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JACKSON
I wastwelve when Serenity Ranch became mine and my sisters’ official home.
Even then, when I was young and naive and still full of childlike hope that my parents would get their shit together, the name felt ironic to me. At the time, it didn’t feel very serene. Not when our life was nothing but an endless stream of turmoil, full of adults who didn’t love us nor care enough to pretend. Despite the rolling green hills and the postcard-like scenery, the latest set of people tasked with raising us ensured, through thinly-veiled insults and painfully obvious disdain for their new position as guardians, ensured serenity was inconceivable.
It was maybe half a year after our mother dropped us on her parents-in-laws’ doorstep that the name started to make sense. When our grandparents left us for the first time of many, the eggshells we’d been treading suddenly disintegrated, andhomefinally formed a meaning for us. We discovered real stability, security we’d never truly had before, a safe haven for us to grow up. Odd things to get used to after so long lacking but we did. We settled. Threw down some roots. Grew comfortable enough to make our own traditions.
One of them; the summer party Lux insists on throwing every year. Midsummer, she says, though I’m not entirely sure she knows what that even is; my sister was a fairytale lover in her childhood, and I suspect she read about it in one of her little books.
Wherever it came from, it’s her thing. Her expensive, loud, over-the-top thing that started as a way to piss off our grandparents—or to get them to notice us—and morphed into something more. Something that thrived and blossomed and infiltrated our little community, feeding into Lux’s inane need to be useful, to be needed, to help. To hold the entire world on her shoulders and act like she isn’t a stiff wind away from crumbling.
She’s doing it now, floating around the crowded yard, a smile on her face as she mingles and passes out drinks and refrains from actually enjoying the event she painstakingly planned.
I sigh at the sight of her.
I feel tired at the sight of her.
Even more tired than I already feel because unlike my sister—unlike all of my sisters—a social butterfly is not something I could ever be described as. It’s fucking hard, this socializing shit. Harder when you no longer live in the small town you call home because your return is practically headline news, worthy of intense scrutiny and endless questions. And it’s hardest when you tote two handsome strangers home with you.
All night, there’s been a nonstop train of people pretending they want to catch up when really, they want a quick introduction. Personally, I’m not a fan of feeling like a damn circus attraction but Nick and Cass? To no one’s surprise, they fucking love it. Preening and prancing and puffing their goddamn chests, they greedily lap up the attention from their admirers.
It’s when the number of girls I went to high school with asking for Nick’s number hits double digits that I reach my limit. Luckily, I don’t need to fake an excuse to leave; not a soul notices when I slink away, my presence, or lack thereof, shadowed by the shiny light my friends permanently exude.
My breath of relief sounds in unison with soft equine snorts as I seek refuge in my favorite spot on the whole ranch. The musty silence of the barn greets me like an old friend, as do its five permanent occupants.
They’re an odd mirror, the Appaloosa horses taking up half of the stalls. A parallel. Unwanted by their original owners because of their maintenance and the odd flaw—a muddled coat here, a limping gait there. Strong, though. Resilient as hell. Powerful if given the chance.
Despite the imperfections, they’re the most expensive things on this ranch, and I can never quite tell if it’s tragic or hilarious that the beautiful creatures are named after a meddling group of cartoon characters. Lux went through a Scooby Doo phase right around the time our equine counterparts joined the family, and contesting the wishes of Alexandra Jackson is an almost impossible fight to win.
Thus, Scooby, Velma, Shaggy, Daphne, and Fred were christened.
I run my fingers through Scooby’s—the stallion I chose as mine—mane as I pass his stall, cooing a hello as I grasp the ladder leading to the loft and hoist myself up. As I lean against the stack of hay bales stored up here, legs dangling over the edge, I find myself feeling grateful that at least, amongst the chaos of renovation, this one place hasn’t changed.
It was little Lux and I’s hiding spot. Where we fled to when our grandparents were on a rampage or when the house felt too full or when we just needed to breathe. So when I hear soft footsteps and creaking wood, I assume it’s her seeking me out, coming to drag me back to the festivities.
When a head of mousy hair comes into view, closely followed by a pair of pale brown eyes, I stifle a groan.
“I've been looking everywhere for you,” my ex-girlfriend croons as she crawls toward me, perching gingerly on the ledge with her thigh pressed against mine. “You weren’t gonna say hi?”
Honestly, no. I wasn’t. I’ve been actively avoiding her for this very reason; I can’t take the unrestrained hope, the blatant want for something that no longer exists.
My smile is as weak as my effort to lie, “It’s been a busy night.”
Caroline’s expression dulls slightly, my answer clearly disappointing her. Throat bobbing with a quiet sigh, the skirt of her yellow sundress rustles as she folds her hands in her lap, the smallest furrow to her brow as she regards me. “You look good.” The compliment is soft, hesitant, as though she’s unsure whether or not she should make it.
“So do you.” And she does. Always has; I could never believe such a pretty girl was remotely interested in me.
It was,is, the personality that always left something feeling amiss.Ourpersonalities. Not a clash but an eerie likeness; quiet, harboring shy tendencies, agreeable for the sake of not causing problems. We never argued and that was the problem. The absence of passion. The lack of fire.
Lux’s previous quip about needing slash-proof tires? Hilariously improbable because I’m convinced anger is not an emotion Caroline is capable of.
She confirms my suspicions as we chat amicably like it’s not stiflingly uncomfortable. Like she shouldn’t be pissed as hell; I broke up with her a couple of months shy of graduation with very little explanation—I believe the words ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ were used—before fleeing town, and in the year that followed, I actively avoided her every time I was in town. If the roles were reversed, I’d be irritated.
But she’s not. Not even a little. Hurt, clearly, but accepting of my decision, so much so that she’s willing to sit here and exchange pleasantries that make my skin itch.
“So, you’re home for the summer?”
I hum in confirmation, restraining a wince because God, the telling expectation in her tone is too much. So is the fraction of distance between us. The fingers drumming against her thigh, occasionally brushing mine. The feeling of her breath brushing my shoulder.
