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“Wyatt?”
“Yeah, Willa?”
“Sometimes . . . sometimes I get really mad at her. Mad for not trying chemo again, even though I get why she didn’t. But, I mean, what if ithadworked? What if she’d just held on a little longer, you know?”
I squeeze my eyes shut for a second and let the reins fall on Buck’s neck, leaning on the pommel of my saddle. I let my head fall slightly and the shadow of my hat cover my face.
“I visit her grave once a week still, and sometimes . . . sometimes I’m so mad I just stand there and stare. I read those words on her grave and it makes me so irrationally angry I considered having the stone removed. But it’s usually those moments, when all I want to do is kick and scream and punch something, that I feel her. Sometimes it’s like I can almost hear her laughing at me and telling me to chill out, that life isn’t always a picnic and sometimes . . .”
Willa lets out a choked little laugh. “Sometimes you find yourself sitting in the rain.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
Willa sighs and stretches, resting her hands on the back of her saddle. Oreo twitches a little, lifting his head as if to make sure she’s alright. Horses are so much more attentive than people realize. I think that’s why neither of us have ridden much since Mom died. We’ve been worried they could sense something was different about us—sense that, even almost six years later, we’re still grieving. Still trying to figure out this life without the person who loved us more than life itself.
“So, um, I’m going to the beach with Lucy this weekend. Alex is going to check in on the farm while I’m gone,” I blurt out.
Willa whirls around to face me, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I’m going to the beach this weekend. With Lucy.”
“I heard you, I’m just not comprehending what you’re saying. You haven’t left the farm since Mom died.”
“I know.”
“And now you’re leaving for a long weekend. With Lucy.”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
I give her the cliff notes version of the story: Lucy needs to take care of some things for her dad and it’s going to be really hard for her to go alone. So I’m going with her.
Willa blinks at me a few times, then shakes her head.
“No. You shouldn’t go.”
“What?” I sputter.
Willa pushes some hair out of her face and glares at me. “You heard me.”
“I heard you, I just don’t understand why you feel like you can tell me what I can and can’t do.”
“I didn’t say that, I said youshouldn’tgo, there’s a difference.”
“And why shouldn’t I go?”
“Lots of reasons. The main one being that this is going to be a lot for you, watching Lucy go through some very intense stages of her grief. I don’t think you’re going to be able to handle it, I think it’s going to force some things you don’t want to face because you never really grieved Mom’s death.”
And with that horrifying statement, Willa hops off her horse and lifts the reins over Oreo’s neck and lets them brush against the ground. I take a deep breath, trying to calm down so I don’t launch myself at her. And then I take another deep breath, just for good measure.
I get off Buck and follow after her, even though I know that’s exactly what she wants me to do.
“Willa! Where are you going?” I call ahead of me.
“Away from you!” she yells over her shoulder.
“Why?”
