Page 41 of Truly

“Yeah. I see ’em.”

“First, use your manure fork to lift the poop and give it a little shake to get the clean bedding off. Then you’ll put it in the wheelbarrow,” he says.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I mutter.

“Then sweep all the bedding away from the pee spots. Then take the shovel and put the pee-soaked bedding in the wheelbarrow.”

“I’m noticing a trend.”

He ignores me. “Give the pee areas a quick spray of odor eliminator and then brush all the bedding still in here over those areas. Then we’ll put new bedding down.” He smiles at me. “Got it?”

“I really thought you were joking about this.”

I stare him down as I step into the stall. “You know, this is making me rethink leaving Tom.”

Luke turns away. “You’d be dealing with a pile of shit either way.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that one. That was funny.”

He turns on music and starts to work on the stall beside me.

It takes a while, but I get into the groove. It’s not as bad as I feared and not nearly as stinky. By the time I get to the urine,I’m not enjoying myself, but it is a little satisfying. Strangely, we haven’t spoken for over half an hour, which reminds me of all the times we just hung out years ago simply to be with each other. We knew each other so well then.How much of that has changed?

What do I really know about this man today?

“Do you enjoy being a farrier?” I ask.

“Yeah. Of course. It’s all I ever wanted to do.”

“I wondered. Sometimes people change their minds, but they’re stuck doing what they’re doing that pays the bills.”

“What about you? Do you like performing?”

I scoop up the last clump of urine, then mist the areas with deodorizing spray.

“Laina?”

“Yeah, I do,” I say, trying to find the words to describe my messy thoughts. “I actually love putting on shows and the theatrics of it. I love engaging with my fans, and hearing their stories, and listening to how my songs have impacted their lives. And I love songwriting and collaborating with other artists.”

“But …”

I sigh and set the spray next to the wheelbarrow. “But I’m tired.”

The scraping from his stall halts.

“I love what I do, Luke. I’m so lucky, so blessed, and so grateful for the opportunity to do what I do. What an honor. But I don’t want my job—and it very much is a job—to be my whole personand all that I am.”

He comes to the stall doorway beside mine and leans on his broom. His eyes are tender, full of concern, and it melts my heart right down to my—Kennedy’s—boots.

“I’m a paycheck to everyone now,” I say, my eyes filling with tears.

I’ve never said this aloud to anyone. I’m not sure I’ve even given myself the freedom to think this thought through. But as I hear the words, I know they’re true. I can feel them release from my heart.

“My parents see me as a paycheck,” I say. “Agents, publicists, managers. Backup designers. Set designers. Costume designers. Lighting crews. Security details. Property managers. Chefs. Those people’s families. Accountants. Attorneys. I could go on and on.”

“Then stop.”

“I don’t want to stop making music.”