She pats Blackjack’s neck and takes the reins.
“All right, Blackjack, work with me.”
The next twenty minutes are spent with me explaining how to ride a horse—make him turn, stop, speed up. Then Sofia is on her own—and she does pretty damn good.
And we’re talking, about nothing and everything—the ins and outs of ranching, her father’s construction business, and how we think things are going at the firm without us. Sofia tells me about the first time her parents let her ride the subway alone in Chicago, and I tell her about riding these trails after school with Jenny.
I laugh as I remember. “When we were young, we’d try to find the perfect tree for climbin’. Then, when we were older, we tried to find the perfect tree for screwin’ against.”
Sofia chuckles, and then she turns somber. We sway with Blackjack’s soft steps, and she asks me, “You really love her, don’t you?”
Without pausing, I answer, “Yeah, I do.”
She’s quiet for a few moments, watching the ground. Then she asks, “Have you thought about what you’ll do if you can’t talk her out of getting married?”
I shake my head. “Failure’s not an option—I don’t do plan B’s.”
Sofia turns to look at my face. And there’s something swimming in those hazel eyes I can’t read. “Stanton . . . you mean a lot to me. And I . . . lately . . . it feels . . .”
I brush her hair back. “You mean a lot to me too, Soph.”
“You know . . . if you do talk Jenny out of marrying JD, there’s a high probability that she’ll want you two to be exclusive. And if that were the case . . . I wouldn’t want things to be awkward or strained between us. I don’t want to lose . . . your friendship.”
I lean forward and kiss her forehead. And I promise her, “You’re not going to lose me—I’d never let that happen.”
• • •
Later in the afternoon, after we get back from riding, I try to call Jenny. But it goes straight to voice mail. I text her, once, twice, three times—but hours later, there’s no answer. So I call again after dinner. Voice mail.
Fuck. This.
It’s dark when I get out of the truck in front of Jenny’s house, knock on the door, and ask for her.
“She won’t come down, Stanton,” Wayne tells me, stepping outside, chewing on the straw in his mouth. “Says she’s still mad.”
“I’m not leavin’ until I see her. I’ll sleep right fuckin’ here on the porch steps.”
“One between the eyes will get ye leavin’!” Nana shouts from inside the front parlor. “Get me the shells, Wayne!”
A few minutes after Wayne goes in to try again, Jenny comes stomping down the stairs—hair down, wrapped in a lavender terry-cloth robe, and spitting mad.
“I’ve been taking care of JD all day and I have work in the mornin’! I don’t want to get into this with you right now, Stanton.”
“Then you should’ve picked up the goddamn phone when I called earlier. We need to talk.”
Arms crossed and scowling, she leans forward and declares, “I’ve done all the talkin’ I’m gonna do with you.”
My jaw clenches and I take a step closer to her. She takes one back. “Tell me somethin’, Jenn—are you really that angry with me?” My eyes drift over her face, her clenched hands, her tiny waist cinched with her robe’s belt. Then they settle on her eyes and I ask in a low voice, “Or are you scared to be alone with me? Afraid to listen to me? Cause you know this is a mistake. Because you still love me.”
Her mouth clamps closed and her chin rises. “Go home and spend some time with your daughter. You need to have her in school by eight tomorrow morning.”
Her nonanswer is all the answer I need.
“I know what time school starts.”
“Then good night, Stanton.” She hurries to the door, into the house, like she can’t get away fast enough.
I spin the keys around my finger. “Sweet dreams, Jenny.”
• • •
Twenty minutes later I’m climbing the stairs to the bedrooms, trying to think of something new . . . unexpected . . . that’ll bring Jenn to her senses.
As I start to open the door to Carter’s old room I hear voices behind the closed door of mine—giggles and girly chatter. Grinning, I open that door and there, sitting on my bed decked out in pajamas and fuzzy slippers, are my baby girl, my sister, and my . . . Sofia.
“Hey, Daddy!” Presley greets me with a toothy smile. She holds up her hands, bright blue, polka-dotted fingernails facing out. “Miss Sofia gave us mani-pedis!”
Mary shows me her fingers and toes—red with orange flowers—as she moves to the overstuffed chair in the corner, making room for me on the bed.
“Beautiful. Y’all have the prettiest nails in town.”
“And we’re watchin’ a movie,” Presley says, scooting closer toward Sofia. “The Lion King.”
“The Lion King, huh? Don’t think I’ve seen that one yet.”
I climb on the bed as a montage begins on the screen—two lions having a date in the jungle.
“How’d it go?” Sofia asks quietly, passing me a bowl of popcorn.
My eyes tell her everything I can’t say. “It went.”
Presley leans her head against my chest and I settle in, kissing the top of her head—enjoying having her close. I glance over at Sofia as she places a piece of popcorn on her tongue, licking butter from her pretty pink fingertip. And there’s something about the whole thing—her, here in my bed, with my sister, my daughter—that feels warm and right, and makes her look even more beautiful that I’ve always thought she was.
“I want a Simba of my own one day,” my sister sighs. “Some strong, hairy man who’ll roll around on the jungle floor with me.”
Hairy?
I frown at Mary. “I don’t even know how in the hell I’m supposed to respond to that.”
“Not me,” Presley says disgustedly. “All the boys I know are short. And ugly.”
I pat her head. “That’s right—all boys are short and ugly. Like trolls.”
Sofia laughs at my troll face.
Presley nods. “I do like this song, though.”
Sofia practically squeals when she hears that. “Oh my God, Elton John—best singer ever! If your daddy says it’s okay, I’ll download all of his greatest songs for you.”
My daughter’s big blue eyes look to me for affirmation.
“Daddy says it’s okay.”
And I get a hug in return.
With my arm across the pillows at our backs, my hand rests just beside Sofia’s head—close enough to touch her. So I do—massaging her scalp, running my fingers through the soft, dark strands of her hair, relishing the feel of them sliding over my palm.
She leans her head into my touch with a contented sigh. And together, we all watch the rest of the movie.
17
Stanton
About ten o’clock the next night, we pull into to my brother’s trailer lot, among a sea of pickup trucks. It’s like spring break in the country—teenage kids everywhere. Mary and Marshall disappear into the throng of red-plastic-cup-holding, walking, talking hormones. Sofia pauses to look around as we walk up the path to the door—twinkling lights sparkle in the trees, a full moon hangs in the sky, Led Zeppelin floats out from somewhere in the back.
“It’s nice here,” she says. “Peaceful.”
While she’s checking out the compound, I check her out—again. She looks drop-dead gorgeous in tight, dark blue jeans, knee-high heele
d black boots, and a V-neck sleeveless white top that clings in all the right places. Her hair is thick and bouncy, curled at the ends, and a long string of pearls hangs around her neck. My grandmother used to wear pearls—but she never wore them as well as Sofia Santos.
Before I can open the door to the trailer, it’s jerked open for us, and one of my brother’s blond hippie followers—Sadie or Sal—stumbles out. She spots us with happy, glassy eyes.
“Heeey!” She hugs us, smelling like marijuana. “Welcome to the jungle! We’re gonna turn on the Slip ’N Slide down the hill, y’all comin’?”
Sofia smiles indulgently. “Maybe later.”
After hippie girl staggers away, Sofia says, “It’s like college all over again.”
I snort. “Columbia wasn’t anything like this, and I lived in a goddamn fraternity house.”
Just then a guy who looks more my age goes streaking past us—butt-ass naked. I cover Sofia’s eyes. “All right, it is like college all over again.”
We head inside, pushing apart the strings of turquoise beads hanging down in the doorway. A stick of incense burns on a shelf, filling the room with a pungent odor. Carter smiles broadly when he sees us through the crowd of bodies that fills the room to capacity. He hugs me, bare chested except for a tan leather vest and prayer beads. “Welcome. Glad you could make it.” Then he hugs Sofia—for a while. “Let’s get you something to drink.”