Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54148 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 217(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54148 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 217(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
“Stop where?”
I keep my expression neutral. “A buddy of mine has a replacement part for the new tractor.”
“That’ll be nice.” She puts her window down halfway. I glance at her in my periphery, pleased that she doesn’t appear to suspect a thing.
I turn onto the main drag and head toward the highway. A newscast comes on the radio, and I immediately shut it off at the mention of Jim Davis’ name.
Kenzie sighs. “It’s like I can’t escape it.”
The local news stations, and even some smaller national media outlets, have been covering the former governor’s release as if it’s real news.
“You can thank the Davis family’s PR team for that.” If I had to guess, Jim Davis is probably hoping to get back into politics sometime within the next year. If he can convince the voting public that his conviction wasn’t as rock solid as it seemed, he might win himself a seat in the legislature.
It’s an effective tactic: reframe Jim Davis as the unwitting family man who got caught up in his brother’s scandal. Never mind the solid evidence that he’d been actively working to keep his own son, Hoyt, out of the spotlight. Details that were concrete during the trial are suddenly being called into question, including Kenzie and Holly’s testimonies.
“They talk about me like I’m just a character in a story, not a flesh-and-blood person with feelings,” she says. “They can turn me into whatever they want me to be to serve their narrative. The liar, the slut, the gold digger. The lying slut gold digger.”
“Fuck them and their narrative,” I say firmly. “That’s not who you are.”
“Not that anyone cares.”
“Some people care.”
I reach into her lap and grasp her hand.
“I know. I’m just tired of being defined by the worst things that’ve happened to me. Jill suggested I take this week to think about what I want my next chapter in life to look like.”
“Sounds like a good exercise. Have you thought of anything?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “Learning to drive would be a nice start. Maybe think about taking some classes, learning a trade.”
I spot the red barn up ahead and flip the turn signal. Kenzie shifts in her seat as I pull into the dirt driveway.
“You didn’t tell me you have friends who are farmers.”
“Can’t a man have some secrets?”
She makes a face. I chuckle and climb out of my truck.
“Sit tight,” I say. “This’ll only take a sec.”
I jog around back to the farmhouse where the farmer’s wife is waiting for me with a nondescript carboard box with holes punched in the sides. I can already hear the tiny inhabitants making a fuss.
“Thanks for the late pick-up.” I pass the woman a folded fifty note and carefully grasp the box.
Kenzie regards me suspiciously as I make my way back to the truck.
“Why do tractor parts need air holes?” she asks through the open window.
“Even crankshafts need to breathe.” I nod to the box. “Can I get you to hold onto this?”
She opens the door, and her sea-green eyes widen as soon as she hears the cheeping.
“Oh my God,” she says. “Are those...”
I set the box on her lap. “Look inside and see.”
She pries back one of the flaps, revealing a beady-eyed bundle of yellow fluff. Her hand flies to her mouth.
“You got chickens?”
“I got you chickens, baby girl.”
A high-pitched whine leaks out of her like air from a bike tire as she carefully peers inside the box. Yellow, brown, and gray fluffballs huddle together, seeking warmth.
“Hello, babies,” she coos. “Aren’t you the most precious little things. How many are there?”
“Should be a dozen.”
She slides her finger into the box to pet the nearest chick. “Where are we going to keep them? We don’t have a coop.”
“Not yet, but we’ll have one by the time they’re big enough to need one. I already set up a brooder tub in the garage with a heat lamp and everything else they’ll need.”
“When did you do all that?” She gapes at me.
“Little by little last week.”
“I had no idea.” Her bottom lip trembles. “Thank you, Daddy.”
“Hey.” I brush a tear from her cheek with my thumb. “Don’t cry. This was supposed to make you happy.”
“I am happy!” she cries.
I lean into the cab to kiss her sweetly and then shut the door.
Once we’re back on the road, she asks, “What made you decide to get them?”
“I remembered you telling me how much you loved your grandpa’s chickens. We’ve got the room, so I figured, why not? Plus, I wanted you to know how proud I am of what you’re doing. Digging up traumatic shit is hard work.”
“Yes, it is.” She sighs. “Have you ever been to therapy?”
“I have.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “What did you need therapy for, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“A bunch of things. Anxiety, depression, PTSD.”