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“Like who?” Jamie scoffs. “A freshman?”
“Make a move on Sophie,” Elliot replies.
“She’s still holding out for Winters,” Jamie replies, glancing at me.
I take a sip of water, pretending I didn’t hear that comment. Maybe after our last conversation at Mayfair, the dynamic will be different.
“Surprised Sophie isn’t here, asking where you’ve been the past few days,” Drew comments.
I don’t reply. Truth is, she texted me asking just that. It’s one of many messages sitting unread in my phone right now.
“Here’s the beer.” Jessica sets two pitchers down on the table in front of us. Foam fizzles atop the amber-colored liquid. “I’ll be right back with the third one and some cups.”
She’s back within thirty seconds, then Jamie jumps up to help her fetch the pizzas. We’ve all devouring hot slices and cold beer within minutes. But the food and familiar company isn’t enough to distract me.
I’m worrying about her.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
LENNON
Sunbeams creep across the hardwood floor slowly, turning shadows into honey-colored wood. Normally, this is when I’d roll over to slip back into the haze of sleep until my alarm goes off.
Instead, I keep watching the light expand, illuminating the clothes strewn across my bedroom floor.
I toss one leg to the side, wincing when it hits the plaster wall. This bed is too small for me. Has been for years. But now that there’s a larger one available, I can’t bring myself to use it.
I hoped turning the house upside down would help me move forward, but all it has accomplished is ensuring I have to spend an extra ten minutes looking for anything.
I slide out of bed, not bothering to change out of the oversized T-shirt I’m wearing. It’s either Caleb’s or Gramps’s. I discovered after Caleb left that half the clothes he brought over made it into cardboard boxes along with Gramps’s.
The morning light has reached the edge of the bed, revealing the white cotton I’m wearing is free of any stains or rips. Caleb’s, then. It’s probably designer.
I yank on a pair of jean shorts and stumble into the hallway, almost tripping over the stack of books I told myself I’d move last night.Tonight. Maybe. I amble down to the kitchen, picking my way through the rest of the scattered belongings I now own.
The sun that woke me hasn’t fully risen. Mist hovers over the grassy fields that surround the farmhouse. I look out the window above the sink, at the peaceful scene. I know it’s impossible, but I can almost define the sloped shape of an equine form out in the field. All the horses are still in their stalls, though, unless I’ve really lost it and left one out last night.
The quiet gurgle of the coffee maker is the only sound in the silent house. I should get a dog. Or a cat. Or just start sleeping in the barn. The total absence of sound is peaceful.
It’s also really lonely.
I eye the plastic bag sitting on the counter. It’s almost empty. Each morning since the service, I’ve spread some of Gramps’s ashes on my trip out to the barn. It makes me feel like he’s here with me, slamming pans or about to hobble down the driveway to fetch the paper like he did most mornings. But even that sliver of solace is nearly gone, disappearing as fast as the mist evaporating off the grass.
The few days that have passed since the memorial service have been hard. I’m not someone who struggles with isolation. I don’t mind being alone with my thoughts most of the time. The sting of loss has started to ease.
I miss Gramps—I’ll always miss Gramps—but I don’t have regrets. I didn’t leave freshman year and miss the past three years with him. I’m not sure if I believe in any cosmic power, but my last conversation with him was exactly what I wanted him to know. I’m grateful he knew I got into Clarkson. Glad he knew I’d have Caleb.
Now, I just need to decide where I go from here. The simplest—easiest—path would be to change nothing. To continue living in this farmhouse, attending RCC, and taking care of what remains of my family’s racing legacy.
I’m not under any illusions about my financial situation. I’ve been snooping around bank statements for years now. When a lawyer came over yesterday to hand me the deed to Matthews Farm, the little else I’ve inherited didn’t surprise me. Money is tight. But it’s manageable. I could make staying here work with the paltry savings, my income from the paper, and the stallions’ stud fees.
I just…don’t know if I should.
The coffee maker shuts off, returning the kitchen to total silence. I fill a mug with a healthy helping of caffeine, grab the bag of gray dust, and head out onto the front porch.
I’m tempted to take a seat in one of the rocking chairs, but as much as I want to prolong this, I also want to get it over with. Like the memorial service, I know this is something I need to get through. And hope like hell it looks better on the other side.
Hot coffee scorches my tongue as I walk the familiar path from the farmhouse to the main barn. There’s no hint of the heat I know will blanket the farm later today. The cooler weather makes me dread the sun’s full rise. I’d rather it stays like this, just on the precipice.
