Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 59231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
The drive wasn’t so bad, considering I was excited about the destination. The drive home would likely be less fun. I barely even realized I had been going as long as I had when I saw the town limit sign. Technically, Caden’s ranch was just outside town limits. Murdock still claimed him, though, and Caden didn’t seem to mind. He sponsored the youth athletic teams and donated to the fire department and sheriff’s department all the same.
“Staying for dinner?” he asked as he held out his hand for me to shake.
He always met me in the driveway, like he was waiting around all day for me to show up. He outworked everyone, and it started when you showed up. It was like you were already late, no matter how early you got there. Some people took it as an insult, like he was trying to be pushy, but I just saw it for what he always was: someone who was going to push himself and everyone else around him to be better than they otherwise would be.
“Maybe not today,” I said. “Looks like rain. Might just head home and spend the evening with a pizza.”
Caden laughed and shook his head.
“Whatever floats your boat, bro,” he said. “Bentley’s in his stall, if you want to take a ride.”
“Cool,” I said, grabbing a shovel. “If I can get one in before the weather.”
“Good luck,” Caden said, staring at the sky. “Seems good for a few hours at least. Just let me know when you’re heading out.”
“Will do,” I said.
I did some work around the stall, mostly mucking up and keeping things tidy. There was only so clean a stable could get. Then I hitched up Bentley and found one of the instructors who usually taught little kids how to ride. Letting him know I was out meant someone would come looking if I screwed up, a lesson I’d learned early on.
As the sky began to darken, I guided Bentley back and got him into his stall to eat. Just that short ride had done wonders for my mood, and again, I thought of how therapeutic it was. As I said goodbye to Caden, I wondered if I would ever get around to thinking of it as actual therapy.
2
ALLISON
I used to love road trips. I used to love this specific road trip. Those days were a long time ago, though, and this time, I hated every single second of it.
When I was little, my father would pack us a cooler full of sandwiches and sodas, and we would make this trip together just him and me. The long trek to visit my grandparents during summers and holidays was never so bad when I was in the car with Dad. We listened to loud, silly music with the windows down and stopped at gas stations to fill up on fuel for the car and ourselves. The hot dogs at the halfway point were something I cherished.
When he passed, those trips stopped. They were my clearest memory of him most of the time, driving along, smiling wide under his mustache, his plastic-rimmed glasses pushed up to his eyebrows. He was jolly and silly and knew all about cars and sports and how to fix things. I missed him so much.
Especially now.
My car was limping along on its last legs, struggling to go each mile. Dad would know what was wrong with it. He could probably fix it with a roll of duct tape and a wrench. But I was no good at that stuff, and instead relied heavily on talking to the car, coaxing it to make it just a little while longer. If it could make it to the house, that would be best. But even if it could only make it into town, I’d take it.
It probably was weighed down, a part of me looking for wild guesses as to what was wrong said. I did have all my worldly possessions in the back seat and trunk. And beside me. And possibly underneath me. I’d shoved everything in there in such a hurry that I didn’t really account for space for myself, of which there was very little. I couldn’t see out of the back window, and the trunk wouldn’t latch, held closed by bungee cables that let it bounce up and down onto the small dresser that was stuffed back there with my bags of clothes.
I hated this drive now. I hated the shattered life that I was leaving behind, too. I hated just about everything about where I was and what I was doing and how I’d gotten there, in fact. The car limping along like it was just seemed like another kick in the teeth from the universe. One more insult from up above. Or down below. Whichever one it was that controlled mechanics.