Page 76 of This Might Hurt
JUDE
FIVE YEARS LATER
The forest in Bridger Canyon gets very quiet when I park my truck under a stand of tall pines.
They creak and sway in the gentle breeze as I get out and pull off my blazer.
I fold it neatly on the passenger seat, because even though I complained when Andrew convinced me to try wearing them over my polos for work, I’ve gotten kind of into the nerdy teacher look.
Every couple of weeks when we go down to Ramona’s, she makes me model some new piece of clothing Andrew has inserted into my wardrobe, practically before she gives me a hug.
A paved road runs from the parking area to the stables up the hill, to accommodate horse trailers and wheelchair vans, but I prefer the dirt path scattered with pine needles that crunch under my shoes as I walk.
Normally I listen to the birds and enjoy the dappled sunlight, but today I’m focused on whether I’m actually going to throw up, or if the pain in my stomach is just a symbolic gesture.
“There you are.”
I glance up at the copper-haired god of a man waiting at the top of the trail in his gray wool sweater, layered under a designer denim shirt like some kind of aesthetically wind-rumpled fashion model.
It only took four Montana summers for his pale skin to figure out how to tan, and I’m really sold on this short, tidy facial hair he’s experimenting with.
He says he loves my half-cowboy, half-schoolteacher eclectic look, and the blond tousle that gets longer every year.
I, on the other hand, think I look like a rejected Brokeback Mountain extra.
“Here I am.” I stop in front of him and let out a long, shaky breath. “We doing this?”
“He’s here, and his caseworker is sitting in the front office if we need anything.” He hesitates. “Do you want to do this?”
I study his deep gray eyes, the intense hope in them. “You really like him, don’t you?”
He doesn’t say anything, just presses his lips together and nods.
“Then of course I want to meet him.” I slide my fingers through his and steal a kiss, then walk with him along the paddocks and arenas toward the huge timber therapy barn and riding school he built with funds from his company shares.
He named it Obsidian Dream Stables, like a memorial, except that Obsidian Dream himself is very much alive and reigning over the place like a king, even though he failed his therapy horse test because he’s too rowdy.
“How was class today?” Andrew pulls his hand away and slips his arm around my shoulders instead.
“It was great. One of my students postulated that the great white whale is named Moby Dick because he’s a sperm whale.”
Andrew chokes on a startlingly loud snort. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, this is a good thing. Now they’re scouring the entire story for innuendos.
No class of high schoolers has ever read that damn book so thoroughly.
” My laughter dies as my feet slow to a stop near the fence.
A couple of teachers are leading activities across the different outdoor areas, but one is just supervising from a distance as a scrawny boy of about nine stands locked in a staring contest with a disinterested brown horse.
His little fists are clenched determinedly at his sides as he rocks back and forth in torn up sneakers, his mop of dark hair hanging in his eyes.
“That’s him, isn’t it?” I don’t even need an answer.
I can sense Andrew’s intense bond to him, like a stirring in the air.
The boy has been coming to therapy here for three months.
The very first time he visited, Andrew rushed home and babbled all evening about how smart the new kid was, the cute way he squinted when he was thinking, how he was going to become a world champion equestrian because he put a halter on by himself.
My husband doesn’t attach easily to anyone besides me and Lena, so I knew I needed to pay attention. “Is he meant to be doing something?”
“Not necessarily.” Andrew props his elbows on the fence in a way he doesn’t even realize is hot, like a pose from some homoerotic western-wear catalog.
“They’re always allowed to just hang out with a horse if they want to.
It’s really good for them to self-regulate.
But most kids get bored and want to try something else.
” Andrew isn’t licensed to lead therapy sessions, but he hires professionals, teaches riding classes, and hangs out with the kids.
He loves to sit and swap child psychology and trauma research with Lena now that she’s in her Master of Social Work program.
“How long has he been in foster care?”
“Three years, since he was six. He doesn’t have a specific, profound trauma. He’s just…alone, and they said every year he gets more withdrawn, more angry. He’s confused. He doesn’t understand why no one’s coming for him.” His voice wavers.
“Andrew, look at me.”
I’m not sure exactly where in that speech he switched from what it says on the case worker’s file to his own feelings, but when he glances along the fence at me, I can read his mind.
“I understand.” I squeeze the back of his neck, brushing my thumb under his ear. “It’s gonna be okay.”
The kid takes a step toward the horse, his green eyes uncertain, and stretches out two fingers to pet its nose.
It flicks away a fly with one ear and he stumbles back a step, hugging himself.
When he notices Andrew by the fence, a tiny smile tugs at his mouth and he offers a shy wave.
Andrew’s whole face lights up as he waves back.
Ever since I mentioned adopting a kid five years ago, I’ve never been sure if he agreed because he loved me or because he actually wanted one.
I’m the teacher, the youth soccer coach, the one who babysits Lena’s fiancé’s daughter while they go on dates.
Outside of work, he’s never shown much interest in children.
Apparently, he hadn’t met the right one.
“Should we go say hi?”
Andrew nods eagerly and sets a much faster pace to the front of the barn and through the open double doors. “We’ll check in with Sandra afterward.”
We hadn’t even started the process of reaching out to foster programs when this little dude walked into Andrew’s stables.
After meeting him a couple of times, Andrew contacted Sandra, his case worker, to talk about getting approval to foster with the intent to adopt.
She helped us figure out the best time and place for me to meet him, after giving him time to feel safe here.
“Hey, Walker.” As we duck through the horse’s stall into the outdoor run, Andrew shifts into the child therapy version of his voice, light and friendly but not condescending. “How’s Stella treating you?”
“She’s nice,” the kid murmurs, eyeing me warily.
“Miss Tammy taught you how to groom her the other day, right?”
Walker nods, his gaze still fixed on mine. Andrew rests a hand on my back; I can feel that he’s shaking. “This is Jude. I was going to show him how to brush Stella, and I wondered if you wanted to help us.”
He hunches up his shoulders and shakes his head firmly, dropping his eyes to the dirt between his shoes.
There’s something about my presence that’s upsetting him.
I try to think how I would feel, if I were him.
The really nice, cool barn man was so happy to see him.
He probably thought they were going to brush the horses together.
But somewhere between the fence and the door, cool barn man found some other guy to hang out with.
He wasn’t enough, and now he’s gotten replaced again.
“I don’t know if this is a good idea.” I frown at Stella, who looks like she’s high on treats and ninety percent asleep. “I’m scared of horses. She’s gonna bite me if I try to groom her.”
Andrew shoots me a look like quit announcing to the whole barn that my therapy horses bite people, but I just raise my eyebrows at him.
“She didn’t bite me when I brushed her.” Walker digs the toe of his sneaker into the dirt, but the tension in his shoulders eases up a little.
“Really? Wanna show me how you did it?”
He shoots Andrew a shy, hopeful glance. “Can I?”
“Of course,” he agrees, finally understanding what I’m doing. “Let’s take her inside. Can you go get her lead rope that I showed you from the wall?”
I watch as he runs inside, grabs a dirty stepstool, then holds it while he struggles to read the little labels above every rope on the wall until he spots the one he wants to climb up and get.
“I think he might need glasses,” I murmur, leaning back to watch him. “Can you put that on a list or something? I know you have secret lists for him.”
“I already did.”
Quickly, while Walker isn’t looking, I reach over and squeeze his hand tight.
I watch from a polite distance while Andrew shows Walker how to tie Stella’s lead rope to one of the stall doors inside. He asks the boy to repeat out loud the basic rules of horse safety, most of which I won’t tell Andrew I didn’t know.
He lets Walker pick a rubbery brush out of a big bucket of them, and the kid starts rubbing it in careful circles along her side while she stands there perfectly content.
I put the stepstool nearby and sit on it, so he’s not getting loomed over by both of us.
When I look up, I realize he’s staring at me. “What is it?”
“She didn’t bite me.”
He says it so solemnly, with the tiniest smug emphasis on the last word, that I can’t help the wide grin spreading across my face. “Weird. I think you must have better horse skills than I do.”
He shrugs, trying not to look pleased. Then he holds out the brush very abruptly in my face. “She won’t bite you either.”