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I replied to her message with a basic smiley face emoji a week ago, but I’m feeling anything but happy. It hasn’t been that long since our magical night under the stars but considering that the last time we saw each other it was a different year, it feels heavy. Crossing the new year barrier after sharing a steamy Christmas night together adds an uneasy queasiness to my gut.
It’s been a while since I’ve dated, but being easy and not adding pressure is what you’re supposed to be to a woman you’re seriously interested in, right?
When she says something’s come up and that she needs to go home for a while, you give her all the space she needs.
Not texting her goes against every fiber of my being, but for now it’s my way of showing patience, understanding, and support. I’m sure that if I texted her as much as I thought about her, would be a dealbreaker for her. Bordering stalker territory.
Don’t be clingy. Play it cool. Don’t scare her off.
Like a fine wine, you’ve got to give any newfound relationship space to breathe.
What do I know, though?
I haven’t dated for ten years. I’ve raised a pre-teen daughter, mostly on my own since Ana’s mom left when she was born. Her mom wanted to travel, and I wasn’t going anywhere, so the writing was on the wall early on. As hard as it was to meet when I was young and have a baby so early in our relationship, I’m still thankful it brought Ana in my life. She visits when she’s in California, but she keeps her space. So far, it’s been working for us.
I’ll happily give Ana all my time and energy, and I haven’t wanted to ask for more from life. It already feels like I’ve received more than my fair share of blessings. We have a supportive family, that’s just this side of overbearing, and I love that I get to continue my family’s ranching legacy. The bounty on my table is overflowing. But now that I’ve been given more with Jules, I feel like a starved man.
I can’t help but feel like I should have showed up at her home the next day and made my intentions clear. Made sure she knew that that what we shared wasn’t a one-night stand, but the start of something much bigger.
If I did, maybe I’d be waking up next to her instead of alone in my bed long before dawn, like I always do.
Time to get on with it, then.
Waking up before the sunrise to do hard labor every morning is enough to make most people run towards another job. It might have been too much for my brothers, too, but not for me. I’d shrivel up behind a desk at an office job. I wouldn’t be me without grabbing a mound of fresh tilled earth every day.
Instead of a clock, I listen for the rooster’s call. Instead of a calendar, I have the changing seasons. Instead of overhead lighting, I need the sun’s kiss on my cheeks.
Who am I without this land?
I might have to figure out the answer to that soul-stirring question sooner than I like.
But not today. That’s future Adriel’s problem. Today, I’ve got a barn to prep for this end of winter chill coming.
I pull on my uniform of a flannel button up, jeans, boots, and a thick coat to keep the winter air at bay.
Taking the video monitor of a sleeping Ana, I head out the door. If Ana were awake, we’d go through our script of her saying that fifth graders don’t need baby monitors, and I’d follow up with, she could be an adult with kids, and I’d still worry about her. Since she’s never awake at four in the morning, we don’t have to run through our preteen battle for autonomy right now.
Instead, I lock the front door to our two-bedroom home and take the short walk to my parent’s hacienda style ranch home across a small herb garden.
Like every day, I enter the side of our kitchen wing and wake up with the scent of a fresh pot of coffee.
“Hi mamá,” I say to her shuffling shadow in front of the stove, as I lean over to microwave my breakfast burrito. I prop the video monitor humming with the soft sound of Ana’s snoring next to her, and she caresses her grainy image on the small screen.
“I can make you a better breakfast than that, mija.” She follows up with a quick suck of air between her teeth.
“It’s okay. I have little of an appetite this morning.” She knows it’s because of our talk from last night. Leaning against the kitchen island behind her, I say, “There’s got to be something else we can do.”
“Your dad and I tried everything we could to make the ranch profitable. We even expanded into hydroponic farming by hiring Dev a few years ago. It’s still not enough.” She paces as her words spill out. “Dev’s even expecting another baby soon. How can I possibly tell him we’re closing when the work he’s done is the only profitable area of our business? It’s never enough. Now you’re thirty-five and it’s your turn to take over, so we had to tell you.”
She’s as overwhelmed as I am. Still facing the coffee pot, she hasn’t looked me in the eyes since they told me last night.
I just wish I knew about our financial issues sooner, and not as a precursor to adding my name to the deed. It mustn’t have been easy for them to keep this close to their chests. They’re always the first to offer money to relatives in need, or to offer their home to a rotating list of family in between jobs. I know there’s a lot more on the line with our viability than just pride.
At least they told me now, and not after they already sold the land that’s been in our family for generations.
Still talking to her back, I say, “Before you sell it, give me the season. There’s got to be something we can do.”
“We’ll talk to the bank about it. I’m in no rush to throw away your legacy, but they need to see some profitability soon, or we’ll default on our loan. Plus, we’re hesitant to add your name to a failing business. It might be time to sell.” Wringing her hands, she drops the topic for now and busies herself by pouring me a fresh cup of coffee in a tumbler. “See you in a few hours.”
