Page 2 of We Redeemed the Rain

She thunked a water bottle down on a coaster and settled herself in an upright armchair across from me. I felt her dark eyes studying me before I met them. They bore into my soul. Miss Simone loved to talk, but more than that, she loved to listen. And she was waiting on me.

I glanced down at my bottle of water, focusing on the ripples in the plastic. I took a deep breath to speak, but no words came. The familiar trembling sensation behind my ribcage started up, paralyzing my voice.

When the silence stretched on, she gently prodded me. Her voice was a tender hum, as grounding as the sound of a fan or refrigerator. “How are you, Sam?”

“I’ve seen better days. But, I actually go by Tag now.”

Her brows knit as she nodded. “Tag. How did that name come to be?”

“There were four Sams in my freshman class.”

She chuckled softly. “So your last name got shortened?”

“It stuck.” I lifted a shoulder. “And it felt right to leave my old name behind.”

“Tag” She tried the name out once more. “I like it.” She smiled. “How are you, Tag? I know you’re not here on a social call.”

“Yeah,” I rasped.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

I picked up my hat again, needing the familiar felt to catch along the ridges of my calloused fingers. It was my fading grip on reality. The thing holding me from sliding into unreachable despair. A comforting reminder of the one thing I had left—my horses.

“There’s somethin’ wrong with me, Miss Simone. I—I’m broken, I think.”

She waited. The clock ticked loud.

“I don’t know how to live without fear.”

Miss Simone nodded in understanding.

“My whole life—it’s all gone to hell. Most days it feels like my ranch is crumblin’ down around me. And”—my voice broke—“I pushed away the only person I’ve ever wanted.”

The hat twirled around and around.

“I hate myself for being such a coward. But I don’t know what to do.”

She squinted, like she was trying to see straight to my insides. The frightened child that still existed within me had no doubt she could. “People don’t live in fear for no reason. Fears start somewhere.”

I nodded, studying the glossy wooden grooves on the coffee table, unwilling to look her in the face while I admitted my first truth. My voice cracked. “I know where.”

After a beat of silence, she said, “I’m assuming you want to talk about that. Or else you wouldn’t be sitting in my home office right now.”

I drew a deep breath. “I need to ask you something first.”

“Okay.”

“Remember that box of journals and pens you gave me?”

A smile pulled into her cheeks even though she tried to quell it. “Yes.”

“You told me it was old stuff from your desk you were cleanin’ out. But it wasn’t. You bought those things for me, didn’t you?” The box was stuffed to the brim with college ruled paper, composition books,smudge free lefty pens, and journals—a couple beautiful, leather bound journals.

She hesitated then admitted, slowly. “It wasn’t just me. Greta Turner slipped the writing craft books in for you. She believed in your ability. Do you remember her?”

Ms. Greta. My middle school Language Arts teacher. I could never forget.

“I remember.”

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