Page 5

Chapter Four

M y entire life, my mom has read me as clearly as an oversized eye chart. And the older I get, the easier it has become for me to read her right back.

She hasn’t come out and directly asked what Wyatt’s decision is, which is good since I have no clue myself, but she is dancing around the topic with expert finesse. I’m not sure why she’s kid-gloving the topic with me.

“It’s been forever since we’ve taken a family trip anywhere,” she says, letting the spoken thought linger in the air as she tugs on the cinch to make sure Otis is set for our morning rider.

“Okay, I give. Are you itching for a family cruise or something?” I know what she’s itching for—information. I’m simply curious what route she’s taking this time to get at it. A vacation is an interesting tactic.

“Oh! A cruise is a great idea. You know, Aunt Sarah went on one of those Alaskan ones last fall. She said it was breathtaking. She saw whales!” The way her eyebrows shoot up at the word whales when our gazes meet sends me over the edge, and I can’t contain the laughter any longer.

I bury my face against my forearm as I lean against Otis’s side. My eyes are watering, I’m so amused.

“What?”

I lift my head in time to catch the forced quizzical expression she’s putting on. This time, I snort, I laugh so hard.

“Peyton, I’m not sure what you think is so funny about whales, but?—”

“Mom, stop. Please, just . . .”

I hold out an open palm to buy time to catch my breath, dropping my gaze to the dirt as I suck in a deep breath to calm the itch in my chest. With my outburst under control, I lift my chin and meet my mom’s eyes.

She seems to have given up on her bad acting, her sheepish expression rather guilty looking.

“I want to make sure you’re doing okay with it all,” she finally admits.

“I know, but really? All the fall questions—first asking if we want to look at places of our own starting in August? Then . . . whaling? And what was that bit in the barn about how we should take the Cardinals up on the season ticket offer and go to some games? You hate stadium crowds. You may as well come out and ask whether Wyatt will be around this fall. Or, and I know this is a ground-breaking idea, you could ask if he’s made up his mind yet. Maybe try direct?”

My mom’s mouth quirks up on one side with a guilty grin.

“Okay, so maybe I was a little passive aggressive?—”

“Passive. Like a snail,” I correct.

She purses her lips and holds Otis’s reins against her hip.

“Okay, point taken. I was being sensitive. I remember what it’s like.” Her gaze softens, and in that small, quiet moment, I finally get why she’s been careful with me. She’s not worried about Wyatt playing again. She’s worried about me, and the element this adds to our family plan.

“I think he really wants this,” I admit. My eyes tear up with the emotional release of finally speaking it out loud.

“It’s okay if you don’t,” my mom says. She always has the right words. How does she do that?

I laugh through my tears, sniffling and blinking away the moisture before I get in too deep and full-on cry.

“I’m not sad, Mom. I swear,” I spill out. She moves to stand next to me, her palm warm at the center of my back. I swivel into her and wrap my arms around her, blotting my cheeks dry over her shoulder.

“I understand,” she says, using that word again. And it’s true. I know she does. She’s been here. Year after year. It’s why I fought this life so hard, because I watched my mom cry these same tears out here in the arena when my dad signed a new contract or got traded to a new team.

“Is it okay to both want and not want this?” I laugh out as I break our embrace.

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” my mom affirms, and my shoulders drop, feeling the release with her permission. It’s silly, but there’s something powerful in being told it’s okay to feel wildly different from moment to moment.

The slam of a car door in the distance draws our attention to the circular driveway by the barn.

Our morning client is in recovery from a spinal injury, and today is his first time with a horse, which is why we pulled out Otis.

He’s a gentle soul, and when I share how significant he was in giving me emotional strength, it has a way of reigniting dimmed fires.

I think Otis can do the same for Macon, a young college guy whose world changed when a drunk driver side-swiped his bike as he was on his way to his morning class about six months ago.

“It’s going to happen for you, Peyt. When the time is right. You’re going to make an incredible mom.”

I quiver from my mom’s words, but steel myself, not willing to turn the tears on again.

“Thanks, Mom,” I simply say.

It takes Macon several minutes to make his way to us, his steps aided by the walker he’s going to need to rely on for a little while longer.

The urge to move toward him and help twitches in my muscles, but Mom and I stay put.

Knowing how independent a person wants to be during their sessions with us is something I’ve made sure we include in the onboarding for new clients.

I know how important it was to me that I took steps on my own, and having people hover, wanting to help, is both frustrating and enabling.

It’s easy to get in a habit of leaning on others, and that’s not to say having people there to lean on isn’t just as important.

It is. But doing something on my own was equally vital, if not more.

And for Macon, getting from point A to point B is a challenge he wants to conquer every time he faces it.

He’s already making the trip to us faster than the first time we met, when we showed him what the arena looks like and walked him through our program.

Like before, his mom waits in the driver’s seat of her sedan.

I give her a wave, and she smiles as she waves back.

Macon’s neck tendons strain with his final few steps, but when he reaches us, the exhausted smile on his face is a good sign that the effort was worth it.

“Let me guess, time’s up! I need to head back to the car?” he jokes, his breathing hard.

Macon’s a handsome guy, only twenty-one.

He probably envisioned spending his free time at football games or in bars, flirting with girls on campus—not hanging out with two old married women and a horse.

But here we are. It’s good that he can be funny.

That will help him in unexpected ways. Humor always did for me.

“Well, I fed Otis extra carrots this morning, so after fifteen minutes on this gassy boy, you may find you can make the trip out of here in half the time,” my mom teases. Sort of . Otis does have his fair share of stomach distress.

“Noted,” Macon says.

I take his walker for him as he shifts his balance and grips the straps on Otis’s saddle.

My mom goes through the introductions to Otis, familiarizing the two of them with one another, and I look on as I park his walker by the gate.

I love watching the magic happen, and it always does.

I didn’t always get it when I was a kid.

I knew my mom taught people to ride, but I didn’t fully grasp the reason.

I was too busy living in my own head back then, a spoiled girl who grew up on a ranch and had so much privilege that she didn’t appreciate.

My sister, Ellie, is in that phase right now— the world is unfair, we’re all embarrassing, and everything we do as a family is stupid .

It’s knowing how my mind worked at thirteen that has me eyeing her extra close lately.

Like I am now. I’ve noticed she hasn’t ridden her bike by us yet this morning on her way to school.

I’m sure my mom has noticed, too. Nothing gets by our mom.

But thirteen is hard. It’s been a while since my mom was thirteen.

And I’m starting to wonder if there’s something more to my sister’s abrasive attitude beyond the obvious hormones drowning her emotions.

“Hey, you okay if I check on her?” I holler to my mom.

Our eyes meet for a breath, and my mom chews at the inside of her cheek for a second before nodding toward the house.

“I’ll be right back, Macon,” I say, knowing he couldn’t care less if I’m around or not. Otis is the star of the show. They’ve bonded. It happens in a blink.

My body aches today, more than normal. I’ve battled spasticity throughout my recovery, and some days are better than others.

The way my muscles decide to spasm and tighten randomly is one of those inconveniences I doubt I’ll ever fully be able to handle, but I’ve made huge mental strides with it.

There are times, however, when I still think everything should work the way it used to.

Peak performance at all times, minus the normal aches and pains.

But what is normal anyway? That’s what my mom’s always preached.

And if you ask me, the fact I can walk on my hands, tumble, and ride the horses when I need to escape for a little while is pretty peak.

I expect to hear my sister’s latest musical obsession blaring from upstairs, but when I enter the house, it’s incredibly quiet.

She’s taken to faking sick a lot lately, something I never really did, and that’s what has my internal worry alarms set to sensitive.

I know my mom’s are, too, even though she hasn’t said so.

I tiptoe my way down the hallway when I reach the top of the stairs, my ears primed for clues. I press my ear to Ellie’s door, listening for signs that she’s awake, and am relieved when I hear water running in her bathroom sink. I rap on the door and move my hand to the knob.

“Ellie? Can I come in?”

She doesn’t answer, but the sink faucet shuts off, so I knock again.

“Elle? You okay?” I move to the knob and give it a twist, half expecting it to be locked. It’s not, and the door opens a few inches.

“One second! I’ll be right out!” Her voice is quivering, and I know my sister well enough to read her tone. She’s panicking.