Page 15 of For Cowgirls and Kings
“Mija, is that you?” My father’s warm voice filters into the background, silencing another string of undoubtedly, well-intentioned, but sharp words from falling from my mother’s lips. “Let me talk to my daughter, you’ve scolded her enough for one call. You can try again tomorrow.” My mother’s sigh sounds especially heavy, and I can just see the daggers she’s shooting towards my fathers tan face, crinkled with a playful smile.
“Think about it, Adalene. Come home.” There’s shuffling and I hear her whisper—what I can’t tell—before my father chuckles, his voice coming closer.
Tears threaten to spill down my cheeks, missing his face most of all. It took me two years to convince them to allow me to stay and finish my degree here when they decided to move shortly after graduation. It took me four years to be brave enough to tell them I would be teaching here instead of movingthere for a while. It’s taken me ten years to feel the ache of missing them, and accept it as the wound of a survivor of a much darker fate, versus the gash of a missing heart.
I haven’t seen them in ten years. And every day apart feels harder and yet easier than the next.
I hate myself for it. But I refuse to give in either.
“How’s my daughter?”
A sob sits like a knot in my throat at his voice, somber but understanding. Finally, I
swallow it down, and open my mouth, “I’m alright, Papa, how’re you?”
“Missing you everyday.” I can’t stop the small sob this time, and he tuts on the other end.
“You must do what your heart calls you to, Mija. I do not blame you for living your life, even if I do wish you would at least visit.”
His words are tender but firm—reassuring and heart shattering. If I told him I can’t visit because I have a greater fear of being trapped there than I do of being buried alive, he would surely shame me. And I don’t think I can survive his shame.
“I miss you too,” I state, my voice weak and wet with unspent tears.
“Now, enough of that. Happy Birthday my love, I hope you have the greatest day—you deserve it.”
“Thank you, Papa.” Tears fall down my face silently, but I know he hears their descents all the same.
“Now go get ready. I’m sure you have plans. We love you, more than there are miles of ocean between us.” The line clicks off, my dad not waiting to hear another word from me. I know it breaks his heart to pretend he’s okay with me being here, with not seeing my family for ten years. It breaks mine too.
With no one to witness my breakdown, sobs tearunrestrained from my throat, startling Tut and the shadows lurking in the corners of my small room. I cry for the life I once had.
I cry for the future I wish I could make for myself. Even if it’s only me there to see it through.
“Smile!” Stetson clinks her glass next to mine, the tequila sloshing over the sides as Faith beams behind the phone screen, freezing this blurry memory in time forever. I don’t mind, I love having friends to share today with.
We slam the shot glasses on the table and then bring them to our lips, pouring the fiery liquid down our throats like water. With as many as I’ve had, it basically tastes like water. Stetson still scrunches her nose and sucks the rind of a lime like it’s the worst thing she’s ever tasted.
I snort, “You’re such a drama queen. Even Faith’s doing better than you.”
“Hey! That sounded awfully close to a backhanded compliment. Which, one”—Faith holds up her pointer finger, her eyes going slightly cross-eyed as she looks at it—“thank you. And two—” She hiccups and Stetson snorts, tipping slightly in the booth seat next to me.
They’re clearly trashed, and I couldn’t ask for a better birthday present.
“Faith, knock it off. We get it, you’re a big girl now that you’ve dyed your hair.” Stetson giggles past the words, and I can’t help but join her. It’s been a little over a month since Faith has moved back to Moztecha, and about as many days since she showed up at Stetson’s house demanding we all become friends.I’m grateful, I’ve always liked Faith. But I think it’s healing something in Stetson that she never even knew was broken.
Faith’s nose scrunches. “I didn’t dye it. I just put it back to its original color. Not as many good hair places in this dump of a town as there were in New York. Plus, the me here couldn’t hide behind fake hair even if I wanted to.”
“Why would you need to hide—” Before I can finish, I’m cut off by a tray of fresh drinks sliding onto the table between us.
“Another round for the birthday girl.” The bartender, Jared, straightens, extending a fresh glass to each of us, droplets of condensation already racing down the sides. He recently cut his shaggy blonde hair into a mullet, and even though it’s not my type, it looks cute on him. He’s still boyish, his clean shaven face displaying deep dimples, but he’s grown up over the summer, and I know the local women have noticed. The image of him eighteen when I was twenty-two in my first year of teaching flashes through my mind.
The Wagon-wheel’s packed tonight—Sunday of Labor Day weekend brings out all the crazy’s—and Jared’s tan brow glistens with exertion.
I lean forward, patting his wrist as he sets the last glass on the table. He freezes, his eyes lifting to meet mine, a cocky smile spreading across his face. There’s no way he’s into me, he flirts with everyone, but his smile makes me feel good all the same. Makes me feel like a cute twenty-two year old all over again, just for a minute. Which is surely more his type—and age range.
“Thanks Jared.” I smile back at him, sliding my glass closer.
“Anything for my best girl,” and then someone shouts his name and he retreats back into the heavy fog of people with a final lopsided grin at the table.
