My eyes trail over the top shelf that’s cluttered with photos, skipping from mismatched frame to mismatched frame. Each one is filled with happy family moments that span decades. A pang twists in my chest. Not because I didn’t have a happy childhood. But it was quiet compared to this… this cheerful chaos.
I pause on a photo of a younger couple that I don’t recognize. It’s a perfect summer day, and an impressive waterfall cascades down over a cliff of jagged rocks beside them. They’re squished in tight next to a mischievous-looking little blond boy—hair nearly white—with a deep summer tan and dirt on his knees from playing outdoors. He’s grinning from ear to ear, and I recognize the expression. Emmett still has that grin, though it doesn’t seem to come as naturally as in this photo.
Next to it is a grainy wedding photo of a much younger Tina and Leon. They look blissfully happy. Madly in love. It’s plain as day. It’s lovely.
They are lovely even now. So lovely, in fact, that it’s easy to forget I’m in enemy territory here. The way they speak about Emmett is so different from how I’ve heard him spoken about by literally anyone else. And the way Tina is always rubbing his shoulder or squeezing his hand like she just can’t help herself is utterly endearing.
He never rolls his eyes or shakes her off the way I might have expected. Instead, he’ll tilt his head and shoot her an affectionate glance. His reaction is a fascinating blend between reveling in her unconcealed affection but also being slightly embarrassed by it.
“I’m just hoping he finds someone worthy of him,” Tina says firmly. I glance at Emmett and nearly snort. “We raised him since he was ten, you know?” she adds, more of a statement than a question.
A clarification that brings me up short.
Ten?
A lump lodges in my throat as I stare back at Emmett. Blue eyes—the same ones from the little boy in the photo—bore into mine with a level of intensity that almost makes me squirm. The look he’s giving me is one of challenge. I don’t think he wanted me to learn that about him.
And it makes me realize how little I know about him outside of what I’ve been told. And most of what I’ve been told is secondhand, fed to me through the lens of people who dislike him. Or from the media, who—as I’m learning with this job—are not always as honest as one might assume.
I can’t wrap my head around all the versions of Emmett. Cruise-ship Emmett, who was borderline heroic, is also asshole Emmett, who antagonizes my brother every chance he gets. And there’s also the Emmett sitting across from me right now who loves and is clearly loved back by these sweet people. It’s just… puzzling.
“No,” I reply with a soft smile. “I didn’t.”
“My special, wonderful boy,” she says, pulling his head close and dropping a loud smack of a kiss on his curls. She laughs as Emmett and Leon groan over her sappiness.
But me? I find myself turning over the term wonderful boy. It takes me back to the cruise ship even though I don’t want to think about that night.
Every time I do, guilt and shame needle me—in spite of the fact the counselor I ended up seeing on campus assured me that none of it was my fault. Logically, I even believe her. And yet, blame for putting myself in that situation weighs heavy on me if I sit with it for too long.
When I got home, I wanted everything to go back to normal—whatever normal was—but I couldn’t help but see the world differently after such a close call.
Still, I used that burning desire for a fresh start to dive straight into my master’s program. Something of a new beginning.
I took a step back from going out with friends, something that made me realize I had a lot of acquaintances but no true close friends. And as much as I craved some socialization, a few glasses of red wine and a dinner out, I avoided situations where I might overindulge and lose control again. The cost-benefit analysis of a carefree night on the town didn’t hold the same allure as it once did.
So I threw myself into my schoolwork with even more gusto. I competed against myself to be an even better student. How high could I get my grades?
I started going to the gym. Could I get fit enough to do a pull-up? What about ten?
Rather than eating like a broke bachelor, I started cooking. Trying out new recipes and shopping mindfully at the farmers’ market.
I started gardening and filled my small patio with plants and flowers that I was forced to bring inside over the winter because I couldn’t stomach the idea of them dying. It made my condo borderline tropical, which—in a roundabout way—made staying home alone even more appealing.
The end result is that I graduated from my master’s in film studies with top marks and landed a dream job before school was officially over.
This position puts me firmly on the road to directing and producing major Hollywood films—a big, lofty, borderline irrational dream I’ve had since I was a little girl.
I’m never bored, and I’m the healthiest I’ve ever been—physically anyway. But I’m guarded in a way I never was before. I don’t trust men, and the prospect of dating doesn’t appeal to me at all.
My counselor assured me that this was an okay way to feel. That channeling my nervous energy into being productive could be healthy. So, I’d taken that advice and run with it… but I’m not sure that making productivity my entire personality is what she’d meant.
“On that note,” Leon says, jarring me from my reverie, “do you know much about what we do here at Stal Brandt?”
“I’m afraid not,” I reply sheepishly. I know it’s a horse farm, but not much else.
The older man lights up like a Christmas tree; clearly this place is his passion. “This farm has been in my family for years and we are dedicated to breeding and developing Canadian sport horses for top-level equestrian competition. Show jumping, dressage, eventing—you name it. Most world-class athletes are forced to travel to Europe where they have the best and most proven breeding programs. They’ll pay an arm and a leg for a nice horse and then have to fly it back from overseas. They have to deal with import paperwork, passports, and quarantine. And if you ask me, the European breeders aren’t sending their best horses to other countries. They’re keeping them for themselves and sending us their B team.”
He grumbles his annoyance at that and I find myself captivated by the passion he speaks with.
“So our goal here at Stal Brandt is to establish a world-class breeding program to support Canadian athletes and the Canadian economy. I’ve dedicated my life to studying the bloodlines and genetics, importing frozen semen to bolster our program, and trying to produce outstanding equine athletes right here on Canadian soil. Maybe one day—if we’re lucky—we’ll see a Stal Brandt horse at the Olympics.”
“Maybe a Brandt herself too,” Oma pipes up with an excited wink.
“Incredible. I had no idea about the whole…” I wave a hand searching for the words. “Big picture of it all. I hope I get to see your farm represented there one day too.”
The stoic elderly man smirks at me. And coming from him it feels like a megawatt grin.
“Why don’t I take you on a tour around the farm? Show you what our days look like. You can tell me what you have in mind, and we can work from there and make sure this circus stays out of my way.”