Page 85 of Resisting Isaac

“We’re not talking about money, mija. We’re talking aboutyou. Your father. Your family. Not that you care. Obviously.”

The ache in my chest spreads like wildfire.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Sorry doesn’t fix this. You haven’t been home in months. Too busy ‘playing actress’ on some cowboy reality show to visit your own family?”

“It’s not a reality show,” I murmur, knowing there’s no point in arguing with her.

I press my lips together, because if I say something now, it won’t be kind. The words “playing actress” rake across me like razorblades. Everyone else in our family has respectable careers according to her, but I’mplaying actress.

Even when she’s wrong—when it feels like she’s reaching for reasons to wound—she’s notcompletelywrong. My job feels like playing pretend most of the time.

“I’ll call Papá,” I say quietly. “Today. Now.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” she snaps, and then hangs up before I can say another word.

I sit there for a second, phone still pressed to my ear long after the line goes dead, trying to breathe through the fog of guilt and shame. My mother is always disappointed in me, but ever since I was born a girl instead of the son my father wanted, I’ve tried extremely hard not to let him down. To make him proud.

I’ve never missed his birthday. Ever.

I check the calendar on my phone.

My dad’s birthday was lastSaturday.

I do the math. I’ve been in Montana for a little over eight weeks.

And I haven’t had a period since I left the last set I filmed on in Nova Scotia.

My skin goes cold as blood drains from my face.

No. No, no, no. That’s not possible. Is it?

It could be stress.

Travel. Work. The altitude.

But it could also be—Oh God.

I throw on clean jeans and a Black Keys tee. I text Ivy and ask if someone can drive me to the tiny pharmacy in town. Thanks to Isaac, she knows I was sick. I hope she’ll just assume I’m grabbing nausea meds or something.

After entirely too much back and forth where she offers topick up my meds herself, she tells me Isaac is on his way to town already and I can text him what I need.

I nearly scream out loud.

What are the odds that I, a person who hates asking for help, am now residing on a ranch surrounded by a family full of the most helpful human beings on the planet.

Everyone in the business is always saying I need to hire a personal assistant. My stubborn ass refused but now I’m wishing I had.

I dart out of the cabin and scramble toward the barn where I find the ranch foreman, Antonio I think, and one of the hands that helped with the injured mustang we rescued.

I take a deep breath and try to calm myself so as not to startle her, but both men look at me sideways when I step inside.

“Hi,” I say awkwardly. “I need a ride into town. I was hoping someone could maybe take me to?—”

“I can,” the ranch hand offers eagerly, stepping toward me.

The ranch foreman places a hand on the kid’s chest. “I’ve got it, Marcos. Keep an eye on the mustang until I get back.”