Page 54 of Slow Burn

The place is peaceful now, just the way I like it. I don’t do parties. I’ll occasionally go out to Lucky’s with Austin, mostly to make sure he doesn’t get himself into trouble. But inviting people over to my own house to disrupt my routine, mess up my shit? Not for me.

Although, not one person who came today was someone I wouldn’t have chosen to be here. Considering I hate parties, and having people in my home, Lyla didn’t do anything that crossed a line. She didn’t do anything that felt like it was meant to embarrass me. Get under my skin, maybe, sure. But it never made me uncomfortable.

The truth is, I had fun today. It felt good to celebrate my birthday with the people I care about rather than alone or doing something that wasn’t authentic.

Last year, Tessa tried to plan a birthday celebration for me. She wanted to do something special. But “special” involved going into the city–an activity I loathe with every fibre of my being–and spending an exorbitant amount of money on a steak dinner I could have made better at home.

This was different. This party was on my turf, in the place I feel most at home, with the people I feel the most at home with. Now, when I think about who the person at the top of that list would be, my mind immediately jumps to Lyla.

She’s only been back in Sage Valley for a month, and already I’m back in the same old pattern of wanting to be near her, of yearning for her attention, of hoping for some small sign that Lyla wants me the same way.

“You were in on the whole thing, weren’t you?” I ask the man sitting innocently beside me. I should have realized it earlier, but I was distracted by a very pretty brunette in leggings and a sports bra surrounded by very adorable bunnies. “You never had a prescription mishap at all.”

He swallows and stares out toward the dark grey horizon, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. “Nope.”

“No wonder that poor pharmacist was so confused,” I say.

My dad laughs, deep and rumbling, and it draws a similar one from my own throat. I can’t remember a time when I enjoyed his company like this.

“I hate my fucking birthday,” I say, once our laughter subsides, though my tone remains jovial. I am capable of having a sense of humour about the whole thing. “You know that, too. You enabled her.”

“Lyla is a difficult woman to say no to,” he argues. “You more than anyone should know that much.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, turning to look at him, but his expression doesn’t reveal anything.

For a second it seems like he’s about to answer my question, but he doesn’t.

He tips his beer bottle toward me. “You don’t hate your birthday, Beck.”

“I do. It’s a pointless day, reminding me that I’m getting older”

“Do you think today was pointless?”

I swish a mouthful of beer side to side in my mouth, considering, thinking. Thinking about bunny yoga, about how much lighter I feel now, about how my body responded to the stretch and pull on my tight muscles. Lyla’s soft hands.

The movement slowly and gently pried my chest open without me even realizing, allowing me to process feelings I had internalized for so long I didn’t even realize they were there, festering. The responsibilities of the ranch, the crushing weight of the financial situation I’ve found myself in, and older things, too. The way I’ve always put pressure on myself to hold our family together. The way my mom abandoned us, and left behind a cavernous hole that seemed to only fill with loneliness.

It allowed all of those feelings to move through me, flowing up and out with every exhale.

“No, I don’t think today was pointless,” I admit, truthfully. It helped me work through some shit in a way that felt safe, comfortable. Like I do when I take Willow out for long rides.

It occurs to me that Lyla does it every day without fail, her yoga practice. I know she’s been working through some shit, the recent events that have left her feeling rejected, hurt, and angry. Probably embarrassed, too.

Lyla can be loud about her feelings, whether she’s happy, sad, angry, you name it, she’ll let you know. She externalizes, processes everything by releasing it. I can see how she thinks people might be put off by that, but maybe it’s healthier that way. It has to be better than whatever I’ve been doing. Stuffing it down. Repressing.

“I think you’ve always hated your birthday because you’ve never had one like this. I didn’t know how to do this.” He gestures around him like a general this, although I know he’s talking about the party. This, as in happiness and fun and everything that we should have had in our childhood. “I was never good at any of it, and I regret that I hadn’t at least tried to be better.”

His eyes are cast down into his lap now, and I roll my beer bottle in my hands, picking at the label until I’ve almost taken off the entire sticker. It’s easier to focus on than the feelings his admission has brought up. The memories of my childhood that were never really a childhood. After Mom left, the onus was on me as the eldest child to step up. For my siblings, for the ranch, for all of it.

My dad stands and places a heavy, comforting hand on my shoulder, stopping next to me as he heads back inside the house.

“All I’m saying is that maybe it’s time to let some light into that walled up heart of yours. Maybe it’s time to have a little fun.”

I nod, and peer up at my dad’s kind, weathered face. He winks and tilts his head over to where Lyla is standing, before leaving us alone on the porch.

She’s got her hands resting behind her on the railing. The overhang of the roof sticks out far enough to keep her dry, but the humidity has caused the short hairs around her face to curl.

“Austin and Nash finished cleaning up and left for the barn,” she says with a soft smile.