I internally groan. I knew he’d ask that question. Everyone asks that question. I put on my fake smile. “I recently graduated from The University of Montana with a degree in journalism. I was active on the school’s debate—”
He waves his hand in the air. “I mean the real you.”
I relax a bit. “Uh, I like to read a lot, and I’ve been raising and riding horses my whole life.”
His eyes go back to my rack. For fuck’s sake, my eyes are up here! I’ve gained a few pounds over the last year at school. I wasn’t happy about the way my stomach jiggled or the cellulite on my ass, but the increase in cup size was a fair trade-off.
“Why the paper? I’d think a woman like you would want to be on screen, not behind it.”
I grit my teeth. Practice interview. Practice. Practice. Practice. “I’m very passionate, Mr. Weebly,” I start then immediately regret my word choice. I shouldn’t say anything remotely sexual to fuel this chauvinistic pig. “I feel that the written word can convey the message just as well, without the distraction of getting made up for appearances. The focus is on the story, not on who is reporting it.”
He just nods and glances back at my resume. “You graduated in May?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And you’re just now looking for a job? What did you do, take a month off to party?” He looks at me like he’s hoping I will say yes, and it’s because he wants me to be a party girl who gets drunks and gives it up easily. Sick.
“Yes, I’m just now looking for a job, but it wasn’t because of partying.” My heart lurches. The sweat is back in full force, and it’s rolling down my back. I nervously rake my fingers through my long hair.
“What was it, then?” He leans back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight.
I close my eyes in a long blink and push the lump down in my throat. My mind races. I want to lie. But I can’t. Unlike the dead, the truth doesn’t stay buried. “My mother and I were in an accident in April. I got hurt pretty badly, and she…she didn’t make it. I needed some time after graduation to deal with everything. ”
“Oh,” he says. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you.”
His eyes roam over my face. “When can you start?”
What? I actually lean back in surprise. That wasn’t an interview at all. “Monday,” I say, since it’s true.
“Great!” He stands. “Let me give you a tour.”
“Wait, so you’re telling me your boobs got you the job?” Lori slides the bottle of wine across the counter, her perfectly manicured nails clinking against the glass.
I wrinkle my nose. “Yeah, I think.” I sigh and watch the red moscato fill the glass. “I mean, I said I’d start and I filled out paperwork, but it doesn’t make me locked in. I can apply somewhere else later.”
Lori takes a drink of the wine and raises an eyebrow incredulously. “You got hired at your first interview. Get some experience before you move on and quit. And know you’re fucking lucky. That never happens.”
“I know.” I reach for the bottle of wine.
Lori snatches it back. “You reached your limit,” she says softly.
“I had half a glass,” I mutter. “And I’m not…” Ah, fuck. “I stopped taking the pills last week.”
“Haley!”
“I don’t need them. I’m not suicidal or anything, and they make me tired.”
She puts the glass behind her. We’re at my house, sitting at the island counter in the large country kitchen.
“They were prescribed to you for a reason,” Lori says. She sticks a stopper in the wine and puts it in the fridge. “And you’re not supposed to stop that stuff cold turkey. You need to call the doctor tomorrow and make an appointment. At least talk about this first, okay?”
Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I blink them away, not wanting Lori to see. She’s bossy, but she cares. Having her as my best friend is the only thing that has gotten me through this, and she is the only person who hasn’t put a time limit on how long I’m allowed to grieve.
“I don’t need them,” I tell her. And I can’t afford them. Not only is getting the job at a bigger press one of my goals, but it’ll pay more. “Look,” I say, because she’s staring dubiously at me. “If things get bad, I’ll take them again. But I have to face life. I have to accept things.”
Now tears well in her eyes. If she cries, I’m done for. “You can admit you hurt, Hay,” she whispers. “It’s okay to get some help.”
“I know,” I choke out. I sniffle, wipe my eyes, and stand. I push the barstool against the counter. “I have to feed the horses. Stay in here and put the pizza in the oven, please?”
She nods, knowing I need time alone. I leave the kitchen through a hall that takes me to the laundry room. I open the door and let Chrissy, Mom’s border collie, run out into the yard ahead of me, and step into the garage. Mom’s truck is there. I haven’t been in it since that day. I don’t even know who brought it back, or who took Phoenix away from the burning barn. And I didn’t ask.
Everything was just there, put back like normal. I can’t look at the truck, can’t look at the last place I saw her, the last place we talked and laughed. I never thought setting out to save a life would take hers away.
Tears start to fall freely, rolling down my cheeks. A cool breeze rattles the trees and blows the scent of hay and grain through the air. I bite my bottom lip and suck back my tears. The barn is only yards from the house. On cool nights, when the windows could be left open, you can hear the horses shuffling around in their stalls.
Shakespeare looks out the open Dutch door and whinnies to me. His call brings on a wave of emotion, and suddenly I’m running to him, throwing open his stall door and burying my face in his mane. He turns his head, wrapping me in what I can only describe as a hug. We stay like that for a few beats. It might sound stupid, and not everyone understands, but that horse is there for me. I’ve had him for ten years now, and he was our first rescue. Mom had been a riding instructor my whole life. I’m lucky enough to look back and never remember a time without horses.
Mom heard about Shakespeare’s story from one of her horse friends. He was a registered Arabian and had been someone’s show horse for years. But then one day, he wasn’t wanted anymore. After a few weeks of being for sale, his owner threw in the towel and sent him to the slaughter auction. We got him right before he was loaded onto the truck.
Now he’s mine, and I love that damn horse with everything inside me. We understand each other in an unspoken way. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out, warm breath warming my back.
Then I start sobbing, salty tears dripping onto his sleek white mane. Pain stabs my chest, and I can’t breathe. I hold onto him, body trembling from the force of my tears. This was never supposed to happen. I can’t do it all like Mom had. How the hell am I supposed to rehab horses, take care of the ones we have now, and work?
I pull away from Shakespeare and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. He pushes his nose against me and I close my eyes.
“Thank you,” I whisper to my horse. “How many times have I run to you crying?” I ask, running my hands along his neck. Gray speckles his white coat. “Most of the time it’s for completely ridiculous things.” I take a breath and rest my head on his. “Breakups, not being allowed to go out, horse shows,” I say and feel a smile forming. “Remember that time you refused to cross the stupid bridge in trail class?”
He lowers his head and starts munching on hay. “You could do that thing backwards in your sleep, but you wouldn’t go over it. I was so mad I hung a for sale sign on your stall and asked a dollar.” I look at my old guy through blurry tears. “Then I went to the bathroom, and when I came back, Mom put a sold sign on your stall and hid you in the trailer.” I burst into tears then, horrified she had let someone buy my horse. Of course I didn’t really want to sell him. “It was her way of teaching me a lesson. I can’t make you do anything. I can only ask. We were partners, and she made sure I remembered that. And that’s what you are. My partner, my friend. We’ve been through a lot together.”