Page 1 of When We Were Us
prologue
HANK
THEN
Summers in TimberForge are the absolute best. Up before the rooster crows to rush through chores, grab a quick breakfast, and then run outside, with the screen door slamming shut behind us as we race toward our bikes. My siblings and I are wild things. Riding the back roads for hours on our bikes. Or heading to the barn bright and early in our swimsuits to grab fishing poles and tackle boxes, with our mother’s voice ringing out to “make good choices”.
Being the oldest of six kids, I am usually in charge, which I both love and hate depending on the day. Between my two younger brothers, Hudson and Hutch, and our younger twin sisters, Natalie, and Norah, it’s enough to drive me nuts some days. And now that the baby of the family, Hayley, is old enough to tag along, we usually stick close to home.
But today, it’s just me and my best friend, Jasper. We spend hours shooting cans with our BB guns, looking at comics in the heat of his attic, and playing cards on his back deck. His littlesisters are two towns over, spending the night with his aunt and uncle. So, we are free.
My skin is sticky with dried sweat. It's that golden hour close to suppertime, when the heat of the day starts to wear off, and the crickets are just starting to chirp. My stomach growls. I’ve been going nonstop since five-thirty this morning, but I am still full of energy. If I hurry, I might have time to read a few more pages of the comic I borrowed from Jas after I wash up and help my mom set the table.
I push the pedals of my bike faster until I am flying down Chicory Lane. On my beat-up Huffy, I skid around the bend, and I spot her.
I’ve never seen anyone cry that hard before. That kind of sorrow makes you stop and look. I’ve seen heifers die in childbirth. Seen calves die, too. But I’ve never cried over it. I’d seen my mom’s face when we had to bury an old barn cat or two that died from old age. How she wiped a tear away from her eye while she watched Pop bury it behind the barn. My brother Hutch’s goldfish died last winter, and he barely shed a tear.All of us have been born and raised watching the struggle of life on a ranch.
At thirteen, I haven’t yet experienced true heartbreak myself. But, when I turn my bike down the dirt road that separates her house from our land, I know from the look on Wrenley Jo Hardcastle’s face that she has to be heartbroken.
At first, I think maybe she is just tying her shoe. As I ride closer and see her dirty cheeks streaked with tears that still cling to her lashes, her quivering lip, and the shaking of her shoulders, I know something is seriously wrong.
She’s only ten, and in the same grade at Timber Forge Elementary as my younger brother, Hudson. I don’t know her that well, and haven’t paid much attention to her, but she comes around the farm sometimes with her granddad, Mr. Hardcastle.
Timber Forge is a small town, and everybody knows everybodyin small towns. Wrenley lives with her grandparents and her dad, Tom. Her mom left and moved out of state a few years ago.
I heard Pop and Wren’s granddad talking in the barn one day. Wrenley’smom remarried, and according to Wren’s granddad, she hadn’t ever been a “fit mother.” But even without a mom around, every time I see her, Wrennie Jo—as her granddad calls her—is always smiling, laughing, and never quite sitting still.
Now though, her pale blond hair is tangled and hanging straggly. There’s a bit of bedhead just above the nape of her neck, like my five-year-old baby sister, Hayley, always has in the mornings.
She looks up from where she’s sitting cross-legged in the dirt as I approach, and then quickly dashes the back of her hand under her nose. I stop next to her and throw down my kickstand with the heel of my foot. Swinging my leg over the seat of the bike, I look up and then down the lane.
“You ok?” I ask, a little breathless from my ride. Looking down on her, my brows draw together, and my hands hang at my sides.
She sniffles and shakes her head once, keeping her eyes trained on the ground in front of her. The knees are ripped out of the old jeans she wears, and the skin there is freshly scraped. A small trickle of blood runs down her right knee into her pant leg.
“You fall off your bike?” My voice cracks on the last word. Puberty sucks.
Another quick shake of her head.
“How’d you get those scrapes, then?” I lift my chin in the direction of her knees. The soles of my tennis shoes crunch on the loose dirt and gravel as I crouch down in front of her.
“I fell running out of the house,” she says so quietly that I almost don't hear her.
I nod and reach for her pant leg, inspecting her injury. She winces like she’s bracing herself against the inevitable pain. Thecuts don't look deep, but they’re dirty and definitely need to be cleaned.
She turns her face up to mine. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swimming with unshed tears.
“Come on, then. I’ll help you with your bike. Let’s get you home so your dad can get you cleaned up.”
A sob breaks from her chest. Her lip trembles again as a torrent of tears tips over her lower lids and courses down her cheeks.
“My dad’s dead!” she blurts out and then launches herself at me. Her arms fling around my neck, and she nearly topples me over as the seat of my jeans hits the dirt.
Barely thirteen-year-old me doesn’t know what to say. So, I just grab her around her waist and pull her in for a hug like I do for my sisters when they get hurt. She presses her face into my shoulder as sobs rack her body.
I don’t know how long we sit there, with me intermittently patting and rubbing small circles over her back, and her crying a river of tears into my shoulder. By the time Pop pulls up in his old blue pickup, the sun is setting, my shirt is soaked through on one shoulder, and Wrenley’s sobs have turned to slow, hitching breaths.
We both look up as he rolls to a stop with his arm propped on the open window frame. A look of concern creases his forehead. He throws the truck in park and climbs out, leaving the door open behind him.
