All I can see isa navy sky for miles, and hear teeny stones pelting the undercarriage, churned up from the track as the old shit heap rattles along. Its headlights brighten the moon-lit path that leads to... nothing. Seriously, the dark heavens blend with the earth, and I can’t tell where the road ends.
After we left Heartville, the sun dropped like a bright orange blaze of glory. On first impressions, the town was small and quirky, with old guys parading around in cowboy hats. I’m sure there’s an official name for those hats, other than one so cliché.
Not only was the grocery store compact, but it didn’t sell oat milk. What grocery store doesn’t sell alternatives to dairy products in this day and age? When I asked the bored looking check-out girl if they stocked it, she pointed to the fridge near the wall of cereal. I was really pissed off when I found an option for goat milk, but zero oat milk, which meant I left empty handed and flustered. Papa Sawyer grunted like I’d wasted his time stopping off. I slammed the truck door in a huff and crossed my arms like I used to do as a teen. I’m not usually so uptight and moody, but my world has just rolled around in the universe, knocking all that I know off the planet. And that man, my non-conversationalist relative, could seriously get on my nerves if he continues to brush off my need for necessities. How had my mom grown up with this guy?
I begin to feel exhausted, like all the energy has left my body in protest. This whole experience has been draining and upsetting to say the least. My head lolls to the side as the truck turns sharply. And there it is. Home for the next few months.
A scrap yard.
That’s what it looks like under a blanket of darkness. Bright full beams illuminate abandoned tractors and trucks on either side of the trail. Some of the vehicles have only one tire, others no hoods, and one of them is just a chassis, like the jackals have stripped it bare.
“What do you do for a living?” I squint, leaning closer to the front window.
“This and that.”
The engine cuts out when the truck stops outside a timber cabin with a quaint wrap-around porch.
“Is this the part when you tell me I’m sleeping with the cows?” I shoulder the door open and drop down to the ground. My skin prickles in the cool evening.
“Not the cows.” His face is shadowed. “The horses.” Papa Sawyer rounds the truck and yanks down the tailgate, making a loud metal screech. “You’ll be staying up there.” His head cocks, and the brim of his hat nods in the direction of a barn to the left of the cabin. “You got your space. I got mine.”
“Perfect,” I whisper. Was it good? I wasn’t so sure. What if bandits set the barn on fire, or the horses kick so hard that the whole rickety outbuilding collapses?
“Take what you need out of the bed for now. You can haul the rest up there in the morning.” I grab the weighty travel bag and follow Papa Sawyer to the big barn, past rows of dank stalls and up a single flight of wooden steps. A small lamp flicks on. “There’s a heater in the corner. Extra blankets in there.” He wields a thumb at a makeshift wardrobe. “And a toilet through this here door.” His fist bangs on a pine door.
The room is basic but clean. A double bed sits under a skylight, neatly made with flannel sheets and a newish looking pillow. Maybe the old grumpy guy was all bark and no bite because it looks to me as if he actually put in a bit of effort to get the place ready for me.
“Thanks, Papa Sawyer.” I’m drawn to the bed with achy limbs and heavy steps.
“Call me, Sawyer.” He prods the wide brim of his hat, nudging it upward a fraction, then turns and ambles out of my new residence. “Your mother calls me that nonsense too. I’ll take ya over to Wild Hearts Ranch first thing in the mornin’.” His tired pitch carries down the stairs and disappears.
Sawyer and I hadn’t exactly hit it off, but when his footsteps can no longer be heard, I start to feel a longing for his company. I’m suddenly aware of the hush. A calmness that makes my skin itchy, or maybe it’s the woolen blanket I tug over my back. This jet lag is making my brain all mushy and sentimental. I actually miss my parents and my own bed.
I kick off my pumps and consider the time difference between Texas and Northern Ireland. Mother told me it was five hours between Heartville and Belfast. Now that I’m here, in the land that time forgot, I think about calling her. On one hand, I want to let her know I’ve arrived safely and on the other, I want to plead for a flight home. I know my best friend, Ellie, would be waiting on my call too, and I want to find out if she’s going to the swanky party this coming weekend, without me.
Just knowing she’ll be there, and I won’t, is deeply depressing. I’d give anything to attend another VIP bash held on another trendy rooftop bar in Belfast because that's what keeps our social status supreme. I don’t want to miss out on the high life for a cooped-up existence in a stinking barn, alone. I decide to freshen up before facing my bestie on a video call. Tossing shoes and a well-packed wash bag from the travel bag, I tip the entire contents out on the slatted floor. My skin feels clammy and covered in a slick of strange air. With the blanket wrapping my shoulders, I pad to the washroom with a toothbrush and face wash in hand. I tug the cord and the light pings on; I suck up all the air from the tiny cupboard-like room.
One small sink.
A toilet.
That's it.
No shower.
No bath.
No space.
“Oh, great!” I mutter to myself in the quietness. “At least I won’t have to pee in a bucket.”
A loud bang startles me. The face wash thuds to my toes. With a yelp, I scamper to the door at the top of the steps, crack it open and peer down into the moonlit barn. I know there are stables flanking the entrance, but I was too focused on following Sawyer to notice if they were occupied. I hear munching and crunching followed by a spluttery sneeze which obviously came from big horsey lips. A sweet smell of hay mingles with the night air, and I quickly shut the door, keeping a distance between myself and the unknown.
“Just wait until I tell Ellie I’m living with livestock.” I stomp across the room and dig through my purse to find my mobile phone. “That’s odd… no missed calls or messages.” My brows tug together, and I unlock the screen with a tap and a swipe.
The video call connection buffers. I hold on to see my mother's bare face, sans makeup. So what if it is two in the morning back home, I want to let her know I am tucked away with hay bales and only a thin wooden door with a flimsy bolt to keep out danger.
“Your call cannot be connected.” An annoying robotic woman announces the fact that my call failed.
