The voices of the announcers sound muffled. I can’t see clearly. I try to breathe and I get a mouthful of guilt.
I let Christian kiss me. I can still feel it tingling on my lips, still taste him.
The thought makes me feel physically ill. This is not me, I think. I can’t be that girl who makes out with another guy when her boyfriend is this strong, amazing, wonderful, loving, honest and totally funny, hot and tumble,
you’d-have-to-be-freaking-crazy-to-cheat-on-this-total-catch kind of a guy.
I groan and close my eyes. Tucker is all of those things, and so much more. Right now I feel like I’m that empty beer can under the bleachers.
I hear Tucker’s name called. There are hoots and hollers from people in the stands. Then he and Midas are out of the gate chasing down a black-and-white calf. Tucker has a long loop of rope in his hand, swinging it almost gently around his head, one, two, three times, then lets it fly.
It catches the calf perfectly around the neck. Tucker slides down from Midas’s back, runs to the calf’s side, holding another piece of rope between his teeth, flips the calf expertly into the dirt, and ties his legs. The whole thing takes all of two minutes, maybe less. And he’s done. He waves at the crowd.
My eyes fill. It seems like I’m crying all the time these days, but I can’t help it. He’s so beautiful, even dusty and dirty and sweating with effort, he’s the most beautiful boy in the world.
Christian might be right. We belong together. That’s hard to deny. He’s my purpose, at least a big part of it.
But Tucker is my choice. I love him. That isn’t going to go away.
I wanted an answer, and that’s as close to one as I’m going to get. Now I should slip out of here before he spots me and sees the guilt that has to be plain as day all over my face.
The crowd around me cheers again as the time is announced. He’s done well. Even with all the other emotional garbage piling up on top of me, I’m proud of him.
I stand and edge my way over to the aisle, then move quickly down the stairs. Almost out.
But then someone whoops loudly at Tucker from the front row of the stands. A female someone.
And something about the whole thing makes me pause.
It only takes me a second to locate her: a girl wearing formal western wear, a white button-up shirt with stars on the shoulders, white jeans with fringe, white boots. A cascade of long red hair flows in perfect curls down her back. She’s looking at Tucker with this kind of light in her eyes that instantly twists me up inside.
I feel like I should know her. There’s something familiar—she must go to our school, of course—and then it hits me. This is Allison Lowell. She’s one of the girls Tucker took to prom last year. She was sitting right next to me when he drove us all home that night, a petite redhead in a deep navy dress.
Don’t do it, Clara, I tell myself. Don’t read her.
But I do. I lower the walls, just a smidge, and I reach for her with my mind. I feel what she feels. And I don’t like it.
Because she thinks he’s beautiful, too. He makes her palms get sweaty and her voice get squeaky in this mortifying way. But he’s always nice to her. He’s really nice, which is so rare in a guy so gorgeous, she knows. He doesn’t even seem to know how hot he is. She remembers dancing with him, his rough and calloused palm as he held one of her hands while they danced a two-step, the other on her waist. She thought she would burst. His eyes blue as cornflowers.
Writing his name in the margins of her notes in Spanish class. She has a million things she wants to say to him.
Me gustas. I like you.
Still, she knows it’s fantasy. He’s never looked at her. He doesn’t even really see her standing here now. If only he could see her, and the longing that shoots through her in this moment causes me physical pain. If he would only open his eyes.
“You showed them, Tuck!” she cries, cheering for him.
I back away from her, reeling, dizzy. There were all these jokes between him and me, about little Miss Allison Lowell. And all this time she’s been totally crushing on him.
I take a good long look at her. The first thing that strikes me is the red hair, a natural, shiny copper, not like the orange nightmare mine was last year, but the color of a new penny.
She’s willow thin, but I get a sense of muscle about her, too, regular exercise, fresh air. She’s stronger than she looks. Pale, milky skin smattered with freckles, but it suits her. Coral lips.
Expressive brown eyes.
She’s pretty.
And she does rodeo. And she’s from around here, maybe wants to stay. She’s a regular girl. A redhead. He likes redheads. And she likes him.
If I had never shown up at school last winter, maybe he would have seen her in her prom dress that night. They might have talked. He might have even ended up calling her Carrots.
She’s like the healthy alternative to me.
I can’t breathe. I head for the exit. Now more confused than ever.
But as I push through the crowd, I turn one last time to look for Tucker, who’s back on Midas now, and I can barely make out his head, his hat, his serious eyes as he pivots the horse back toward the gate, before I turn to go.
That night I curl up next to Mom in her bed and we watch home videos together. Dad comes in every now and then, watches with us with this half-sad expression, seeing the evidence of all he missed. Then he goes out. I never know where he goes when he’s not in the house. He’s just gone.
This one we’re watching now is of the beach. I’m around fourteen. It must have been right before Mom took me out to Buzzards Roost, told me about the angels. I am your typical girl here, walking along the sand, checking out the hot surfers. It’s kind of embarrassing how obvious I am, when the cute guys come along. I try to act all poised, toss my head to show off my hair, move with a dancer’s grace along the shore. I want them to notice me. But when it’s just us, just Mom and Jeffrey and me, I’m a total kid. I splash in the water, run around in the sand with Jeffrey, build sand castles and destroy them. At one point I grab the camera away from Mom to film her. She’s wearing a flowy white cover-up over her bathing suit, a large straw hat, big sunglasses. She looks so vital, so healthy. She joins in with our play, laughs, darts along the shore being chased by the waves. It’s funny how when people change, you forget the way they used to be. I’d forgotten how beautiful she was, even though she’s still beautiful. It’s not the same. There was an energy about her then, an unconquerable spirit, a light in her that never went out.
I let Christian kiss me. I can still feel it tingling on my lips, still taste him.
The thought makes me feel physically ill. This is not me, I think. I can’t be that girl who makes out with another guy when her boyfriend is this strong, amazing, wonderful, loving, honest and totally funny, hot and tumble,
you’d-have-to-be-freaking-crazy-to-cheat-on-this-total-catch kind of a guy.
I groan and close my eyes. Tucker is all of those things, and so much more. Right now I feel like I’m that empty beer can under the bleachers.
I hear Tucker’s name called. There are hoots and hollers from people in the stands. Then he and Midas are out of the gate chasing down a black-and-white calf. Tucker has a long loop of rope in his hand, swinging it almost gently around his head, one, two, three times, then lets it fly.
It catches the calf perfectly around the neck. Tucker slides down from Midas’s back, runs to the calf’s side, holding another piece of rope between his teeth, flips the calf expertly into the dirt, and ties his legs. The whole thing takes all of two minutes, maybe less. And he’s done. He waves at the crowd.
My eyes fill. It seems like I’m crying all the time these days, but I can’t help it. He’s so beautiful, even dusty and dirty and sweating with effort, he’s the most beautiful boy in the world.
Christian might be right. We belong together. That’s hard to deny. He’s my purpose, at least a big part of it.
But Tucker is my choice. I love him. That isn’t going to go away.
I wanted an answer, and that’s as close to one as I’m going to get. Now I should slip out of here before he spots me and sees the guilt that has to be plain as day all over my face.
The crowd around me cheers again as the time is announced. He’s done well. Even with all the other emotional garbage piling up on top of me, I’m proud of him.
I stand and edge my way over to the aisle, then move quickly down the stairs. Almost out.
But then someone whoops loudly at Tucker from the front row of the stands. A female someone.
And something about the whole thing makes me pause.
It only takes me a second to locate her: a girl wearing formal western wear, a white button-up shirt with stars on the shoulders, white jeans with fringe, white boots. A cascade of long red hair flows in perfect curls down her back. She’s looking at Tucker with this kind of light in her eyes that instantly twists me up inside.
I feel like I should know her. There’s something familiar—she must go to our school, of course—and then it hits me. This is Allison Lowell. She’s one of the girls Tucker took to prom last year. She was sitting right next to me when he drove us all home that night, a petite redhead in a deep navy dress.
Don’t do it, Clara, I tell myself. Don’t read her.
But I do. I lower the walls, just a smidge, and I reach for her with my mind. I feel what she feels. And I don’t like it.
Because she thinks he’s beautiful, too. He makes her palms get sweaty and her voice get squeaky in this mortifying way. But he’s always nice to her. He’s really nice, which is so rare in a guy so gorgeous, she knows. He doesn’t even seem to know how hot he is. She remembers dancing with him, his rough and calloused palm as he held one of her hands while they danced a two-step, the other on her waist. She thought she would burst. His eyes blue as cornflowers.
Writing his name in the margins of her notes in Spanish class. She has a million things she wants to say to him.
Me gustas. I like you.
Still, she knows it’s fantasy. He’s never looked at her. He doesn’t even really see her standing here now. If only he could see her, and the longing that shoots through her in this moment causes me physical pain. If he would only open his eyes.
“You showed them, Tuck!” she cries, cheering for him.
I back away from her, reeling, dizzy. There were all these jokes between him and me, about little Miss Allison Lowell. And all this time she’s been totally crushing on him.
I take a good long look at her. The first thing that strikes me is the red hair, a natural, shiny copper, not like the orange nightmare mine was last year, but the color of a new penny.
She’s willow thin, but I get a sense of muscle about her, too, regular exercise, fresh air. She’s stronger than she looks. Pale, milky skin smattered with freckles, but it suits her. Coral lips.
Expressive brown eyes.
She’s pretty.
And she does rodeo. And she’s from around here, maybe wants to stay. She’s a regular girl. A redhead. He likes redheads. And she likes him.
If I had never shown up at school last winter, maybe he would have seen her in her prom dress that night. They might have talked. He might have even ended up calling her Carrots.
She’s like the healthy alternative to me.
I can’t breathe. I head for the exit. Now more confused than ever.
But as I push through the crowd, I turn one last time to look for Tucker, who’s back on Midas now, and I can barely make out his head, his hat, his serious eyes as he pivots the horse back toward the gate, before I turn to go.
That night I curl up next to Mom in her bed and we watch home videos together. Dad comes in every now and then, watches with us with this half-sad expression, seeing the evidence of all he missed. Then he goes out. I never know where he goes when he’s not in the house. He’s just gone.
This one we’re watching now is of the beach. I’m around fourteen. It must have been right before Mom took me out to Buzzards Roost, told me about the angels. I am your typical girl here, walking along the sand, checking out the hot surfers. It’s kind of embarrassing how obvious I am, when the cute guys come along. I try to act all poised, toss my head to show off my hair, move with a dancer’s grace along the shore. I want them to notice me. But when it’s just us, just Mom and Jeffrey and me, I’m a total kid. I splash in the water, run around in the sand with Jeffrey, build sand castles and destroy them. At one point I grab the camera away from Mom to film her. She’s wearing a flowy white cover-up over her bathing suit, a large straw hat, big sunglasses. She looks so vital, so healthy. She joins in with our play, laughs, darts along the shore being chased by the waves. It’s funny how when people change, you forget the way they used to be. I’d forgotten how beautiful she was, even though she’s still beautiful. It’s not the same. There was an energy about her then, an unconquerable spirit, a light in her that never went out.
