Page 5 of Just Say When

He scribbled his signature next to mine. I stood, tossing a couple bills on the bar for Janie. “I’ll have a copy of the contract and a money order to you tomorrow.”

Alan grunted again.

I was barely out the door when I remembered I still had to change out my busted tire.

Fucking Essie.

3

Essie

Essie:

Hey, remember that time when we were eleven and you couldn’t find your bike and Brax said he didn’t know where it was, but actually he did? You can’t trust people like that.

Jack:

…

What did you do, Essie?

Essie:

I’m just saying, once a liar, always a liar.

Jack:

You stole my bike and crashed it. He only knew where it was because he was fixingwhat you broke.

Essie:

Yeah, which he LIED about.

When I thought about it, I remembered that Brax hadn’t actually lied. Not directly, anyway.Your bike is around here somewhere. It’ll turn up eventually. That was what he’d said, and of course it had been true. Brax hated lying. Deep down, he was as dishonest as the rest of us mortals, but he preferred the method of withholding information. Easier to defend in court, or some shit like that.

“Mom?” I called as I stepped through the front door of the bungalow we shared. Pirate was still in the trailer, but I wanted to give Mom a head’s up before I settled him into his new home.

“In the kitchen!” she hollered back.

I found her making a pitcher of iced tea, still in her work clothes. “Need help with dinner?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I brought home a potpie. We had an extra, so it was half off, plus my discount. I can pop it in the oven when you’re ready to eat.”

Mom had been working at Sweetie Pie, a bakery on First Street that specialized in pies of all kinds except pizza, for as long as I could remember. Back when I had rodeos every weekend, she pulled ten-hour shifts, fourdays a week, so she could have Friday through Sunday free to haul me and Buckley to barrel racing competitions all over the South and Midwest. My travel schedule had slowed considerably this past year, but somehow Mom’s schedule hadn’t lessened a bit.

Barrel racing was an almost entirely female sport—with the exception of the horses—and leaned young. By the time they turned thirty, most professional racers had hung up their spurs, married a cowboy, and were hard at work popping out the next generation. I had hung on a little longer, not retiring until last summer. Not because I wanted to settle down. No fucking thank you tothat.

I retired because I was bored. I wanted a new challenge. Now I was halfway through an apprenticeship with James Campos at Lodestar Ranch, learning how to train reining horses, which was a hell of a lot different than the fast and furious rides of barrel racing.

I had hoped that with a less-demanding travel schedule, Mom would have changed her work hours to something more manageable. But nope. She was still working the grueling 5 a.m. to 5 p.m. shift, the only change being that now she often went in on Fridays and Saturdays, too.

“You hungry, honey?” she asked. When I nodded, she turned the dial to preheat the oven. “Good. So am I. You’re home later than I expected.”

“Oh. Right.” I cleared my throat. “You know how Buckley has been a little sad since Atticus died?” Atticuswas our goat, who served no purpose on this earth other than to terrorize chickens and keep Buckley company in his retirement.

Mom nodded slowly, her lips pursed like she knew what was coming.

“I found him a new friend,” I said brightly. “So he won’t be lonely anymore.”

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