Page 2 of A Fighting Chance

I slam my head into my pillow over and over again. I haven’t thought about Dean Callahan in years. Maybe not even since the day he broke up with me, which incidentally, was prom day—three weeks before graduation and four weeks before I moved away and never looked back. Not really anyway. I’ve gone back for a few holidays and important events over the years, but that’s all. And I never drag it out longer than necessary. I get in and out—usually the same day if I can help it.

So, why exactly Dean is in my thoughts tonight is beyond me. Our relationship would require a chart to understand, and then a whole separate chart for my twenty/twenty hindsight on the matter. Blissful in the moment but torture to reflect on. That about sums it up.

While part of me is genuinely worried about my sister and Nan and Paw, another part of me is secretly wishing and hoping this is not the sort of catastrophe that requires my homecoming. Just thinking about it makes me feel selfish.

Eventually I fall back asleep—with thoughts of Dean and the words from our breakup serving as my nightmarish lullaby.

Two

Lyla

“I’m getting a divorce, Lyla,”Harper says, sobbing through the muffled telephone line. I can hear my sister sniffling and wiping her nose as she tries to compose herself enough to speak whole sentences to me.

“What happened?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm and measured, knowing now is the time to lend an ear and try not to ask too many questions. To just be a sounding board.

“I don’t know, you know? Just grew apart, I guess. He says he fell in love with someone else. Oh, Lyla, it’s awful,” and the sobs set in again.

That ass.

My heart cracks in my chest. I see fire and brimstone. I amraginginside but again, my voice remains tempered. “Oh, love, I’m so sorry. I’m going to come down,” I say. I won’t lie, I don’t want to. I really don’t. But I can’t leave her to break alone.

My little sister chose a happily ever after—a quiet life, a husband, and a vow. I, on the other hand, had flown off, career in mind, dating only when convenient or necessary. I’ve been living mostly in solitude, if I’m being honest. Dating anyoneperson never lasted for me because, well, that’s how I like it. Dating, settling down, finding love…all that junk has never been my focus. The point is, she’d chosen the opposite, and now it’s crumbling around her. As her big sister, I have to go and hold her together.

“No, you don’t have to do that—really. Don’t go through any trouble for me,” Harper says, and sniffs again.

“It’s no trouble. I can practically work from anywhere. Plus, I haven’t been down in a while and it’ll be good for you—for the both of us,” I insist.

“Okay,” she says.

“Good,” I return. I don’t bore her with the travel details, I just tell her I’ll make them.

However, what I don’t make is a promise of how long I’ll stay.

The flight I book will get in late the next evening and then I’ll make the drive from the airport to the farm, putting me there probably around ten P.M.

I’m not looking forward to packing and hauling myself down there, but it has to be done.

For the most part, I left Harper behind with Nan and Paw to look after the farm. I left her behind to be the one to deal with everything. Our parents died when we were in middle school—me in eighth grade, her in sixth. When I left for college, she still had two more years to go. By that time, Nan and Paw were too old to care for the place the way it needed; so, Harper stayed.

She went to college locally, married her high school sweetheart—and stayed. She was your quintessential small-town girl. Everyone in town knew her name. Hell, for that matter, everyone in town knew everyone’s name. All our names.

My grandparents are Louise and Calvin Whitney. Not that it means much to most of the world, but in the backwoods of Kentucky, where there are more horse farms and national parks than paved roads, Whitney is a very well-known name. Our family’s farm is at the edge of Scott County, and it’s one of the oldest working farms still in the area.

In the fall, they have pumpkin patches and hayrides open to the public. The orchards have always been a popular attraction. City folk always want to come pick their own apples. Corn mazes, sunflowers, fresh laid eggs, you name it. People come from all over to visit and spend the day. Our farm is even on its own road. Whitney Farms is nestled neatly at the end of Whitney Way.

How quaint.

I distinctly remember rolling my eyes any time I had to explain it to anyone as a teenager.

Now, I scroll through my phone until I find a decent ticket for the flight there—a one-way ticket. I don’t know how long I’ll stay and purposely made no mention of it to Harper so I’m not locked in to any timeline. I’ll fly into the Louisville Airport and then make my way two hours southeast.

Oh joy.

I start removing clothes from their hangers inside the closet. I live in a beautiful one-bedroom Boston apartment, on the third floor. I have purposely and meticulously constructed my life. Rebuilt it to be more than it was before.

I worked hard in high school, got accepted into Boston College, obtained an English degree, and almost immediately began writing for various magazines and online blogs. I wish I could say it’s that easy for everyone who wants to be a writer. The truth is, I got lucky—solucky. And I knew the right people. I networked like a mother trucker leading up to graduation. I kissed ass like it had never been kissed before.

I throw more items of clothing in my bag and realize I have no idea what or how much I should be packing.

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