. He hasn't cried like that since Grandma died on his thirty-fifth birthday. I may hate him for destroying our family, but that noise makes me want to do anything to fix him.

He’s broken, and I know if I leave it could be the final blow.

***

My alarm chimes at a quarter past one in the morning. Dad and I spent the rest of the evening in silence, on opposite sides of the room. With the television as our mediator, I managed to not rip him apart, but with every laugh he made at the comedian’s routine, I wanted to scream. How does he laugh knowing what he’s done? I study the marks of my art in front of me, having attempted to capture the intricacies of my left palm. The sketch is dull, the lines far too heavy, and flat. How do artists bring life to paper? I return my sketchbook to the nightstand-- it’s finally time to talk with Mom.

My laptop's quick to boot up and Skype's waiting. I pull my old, thin My Little Pony sheets over my hips while the program dials. It’s past eight in the morning in France now. She should be awake.

Half a ring later, Mom’s smiling back at me—bright red lips, silk pink top, and her hair lose and stirring with the Paris breeze. “Autumn, I’ve missed you!”

“I’ve missed you too, Mom.”

“How are you, babe?”

I hesitate, not ready to tell the full truth. Fortunately, she chatters on.

“How’s the ranch? Having fun?”

“The ranch is okay— It’s dry. People are stressed it’ll turn into a drought.”

“Oh, I remember those days. Don’t worry. Your Dad’s stress will go away. Rain always comes. What’s the ranch like? Different?” Her voice bounces with interest like I’m at some exotic resort or something.

“It’s changed, but it hasn’t. I wouldn’t exactly call the place different, more weird.” I force my tone to match hers. I don’t want to bring her crashing down, not quite yet.

“Well, you wouldn’t believe life here, baby. You’ll love Paris. Our apartment looks out at a small park and from your bedroom window you can see La Champs Elysees. Just down the street there’s a brilliant cafe that serves the most amazing filet mignon and escargots.”

Eww, snails. She doesn’t remember the horrid ones we had in Maine a few years ago.

“Paris will fuel you,” she says with a full smile. “It’s vibrant, fresh, and… alive.” She looks up at the sky, smiling like the grey rain clouds above are the most beautiful in the world.

“Well, it seems good for you.”

Mom giggles. A real giggle! She twirls her dark brown hair around her left pointer finger, acting younger than me. “Oh honey, I could see living here forever.”

Forever? But what if I enroll in a college here, in the USA? Will I fly to Paris for Christmas break? “Does that mean your business is going well?”

“Raging. I’m already in two fashion-marketing contracts for the summer. Most of the time, I work remotely so any cafe, park, or landmark can be my office. The freedom is fueling.”

My stomach twists. Maybe she is serious.

“It’s wonderful to hear you, Autumn.”

“Yeah, yours too.” My voice cracks. Forever in France? Sure. Why not throw another impossible concept on the pile. How the hell do I tell her Dad told me about the custody agreement now? Mom and I respect one another’s walls. It works for us. Telling her I know will be a huge bulldozer.

“Is something wrong?” An attractive young waiter pops in the shot, asking her something about espresso. She’s in public. No, there’s no way I can drop that bomb on her while people watch.

“No, Mom. I’m fine,” I answer. “My throat’s just itchy. It must be allergies.”

“It's all the hay, or maybe a summer cold. A dry season there always drove me nuts. You look tired. How about you get some sleep and we'll talk again soon?”

I yawn, “Okay, Mom. Call me whenever. I’ve always got my phone.”

“Ditto. I love you baby.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

I turn off my light and snuggle in tight under my sheet. Mom sounded so enthusiastic… so young. In New York City, her tone carried an edge. She was always stressed out, her nails chewed raw. In Paris though, she sounds at ease. I rub my eyes, hating the truth dangling in front of me. It’s possible that Paris has nothing to do with her new-found vibrancy—it could be because she’s without me.

Howdy wanders
down a bank to the pond where I swam as a little girl. The water’s nearly gone but Howdy clomps right into what’s left and dips his head in for a drink. When he returns, I let him graze on the little tuffets of grass.

It’d be nice to climb down and nap while he munches away. There used to be long grass here where I could slip into a dreamy sleep, just like in the movies. But the grass is only near the water’s edge and it’s not long or soft. Plus, it’s snake season. I may be a city girl, but I’m not a fool.

My arms drape around Howdy’s neck and I close my eyes. I should go back to the barn and make an appearance for the day since I slipped out of the house while Dad’s snores echoed down the hallway. He may still be sleeping or maybe he’s worried because I never stumbled out of my room this morning. No. He’s not worried. It’s been three hours, and there’re no signs of anyone looking for me.

That’s fine. I need this time to just
be
.

I pull out my sketchbook and pencil from the back of my jeans. Howdy's ears, soft at the tips, and his coarse mane blowing in the wind catch my eye. I go trance-like, fixed on capturing the movement in his mane. I change my pressure midway through each stroke, ending each one in a wisp. A few strands playfully dance in the breeze on my page, but Howdy’s ears may as well be statues. I wet my finger with my spit and smudge some of the marks around his ears, shading them right for softness and trying to make them look more alive.

There. That’s not so horrible now.

***

It’s impossible not to wobble as my muscles try to figure out how to coordinate a smooth walk. I’m totally out of saddle shape. I keep my eyes open for the snakes while I saunter down the gravel road back to Dad’s. One with a green stripe slithers three feet to my left, parallel of my course. Snakes fascinate me. I used to show up in the kitchen carrying garters in by the tail. Mom’s shriek always threw me into spastic donkey laughs. A few nasty bites taught me to be more cautious, but even now I think they’re cool.

“Hello, there. You must be Autumn.”

A woman’s gentle voice snaps me out of my snake watch. A lady, bronzed dark with big blond hair, perches on our front porch bench, a sweating glass of ice water in hand. She crosses her ankles, leaning back on the bench with a grin.

“Hi.” I say as I creak up the front stairs. She certainly looks comfortable. Maybe Dad does have a girlfriend? Or, maybe this is that
old friend
he slept with that ruined everything? I push my teeth into my tongue, holding that thought tight. She taps the seat.
Ugh.
Do I have a choice here?

The front door swings open. “Autumn, glad you’re here. Take a seat, will ya?” Dad nods toward the spot next to Bold and Blond.

Apparently not.

I smile politely at her as I pull out the sketchbook from my jeans, taking the seat. A gentle breeze blows, and I’m surprised that she doesn’t smell as over perfumed as she looks like she would be. Whatever she’s wearing is minimal. It’s a clean aroma, like laundry detergent mixed with daisies.

“Darlin’, I’m Grace.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I say, shaking her hand like a proper southern girl would do. 

“You draw?” She nods down to the sketchpad in my lap.

“A bit.”

“May I see?”

“There’s not much to look at, but sure.” I hand the pad over, forcing myself to sit on my hands as she thumbs through the drawings I’ve made since leaving New York City—wings of the airplane cutting through clouds, the sunflowers in Mom’s old garden, my palm, and Howdy’s ears.

She mmhmm’s with a grin, hovering her finger over the pencil strokes of his mane blowing in the wind. “Chris, you mentioned your daughter was an artist, but I didn’t know you meant a
real
artist. Autumn, these are fantastic.”

“I’m working on it,” I say as she hands the pad back. “Thanks.”

“Your father’s told me all about you.” I raise an eyebrow. “All good, don’t you worry.”

“Cool.” The bench creaks as I shift. It’s weird to think about him talking about me. What would he say? He barely knows me.

“I hear you’re a natural rider. Ever thought of entering some competitions?”

“No,” I try not to laugh, “I’m not really into barrel racing anymore.”

“But you won the Junior Division,” Dad boasts from his position leaning against the post.

“I know, but…” How do I explain how ridiculous racing around barrels with a bedazzled bandana looks on my flat screen at home? “I think I’ve grown out of it.” I wait for Grace to encourage me more, but she doesn’t. She a-hums and smiles instead. She’s actually kind of cool. I can see why Dad could be into her.

“So what have you guys been up to?” I say, studying her reaction for an eyelid flick or something to give away if they’re
together
. There’s always a tell sign. Her gaze is rock steady though. Dad doesn’t flinch either.

“Talking about the drought,” she says, her smile fading. She turns to Dad. “Chris, how long can you last?”

“A few months, if that.”

“So it’ll come down to selling the steer or draining the account?”

He looks out toward the horizon, rolling in his lips. When glanced back, he shrugs like a teenager. “There’s no account to drain, Grace.”

Wait. Of course there is. Dad always has an account. He and Grandpa used to obsess over the statements when I was little. After Grandpa passed away, I became Dad's bank buddy. I’d help him separate his profit, putting ten percent away for emergencies like this. A cattle rancher is Mother Nature’s bitch—he knows that. What happened to the account?

Dad’s eyes meet mine. Oh no. The truck, the kitchen, the lawyers… I happened to the account. My throat closes. I reach up, touching it, trying to gulp the lump down. Everyone’s silent for a second, and I pray Grace has the gift of telepathy.
Please don’t ask him why.

And she doesn’t. She simply nods and says, “Okay. Then the steer?”

“I hope that’ll be enough.”

“You won’t go under, Chris. Not this place. Too many families rely on it. By God’s grace, it’ll pull through and rain will come.” She manages the statement beautifully, relaxed yet confident so even I believe her. I decide right then and there to like her. She can sit on this porch any day. “So Autumn, do you have any friends around these parts?”

“My friend Gina lives half an hour away in town. It’s been nice being near her again.”

“Well, a half an hour isn’t exactly nearby. You’ll have to meet my son. He can’t be more than a few years older than you.”

Dad wrinkles up his nose, lifting a brow at Grace.

“Ah, have you already met him? Colt?”

I nearly choke on my own spit while my pulse jumps like the subway’s doors are about to close on my hand. Dad chortles and I swear Grace is totally biting the inside of her cheek. There's no way they were talking about the drought.

“I may have.” I rise, my exit is now long overdue. “I’m hungry. If you don’t mind, I’m going to make some lunch. It was great to meet you, Grace.”

“Likewise. I try to be around to balance out the cowboys on the ranch. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Enjoy your meal.” She says with a steady grin.

“I’m sure it’ll be everything you’re looking for,” Dad adds.

“Uh, okay? Will do.” They watch me leave and I swear Dad laughs after I close the door. Weirdos.

Walking into the kitchen is like being kicked in the gut. The stainless steel appliances, cherry hardwood floors, a fashionable old farm table, my truck out the back window—all the reasons the ranch is broke—and, my heart does a back hand spring, a blond-haired cowboy watching the news.

Well, at least that explains their stupid grins.

His face brightens, and he slides off the couch, almost bounding toward me. I flick my eyebrow up before sliding my sketchbook onto the counter. He doesn’t need to know how I’m thrilled he’s standing here in my kitchen, especially after his cold exit yesterday.

“Happy riding? How’s the leg?"

I shrug as butterflies use my main arteries for interstates. “A bit sore,” I say as I dive into the fridge and grab a crisp apple.

He steps in close, right next to me. The twinkle in his eye is obvious even through a sideways glance.

“Do you want me to take a look at your leg again?” he asks.

Hell yes, but I can’t go through the hormonal torture again, not with Dad and Grace on the front porch.

“No, that’s okay. A hot bath will do the trick.” I catch his eyes flicker. “Alone,” I clarify. He may be sizzling hot, but this is my father’s house. None of that will be happening here.

He snickers as I reach back into the fridge to grab pickles and ham. When I lean out, my back bumps his chest. His left hand rests on my shoulder as he reaches over me, grabbing an orange while his breath tickles the back of my neck. Tingles of warmth shoot along my spine, and out to my fingertips and toes. Every muscle eases with that lingering, golden heat. 

Holy. I’ve never felt that before.

My legs threaten to melt into the floor, but Dad and Grace are just outside so I stand firm.

 “Want to go riding with me tomorrow?” He whispers and his lips grace the back of my ear.

Okay. Maybe I do need to play this game. His warm breath teases my neck. Screw my rules, it’ll be so much easier to take the leap, and go for it. “Sure.” Turning, I touch my nose to his. I let my eyes linger in the depth of his perfect blues for one second before pulling away. I don’t kiss him, though his lips beg for exploring.

“Not cool.” He says. He reaches out and for a moment touches my hand. His gaze is soft and steady, but not in a forced must-get-in-your-pants way. There’s something more stable about it, almost invasive. A guy’s never looked at me like that before. It’s scary as shit. I flip my hair, playing off the exchange as nothing, but appearing more like an airhead.

“How about you get to know me, first?” I force out the tease, trying to recover, forging a shield with fake confidence.

He laughs and lifts the intensity of the mood. “Like the party? Because I’m all for that.”

I grin. “We’ll see.”

His right hand wraps around my waist while his left stays warm on my mid-back. “You’re going to drive me crazy, aren’t you?”

“I may.”

“After I found you star-gazing, I can’t stop thinking about you. You won’t leave my mind.”

Star gazing. Ha. He makes it hard to forget he’s a cowboy.

“Are you sure it wasn’t me kissing you?”

He grins with a wink. “That may have contributed, yes.”

“Right.” I laugh. His eyes challenge mine. That’s it, screw playing hard to get. Teasing isn't my style. I go for—and get—what I want. Pushing up on my toes, I brush my lips against his, but then the front door creaks. “Seriously?” I say. He sighs, letting his hands fall away from me and taking a casual position against the counter to watch the news. I know I’m not a good actress so I dive into the fridge. Where’s the mayo again? The door swings open and I let Colt greet them while the cool temperature steals the heat off my cheeks. I only emerge once the trace of our kiss has faded. I bring the mayo and cheese with me.

“Sandwiches are a great idea, Autumn. You all in?” Dad asks.

“Absolutely,” Grace slides onto a barstool. “Like anyone would miss the chance to eat your cookin’.”

Dad moves past me, giving me a brief pat on my back. I try to be inconspicuous as I side step out of his touch. I may not ever get over him cheating on Mom. It’s immature to move, but I can’t handle any affection from him right now. It disgusts me.

 “Go have a seat, Autumn. Let me make you lunch, okay?” he says as he pulls his hand back, aware of how I shut him down with my movement.

Colt winks at me from behind Dad and Grace. My mind is lost. “Sure,” I think I say.

The leather couch hugs me as I sink into it. Colt joins me, with my sketchbook on his lap. I’m not one to be secretive about my sketching-- I never sketch anything emotional-- but as he flips through the pages, nodding and occasionally rubbing the stubble along his jaw line, I sort of want to bolt.