Or at least, it was.
That has to mean something.
He’s not one to forget.
My throat tightens, and I swallow hard as the saddest thought floods my brain and my legs nearly buckle.
That must mean he chose not to care.
five
Tyson
It’smyfirstnightin DC, and I’m staying at the Four Seasons. Since I’m here early, and the team promo stuff doesn’t start until tomorrow, I reach out to Ham. Happy to hear from me, he invites me to his family’s place to hang out. After more than an hour of riding in an Uber, I arrive at the long driveway that leads to the historic Halloway estate. Goosebumps dot my spine as the estate rises over the hill like something out of an old Southern novel. Huge white columns frame the sweeping porch. Eight long windows line the bottom floor, with eight shorter windows on the second story. Swallowing, I push down my nerves, because this feels like I’ve taken a turn and ended up in a previous century.
To my right, rustic cabins sprawl across rolling hills. From what I’ve heard, year-round caretakers live in these cabins, while others are for guests. With log siding and a pair of square windows framing the door, they certainly look cozy. Down to the left, a creek snakes along the property. It reminds me of a postcard, not a place where people I know actually live. With a variety of flowers in every color and size, it feels like a Martha Stewart magazine spread.
I’m not surprised to see two random goats trotting along the fence line like they own the place. They are about the same size, clearly from the same parents, with the exact same gray coat. I can’t help but chuckle. Ham has told me enough stories to know they are basically tiny, horned terrorists.
I crack the window, taking in the fresh country air. With DC being such a bustling city, this place is a haven to treasure. Past the fields, the big barn comes into view. Calling it a barn feels wrong. The thing is nearly as large as some hockey arenas I’ve practiced in, with a gleaming white trim to offset the traditional red wood. This barn gives the impression that the horses probably get spa treatments. We drive around a gentle curve, and the main house dominates the windshield again. We pull in front of it, and I gulp, trying to act like my heart doesn’t jolt a little harder.
I’m here to see Ham.
But, yeah. Sure.
I can’t help being excited to see Lottie. I open the car door and drop one foot to the ground; I’m reaching for my phone when movement suddenly erupts to my left. The two goats I saw earlier charge out from behind a hedge like they’ve been summoned by their war leader.
“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” the driver yells, waving frantically at me. “Shut that door now!”
His reaction stuns me, and I stare as one goat rears up and plants its front hooves on the Uber driver’s door, headbutting the window like he’s trying to get even with the driver for yelling at him. The other goat goes straight for the side mirror, teeth clacking as it commits what I’m pretty sure is vehicular abuse.
“I said shut that door! I swore this address sounded familiar. I’ve been out here before, and those goats are monsters!” the driver shouts, scrambling to lock the doors. “Oh, that one bit my mirror!” His reaction is so extreme, I’m struggling not to laugh.
“I’m sorry,” I offer, which feels wildly insufficient. One goat slides down the driver’s door, screeching his hooves against the paint. I cringe as he immediately rams the door again.
This goat clearly has an aversion to Uber.
With my door still open and my leg half hanging out, the driver pulls forward a bit, but the goats follow. “That’s it,” he yells, pointing out the window at the goats staring him down. “Get out now, or I’m driving off with you hanging out the door. This address is now banned from Uber. I’m flagging it for abuse. We don’t do goats. No more drop offs or pickups here. This place is dead to Uber!”
The goat at the mirror lets out a satisfied bleat. Does he understand what just went down? I manage to hop out of the car and kick the door shut before the driver floors it and fishtails out of the driveway. The goats take off after him, chasing the car like guard dogs. I stand there in the quiet aftermath, completely deadpan.
What was that?
After a moment, I collect myself and amble up the steps toward the white-columned porch. I’m here to see Ham, I tell myself again like I need some twelve-step program to get me through this mind trap.
I mean, Lottie’s likely not even here. Never mind the white Land Rover in the drive that looks exactly like the one she drove in Mapleton. Does she really have the same car?
Keeping my eyes on the goats, who are now hanging back and watching the Uber speed down the dirt road, I step up to the perfect white door and knock once. If this were their Mapleton house, I’d walk right in after knocking, because that’s what I’ve always done. But this doesn’t feel like Mapleton at all. The door flies open. Instead of Ham, I get Lottie. Her hair’s piled into a messy knot, with flecks of hay stuck in it like she’s been rolling around in the barn.
My heart jolts.
I never thought about it before, but hay in her hair is hot.
Now, I’m imagining what it would feel like to roll in the hay with her— then I triple blink as my attention shifts to her hand, and I notice she’s holding a large hammer. Playfully, I duck, throwing my hands in the air. “I’m innocent!”
“Ty.” She blinks at me like she’s unsure I’m real. “It’s been a long time,” she rushes out, and then quickly adds, “I mean, sorry. Hi. How are you?”
“Good. Uh, is Ham around?”
