Page 9 of A Bittersweet Summer

Everything here is so free from pressure and expectations. The expectation is that it should exist, and that is enough.

I look beyond the colts, and my step stutters when I spot a devious-looking goose from across the field. The bird migrates toward the horses, intent on theft, no doubt.

When it gets close enough, it honks, releasing a battle cry before flapping its wings and hissing, sending the boys stampeding away from the troughs so the greedy bird can steal their grain I so meticulously scooped.

“Most important thing,”Wes had said,“make sure they’re eating. If they’re not, it could be a sign of a sick horse, and forthe youngsters, they need to keep their strength up if they’re to do well at the sales come autumn.”

His words stoke the flames of my frustration as I drop the bucket, making a beeline for the awful creature.

“Nuh, uh!” I holler, shooing the bird away. “No, you don’t. This is not your food!”

It is absolutely imperative that I do this job well. Stripped of any complexities, the job is to care for the animals. That means every animal eats, gets water, and has shelter. I learned this way back in kindergarten science.

The goose morphs into something larger. It is a representation of all the things that could chase me away from finally doing something I love. The goose is the expectations of my parents. It is the incessant need to consider others in every decision I make. It is the stability and success expected of every eldest daughter, and the fear of doing something that does not follow society’s preconceived notions for what is considered a “good and stable job.”

I can almost hear the old western music playing in the background as I prepare to duel this evil monster that so rudely thought it fit to steal frommyhorses.

My arch nemesis is, unfortunately, a large bird.

“I take my job very seriously!” I warn, but the thing just hisses. There will be no backing down from this farm hand. I simply cannot go back to working at the bar.I can’t.Even though my muscles protest with every step and hay and dirt—maybe even poop—have become my latest hair accessories, the sunshine has reminded me why people purchase vitamin D lamps in the winter.

“You cannot have their food!” I yell, breaking into a sprint and waving my arms when the hissing goose raises its wings.

It honks again, retreating on account of my very convincing battle cry, but I’m not satisfied until the goose spreads its wings and flies back to whatever hell it came from.

My heart slows, satisfaction making me straighten my posture. When I turn back, I find a row of young horses staring at me like I’m their mother, and I’ve just pulled up to their high school blasting the outdated music and yelling slang I don’t understand from the window.

Which is ridiculous, because I obviously just saved them from starvation.

Grunting, I snatch the bucket from the ground and mutter under my breath, “It was all for you guys. No need to look at me like I’m an idiot.”

The walk back to the gate feels more like a walk of shame, especially when I am about fifteen yards from my destination, and my foot slips, sending me sprawling on my back until I’m looking up at the endless blue sky above me. Without a cloud to be seen, I consider drowning in such a lovely day before realizing my entire back and head are wet with thick mud.

It feels like every misstep I’d taken with Chad, and I wince. When he’d walked into the bar, all clean lines and a pressed suit, I’d basked in the attention. Chad represented the kind of success and stability I craved, so it came as a surprise when I realized he’d never actually cared for me at all.

I ignored every single red flag—the way he introduced me to his friends as if I were a brood mare he planned to sell to the highest bidder. He’d spouted a lot of facts about me then, but still couldn’t manage to get my coffee order right when we went out.

I’ve never once enjoyed a plain old americano.

Not ever.

“Gross,” I whisper, closing my eyes and feeling the dampness of the ground seep into my clothes.

“Everything alright out there?”

My stomach sinks. Which is surprising considering I am both physically and mentally positioned firmly at rock bottom. Where did the organ even go? The pits of hell?

“Great!” I shout back at Wesley before sitting up with the brightest smile I can muster. I give two thumbs way up and pretend my cheeks are not flaming when I see my new boss with one boot resting on the first rung of the wooden fence. His baseball cap is backward, and a smile stretches around the toothpick clutched between very white teeth.

Honestly, he looks like the epitome of every farm owner or stable hand to ever cause a sexual awakening. I mean, themustache?Come on.

This is horrible.

“You need help?” he asks, and I find the strength within myself to stand up.

“Oh no,” I say, burying my embarrassment. “I’m perfectly fine. The mud was a great way to cool down before I go. Chores are all done!”

“Alright.” Wes pushes off the fence and begins walking away.