She’s Gone Country (2 page)

But my husband, John, is in New York. And John’s no longer in love with me. He’s living with his new partner—a man—and I can compete with another woman, but how on earth do I compete with a man for my husband’s affections?

I can’t.

My heart sinks and I dig the toe of my beat-up boot into the mud, watching the reddish brown earth ooze around the scuffed, pointed tip.

We would have been married seventeen years this year. I was happy with him. We’d had a good marriage, and at times a great marriage, until this.

I’ve known for nine months now that John’s in love with someone else, but it’s still bigger than I can get my head around. I’m mad. Confused. But maybe the worst part is that I still love John. I don’t know how to stop loving him. Don’t know if I should. I don’t want a divorce, but I sure don’t want to share him. Thus, we’ve filed for divorce, but it all feels so hideously wrong.

The phone in my pocket vibrates and I fish it out, grateful for the distraction, and see Marta’s name and number. Marta. One of my buds. “Hey, Ta,” I say, taking Marta’s call. “How are you?”

“I’m good. Eva’s at a birthday party and the other three are all napping, so I thought I’d call you, check in, see how things are going.”

Marta’s one of my two best friends from boarding school. We met in Monterey, California, when we were attending St. Pious. She lives outside Seattle now, although for nearly ten years we both lived in New York. I’ve missed her ever since she moved away.

“You’re an answer to a prayer, girl,” I admit, crossing the sticky muddy drive to sit on the open tailgate of my dad’s old truck. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

“What’s wrong?”

I push my long hair from my face and discover that my hand is trembling. It’s just stress and fatigue, but I don’t like it. “My mama’s been here a week visiting us, and living with her is like attending a church revival. It’s Jesus this, and Jesus that, and nothing I do is ever right or good enough. Why didn’t I remember this before I moved us all home?”

Marta laughs on the other end of the line. “Moving home always sounds so idyllic until you do it.”

“It did seem idyllic—empty ranch house, no rent, free schools, Pop’s truck—but Mama keeps showing up on the doorstep, and my brothers seem to think I’m still sixteen, not thirty-nine!”

“If it’s any consolation, I was miserable when we first moved back to Seattle, too. Eva was lonely. I despised the wealthy stay-at-home moms. You were the one who gave me the big lecture about how I needed to make more of an effort to fit in—”

“I didn’t!”

“You did. On the ferry coming back from the San Juan Islands.”

My brow clears as I remember our weekend away three years ago. “That wasn’t a lecture, Ta. That was a pep talk.”

“The point is, my first year I was really unhappy in Bellevue. I was missing New York. Missing you. Missing the life I’d left behind.”

“But you had a reason to stick it out in Bellevue. And you didn’t move back because you were running away from anything.” I swing my legs and soak up the autumn sunshine. After the past two days of rain, I’ll take every bit of sun I can get. “I’ve never run away from anything before. Why am I running now?”

“You didn’t run away from New York. You just wanted change. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“But Parkfield? The ranch? I pulled my kids out of the best private boys’ school in the city and dragged them out to the sticks. And they hate it, at least Bo and Hank do. Cooper’s a country kid at heart and loving life here. He and my brother Brick have totally bonded, but my older two… they’re unhappy. They don’t know what to do with pasture, tractors, and cow patties.”

Marta stifles a laugh. “Can’t say I blame them. I’d hate being stuck in the country.”

“I don’t think Bo and Hank are really trying, though. It’s like they think if they fight it long enough, I’ll eventually cave in and take them back to New York.”

“Will you?”

That’s when I lose steam.

I don’t want to return to New York. It feels good to be out of the city, away from the traffic and noise and stress. I love having a horse again and going riding every day and waking up to the crowing of our rooster. After sixteen years of living the high life as a glamorous fashion model, it’s a hoot bouncing around in Pop’s ancient work truck in my boots and jeans and cowboy hat. I might complain about my overprotective big brothers, but I adore them. I also happen to think it’s good for my boys to have their uncles around, especially in light of their father’s recent identity crisis.

“If I had to,” I say slowly, “I would. But I’m not ready to throw in the towel. Not by a long shot.”

“Can you afford to buy a new place on the Upper East Side?”

“I could. It’d be smaller than what we had before, but I’d rather sit on my little nest egg instead of purchase real estate, because it’s not long until the boys go to college and that’s going to be expensive.”

“So you’re okay financially?” Marta asks.

“I’m good. I’ve always been careful with my money, and since John and I kept separate checking accounts, it was relatively easy dividing our assets.” I pause, think of John now living with his boyfriend, Erik, try not to cringe. “John’s hurting financially, but Erik’s supporting him so I guess he’ll be okay.”

“Why are you still worrying about John? He was the one who wanted out, not you.”

“I can’t help worrying about him. He was my partner, my husband—”

“Was,” she interrupts flatly. “And you need to move on and focus on you now. Which leads me to my next question. Are you working?”

“Brick’s hired me to do the ranch books, but that’s only a part-time job.”

“I meant modeling.”

I swing a leg, flex my foot, and study my scuffed boot. These are my favorite pair. They’re so comfy that they feel better than slippers. “I signed with Stars of Dallas but haven’t been booked for anything yet.”

“They’ll call you. You’re still gorgeous.”

I flex the other foot. “I think I’m getting lazy, though. The idea of commuting to Dallas isn’t appealing.”

“How long a drive is it?”

“Ninety minutes or so.”

“That’s not lazy, that’s being real. It’s hard enough working without spending hours in the car.”

“How about you? Working a ton?”

“Not as much as I used to. I can’t, not with Zach and the twins. I don’t know what happened to me, Shey, but I’m beat. Tired all the time now.”

“That’s because you have babies. The twins still waking up at all hours of the night?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Sorry, Ta,” I commiserate, lifting my face to the sun, concentrating on the warmth against my skin. I can’t get enough sunshine. I need it, crave it, depend on it. “I remember those days. Couldn’t do it now. Need my sleep too much.”

“This is why women are cranky, you know that, don’t you? We’re tired. Our bodies are trashed and we’re seriously sleep-deprived.” Marta hesitates. “So how are your three? Coping better with John’s lifestyle, or is that still an issue?”

I sigh and open my eyes. “They don’t really talk about it, but I know it’s a struggle, especially for Bo. He doesn’t want to get on the phone when his dad calls, and he definitely doesn’t want to hear about John’s life with Erik.”

Marta digests this. “And Bo’s depression?”

I feel a swift, hot shaft of pain. Bo’s the one I have to watch. Bo’s my worry. “Seems okay for now. But I’m keeping an eye on him. Determined to stay on top of it this time.”

“Sounds like we’ve both got our hands full.” Marta’s voice is full of sympathy. “But we can do this. We’re strong. Damn tough. And besides, you’ve got the best heart, Shey, you really do. No one loves more than you do.”

My eyes suddenly burn, and I’m glad she can’t see me because my lower lip quivers. I bite it, hard. “We are tough. And Bo’s going to be fine. We’re going to get through this. It’s just going to take some time.”

“Love you, Shey-girl.”

“Love you, too, Ta. Let’s get together soon.”

And then, ending the call, I jump off the back of the truck and walk a brisk, fierce circle around the yard, my heart thumping like mad.

Bo isn’t crazy. Bo isn’t like my brother Cody. Bo is going to be okay.

I walk another frenzied circle, and another, and another, until some of the suffocating fear in me fades and my pace slows and my pulse returns to normal. It’s only then that I head for the house.

This is life. Life is full of ups and downs. We’re going to be fine.

And my boy Bo is going to be fine, too. There’s no way I’ll let him become another Cody.

L
ater that afternoon I see my mother off, and the moment she’s in her car, heading east for Jefferson, I feel a weight lift from my shoulders. Sounds mean, but hosting Mama for a week felt like a root canal without anesthesia. I’m just glad she’s gone and won’t be back until Thanksgiving, which is still—thankfully—over nine weeks away.

In the house I strip the sheets from the master bedroom bed, which is where Mama slept, before starting a load of laundry. I contemplate what to make for Sunday night dinner (usually it’s beef, beef, beef, since we are a cattle ranch), but nothing in the freezer looks good. The sun pools on the kitchen floor, and I want to get out. Go do something. Something preferably fun.

That’s when I decide to track down the boys and see if any of them are up for a matinee movie.

Cooper and Bo enthusiastically endorse the idea. Hank, my oldest, declines, says he has homework he needs to finish. I suspect it isn’t true, but I don’t push it. I’ve learned the hard way that you can’t make someone enjoy being with you. Instead, I go online to check movie listings at Fandango. Because we’re in the middle of nowhere, everything’s a drive, and the question is whether we can make do with one of the movies showing at the Brazos in Mineral Wells, a twenty-minute drive, or do we have to make the trip all the way to Weatherford, which is a forty-five-minute drive.

Fortunately, the boys find a movie they want to watch in Mineral Wells, and if we leave now, we’ll just make it in time. We arrive as the previews are showing, and since the movie’s been out a few weeks already, the theater is almost empty and we have no problem finding good seats.

It’s not my kind of film, but as the only female in the family I’m used to our diet of action-adventure thrillers. I sometimes miss the days of Disney and Pixar films, but there are also advantages to having bigger kids. I don’t have to take them to the bathroom. I don’t worry (as much) about them being kidnapped. I know they can cross a street and navigate traffic and drop and roll should their clothes catch fire.

Still, they’re my kids, my boys, and I glance at them once, twice, during the film, as enamored of their faces as I was when they were newborns. These two, my youngest two, look so much like my brother Cody that it’s uncanny. Cody was a redhead, too. And funny. And brilliant. And bipolar.

And just maybe schizophrenic.

But I don’t know if that’s true. My brother Blue called Cody a schizophrenic at Pop’s funeral four years ago, but Mama says Cody was just a lost soul. Brick said he was a drug addict. The truth is probably somewhere in between.

Bo leans over, hisses in my ear that I’m supposed to be watching the movie.

“I like watching you better,” I whisper back.

“Wow. Scary,” he answers before turning back to the big screen.

Emotion tugs at me, and it’s bittersweet. Bo has no idea how much I worry about him. And I do worry, because Cody wasn’t always a lost soul. Cody was once my best friend, the brother who never left me behind, the brother who gave me rides to the games and then out to pizza or burgers after.

If I loved Cody as much as I did, and it couldn’t keep him together, what does that mean for Bo?

Bo grabs my hands, gives a squeeze to my fingers. “Watch. The. Movie. Mom.”

I lift his hand to my mouth and kiss the back of it before letting it go so we can watch the movie. All remaining fifty-six minutes of violence and mayhem.

We leave when the credits roll, and Cooper is enthusiastically reliving every detail of the big fight scene. In his mind, he’s part Jackie Chan, part John Cena, and more bad-ass than the two of them put together.

While Coop’s on a high, Bo’s mood has turned and he’s angry, and particularly angry at Coop for being happy. “You’re so stupid,” I hear Bo tell Cooper. “You couldn’t fight anyone. You’re the biggest chicken I know.”

“No, I’m not!”

“Yes, you are.”

I face Bo. “What are you doing? Why are you being mean?”

“I can fight,” Cooper protests.

Bo is oblivious to everything but making his point. “You can’t even play sports. How do you think you could fight?”

“I play sports—”

“You still don’t even know how to cradle the ball,” Bo interrupts scornfully. “Why do you think you were always on defense?”

“Because I was good at defense.”

“Because you couldn’t play offense. Defense is where they stick the losers.”

“That’s it. That’s enough.” I step between them, hands pushing them farther apart. “I’m not in the mood for this tonight. If you’re going to fight, let’s just go home and we can skip dinner and you can fight to your heart’s content. But if you want to eat tonight, you’ll shut your mouths now.”

And then Bo—damn him—opens his mouth. “I played better at eight than you do at twelve—”

I grab Bo then, seizing his upper arm hard, and haul him toward me. I know the parenting books say we’re not supposed to manhandle our kids, but Jesus, there’s got to come a point when they
listen
. “Did you not hear me, Bo Thomas Darcy? I said not one word, and yet you had to—”

“It’s true. He can’t play. He doesn’t practice—”

I let go then, disgusted. Biting back curses, I reach into my purse for my keys as I walk away. “You boys better get in the truck now,” I call over my shoulder, because I’m done. Done arguing. Done pleading. Done being nice. Today has been exhausting from beginning to end, and all I want now is some peace and quiet in my own room.

“Now look what you did,” Cooper mutters as they follow after me. “If you’d just shut up!”

Miraculously, Bo doesn’t answer, and silently they climb into the truck, scooting as far from me as they can on the seat.

I don’t even look at them as I drive. I’m too mad.

Hank’s at the breakfast table when I enter the kitchen in my flannel shorts and T-shirt the next morning. He’s already dressed and eating the toasted, buttered bagel that’s his breakfast every morning before school.

“Morning,” I greet him, kissing the top of his head. “What are you doing up so early?”

“Studying.”

I pull out a seat at the table and sit across from him, my head as thick as cotton wool. “Are you having trouble in school?”

“No. But the PSATs are next week and I want to do well.”

“Right. College.” Can’t believe college is just a few years away. Can’t believe Hank is already a high school sophomore. Where did the time go?

“You know, if I were at Dyer, they’d have us doing all kinds of tutorials and test study sessions,” Hank says, looking up at me. “Here they don’t do any of that. Nobody cares about college, not unless they’re going to go on a football scholarship.”

“That’s not true.”

Hank holds my gaze. “I want to return to Dyer.”

“Hank—”

“They’ll let me back in. I already called the admissions office. My class has always been small, and they haven’t given my place away. We just have to send the tuition and I’m in.”

I blink, dumbfounded. “You called the school?”

“You weren’t going to.”

I just keep staring at him. He’s tall and broad through the shoulders, with the faintest stubble shadowing his jawline. Even at his thinnest, he was never as lanky as his younger brothers. Instead, he takes after John with his muscular build and darker coloring. John, a brunette with olive skin, is still strikingly handsome, and it’s becoming increasingly evident that Hank’s going to look like his dad when he’s an adult.

Lucky Hank.

“I want to go back to New York, Mom.”

He isn’t a boy anymore. He’s becoming that man who’ll head off to school one day and not come home.

He’s going to have a whole life apart from mine.

He’s going to have other people to love. Other people who will matter more.

It’s the strangest realization, and one that hurts. I love my boys. I’ve loved being their mom. Nothing—not modeling, not marriage, no amount of traveling or fine things—has ever come close to the joy I get from being Hank, Bo, and Cooper’s mother.

“You want to leave?” My voice shakes. I could use a strong, hot cup of coffee.

“I’d miss you,” he admits gruffly.

But he still wants to leave. Me.

My head pounds, and I push away from the table to make a pot. I drink too much coffee—three, four cups each day—but it keeps me going, occupies my hands, and keeps my belly warm. It’s either that or back to smoking, and I don’t need to smoke.

“I’d still see you,” Hank says to my back as I measure out the grounds. “I’d come visit for holidays,” he adds, “and you could always come to New York and see me.”

“What about your brothers?” I ask, turning on the machine.

He doesn’t immediately answer, and keeping my expression blank, I face him. But Hank’s not looking at me. He’s frowning at the table and nudging what’s left of his bagel around the perimeter of his plate. Finally, he shrugs. “I was going to go away sooner or later.”

Later
being the key word.

I battle to keep my voice neutral. Don’t need to put him on the defensive. Don’t need to draw party lines. “You only just turned fifteen, honey.”

His head lifts, and he looks at me, his eyes more gold than brown. “You went away to boarding school at sixteen.”

Yes, and I never came home again.

I want to go and wrap my arms around him and tell him if he goes, I will miss him every day he’s gone. I want to tell him that he’s not just my oldest son, but my heart. I want to tell him that I’ve just lost his dad and I’m not ready to lose him, too.

But I don’t. I can’t.

I can’t cry and can’t cling because I’m raising boys, boys who must become strong, independent men.

“True.” I force a smile.

“You made good friends,” he continues. “Aunt Marta and Tiana.”

I nod.

“And you ended up getting into Stanford, something you wouldn’t have done if you’d stayed here in Parkfield instead of going to St. Pious.”

I nod again.

He stands up, carries his plate and milk glass to the sink, and then looks at me. We used to be the same height. Now he has a couple of inches on me. “So can I?”

My heart is so heavy, it’s a stone in my chest. “Have you talked to your dad about this?”

“Yesterday, when you were at the movies.”

Of course. “And what did he say?”

“That he’d love it. That he misses us kids.”

I’m stunned by the wave of anger that shoots through me. He misses the kids, just the kids. Not me. Not his wife. Not his partner of seventeen years.

But why should he?

He’s come out of the closet. Discovered he’s gay. Discovered sex with a man is more fulfilling than sex with me. Jesus Christ. I grip a damp sponge in my hand and squeeze for all it’s worth.

I am so mad and so confused, yet according to Dr. Phil and every other relationship expert, I can’t say a word about it to the boys. Can’t speak against their father. Can’t show how shattered I am, because kids of divorce already carry around enough guilt as it is.

“So when could I start?” Hank presses. “After Christmas? At the start of the second semester?”

I take a slow, deep breath. “I don’t know.”

“Mom.”

“Do we have to do this now?” I joke weakly. “I haven’t even had my coffee yet.”

“Be serious. This is important.” Hank’s brow furrows. “It’s not that I don’t love you,” he adds gruffly.

“I know that.”

His expression turns pensive. “Do you?”

I wrap him in my arms then and hold him tight. Who knows how many more chances I’ll have to do this? “I do,” I whisper. “I’ve known every day since you were born.”

He returns the hug, and for a moment I’m at peace. He is mine. Everything is good. And then we let go and step apart, and Hank disappears to brush his teeth as Cooper enters the kitchen, complaining bitterly about Bo using up all the hot water. Again.

“Morning,” I say mildly, pouring my coffee.

“Hate mornings,” he grouses.

The edge of my mouth lifts. Cooper is not a morning person. “How’d you sleep?”

“Fine. Until I had to wake up.”

The corner of my mouth lifts higher as I throw a packet of sweetener into my coffee. “How old are you again?” I ask as he grabs a box of cereal from the cupboard and a bowl and spoon from the cabinet.

He scowls at me, and the freckles dusted across his nose dance. “Twelve.”

I blow on my coffee. “Good.”

The morning news said it was going to be another scorcher today, with temperatures hovering in the mid- to high eighties, and I believe it as I step outside to drive the boys to school. Even though it’s the end of September, north central Texas is still warm, and the humidity in the air sets my teeth on edge. I shouldn’t be wearing jeans. I should put on a skirt and sandals and at least be cool. But putting on a skirt means shaving my legs, and that’s the last thing I feel like doing.

The fact is, I am thoroughly enjoying country life and dressing down and easing up on my beauty routine. In New York I spent a lot of time on maintenance, but it’s exhausting work and boring besides.

Brick’s blue truck appears in the driveway, bouncing over the deep ruts worsened by last week’s rain. I stand on the top step as his truck pulls up next to me.