but now, I can’t avoid it. Soon, I’ll be one
step further along the plan my parents have made for me, walking in
footprints that were laid out in stone the day I was born.
“What about you, Hunter?” Someone turns to me.
“Have you been working this summer?”
“Yup,” I nod, just as my father answers,
“No.” I turn. “Messing around on that ranch
isn’t work,” he corrects me.
“Tell that to the guys who are up at five every
morning to feed the horses,” I reply, feeling a familiar tension
blaze in my chest.
My dad chortles again, like I’ve made a joke.
“I’ll never understand the appeal of that ranch,” he says, talking
about my Grandpa’s pride and joy like it’s some broken down shack
and not one of the best training ranches in the county. “Camille
and I tell him to sell, that land’s got to be worth a fortune, but
pops won’t hear about it.”
I don’t say a word. The world may revolve around
balance sheets and shiny new toys to people like my dad, but
Grandpa knows there are some things more important than money. Like
passion, freedom. Making your own rules. He’s been teaching me to
train the horses every summer here for years, and it’s my secret
dream to take over from him one day. But if I’m going to stand a
chance of running my own ranch, I need to make it through college,
at least—and another few years of gritting my teeth through nights
like this one.
Dad starts up talking about business gossip, so
I look around for some distraction. My mom comes back in from the
kitchen looking distressed. “Everything OK?” I ask.
“It’s a disaster,” she tells me in a hushed
tone. “Maria’s making her pastries for dessert, but we’re out of
butter. I can’t believe we don’t have spare!” She looks so upset,
you think we were talking about world famine instead of
profiteroles, but I leap on the chance to escape.
“I can run out and get some.” I offer
quickly.
“But you’re enjoying the party...” Mom is
reluctant.
“I’ll be back in no time.” Before she can
disagree, I kiss her on the cheek and slip out of the room, leaving
the small-talk and stifling laughter behind.
Freedom.
I pile in my car and back out of the driveway so
fast I send gravel flying, turning at the end of the leafy street
and heading into town. It’s a gorgeous evening as I cruise along
the winding coastal road that leads to Beachwood Bay, the ocean
glittering blue under the clear skies. I pass the harbor, boats
bobbing on the tide, and find a spot to park on Main Street. The
town feels emptier now, but there are still some tourists browsing
the quaint stores, kids buying ice-cream, their legs sandy from the
beach.
I feel a pang in my chest, the same one I always
do when summer comes to an end. Beachwood Bay is my escape: a
chance to leave Charleston and my parents’ stuffy social scene
behind. No obligations, no rules, just two months to work with
grandpa on the ranch; go sailing with Jace, hang out and feel free.
Time has slipped by so fast I can’t believe it, and now summer is
over for another year. The house is already packed up, and tomorrow
we’ll be heading back home—back to reality. To the life I can’t
wait to leave behind.
I grab butter from the grocery store, and then
take my time on the way back, strolling the long route around that
takes me past Mrs. Olson’s diner. It’s empty, and the sign outside
reads ‘closed’, but I can’t help pausing to glance through the
window, searching for a familiar figure.
There she is.
Wiping down the countertop at the back of the
diner, her dark head bent away from me. She’s wearing her usual
uniform of an apron over cut-off shorts and chunky black boots, her
hair tipped with blue this week. Even cleaning up, there’s a grace
to her movements that mesmerizes me. I watch her, my errand and the
party suddenly fading right away.
Brittany Ray.
We’ve never spoken, not so much as a word, but I
know who she is. Everyone in
step further along the plan my parents have made for me, walking in
footprints that were laid out in stone the day I was born.
“What about you, Hunter?” Someone turns to me.
“Have you been working this summer?”
“Yup,” I nod, just as my father answers,
“No.” I turn. “Messing around on that ranch
isn’t work,” he corrects me.
“Tell that to the guys who are up at five every
morning to feed the horses,” I reply, feeling a familiar tension
blaze in my chest.
My dad chortles again, like I’ve made a joke.
“I’ll never understand the appeal of that ranch,” he says, talking
about my Grandpa’s pride and joy like it’s some broken down shack
and not one of the best training ranches in the county. “Camille
and I tell him to sell, that land’s got to be worth a fortune, but
pops won’t hear about it.”
I don’t say a word. The world may revolve around
balance sheets and shiny new toys to people like my dad, but
Grandpa knows there are some things more important than money. Like
passion, freedom. Making your own rules. He’s been teaching me to
train the horses every summer here for years, and it’s my secret
dream to take over from him one day. But if I’m going to stand a
chance of running my own ranch, I need to make it through college,
at least—and another few years of gritting my teeth through nights
like this one.
Dad starts up talking about business gossip, so
I look around for some distraction. My mom comes back in from the
kitchen looking distressed. “Everything OK?” I ask.
“It’s a disaster,” she tells me in a hushed
tone. “Maria’s making her pastries for dessert, but we’re out of
butter. I can’t believe we don’t have spare!” She looks so upset,
you think we were talking about world famine instead of
profiteroles, but I leap on the chance to escape.
“I can run out and get some.” I offer
quickly.
“But you’re enjoying the party...” Mom is
reluctant.
“I’ll be back in no time.” Before she can
disagree, I kiss her on the cheek and slip out of the room, leaving
the small-talk and stifling laughter behind.
Freedom.
I pile in my car and back out of the driveway so
fast I send gravel flying, turning at the end of the leafy street
and heading into town. It’s a gorgeous evening as I cruise along
the winding coastal road that leads to Beachwood Bay, the ocean
glittering blue under the clear skies. I pass the harbor, boats
bobbing on the tide, and find a spot to park on Main Street. The
town feels emptier now, but there are still some tourists browsing
the quaint stores, kids buying ice-cream, their legs sandy from the
beach.
I feel a pang in my chest, the same one I always
do when summer comes to an end. Beachwood Bay is my escape: a
chance to leave Charleston and my parents’ stuffy social scene
behind. No obligations, no rules, just two months to work with
grandpa on the ranch; go sailing with Jace, hang out and feel free.
Time has slipped by so fast I can’t believe it, and now summer is
over for another year. The house is already packed up, and tomorrow
we’ll be heading back home—back to reality. To the life I can’t
wait to leave behind.
I grab butter from the grocery store, and then
take my time on the way back, strolling the long route around that
takes me past Mrs. Olson’s diner. It’s empty, and the sign outside
reads ‘closed’, but I can’t help pausing to glance through the
window, searching for a familiar figure.
There she is.
Wiping down the countertop at the back of the
diner, her dark head bent away from me. She’s wearing her usual
uniform of an apron over cut-off shorts and chunky black boots, her
hair tipped with blue this week. Even cleaning up, there’s a grace
to her movements that mesmerizes me. I watch her, my errand and the
party suddenly fading right away.
Brittany Ray.
We’ve never spoken, not so much as a word, but I
know who she is. Everyone in
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