Emotion clogs my throat. “He should’ve died,” I choke out over a sob. “Not Daddy. It should’ve been him.” Or me, I think to myself, it should’ve been me.
There is no way to explain it, but the thought of this man—this drunk man—still living and breathing makes me physically ill. It isn’t right, and it sure as hell isn’t fair. He should be the one taken away from his family—not Dad.
Anger seeps into my body. I try to fight it—try to push it away—but it feels so much better to be mad at him than to feel this gut-wrenching pain. So I let the anger infiltrate my soul, and I let it dull my pain.
“Even My Dad Does Sometimes” – Ed Sheeran
“BREAKFAST IS READY.”
I jump at the sound of Bailey’s soft voice. The shovel slips from my grip, but I manage to catch it before it falls to the ground. “Holy crap,” I breathe, my hand clenched above my heart when I turn to face her. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry,” she says, yawning. Tucking her hands in her coat pockets, her feet shuffle against the ground and she yawns again before sitting on one of the straw bales in the corner. My brows furrow and I cock my head to the side. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen my baby sister up before ten o’clock in the morning, and I sure as hell can’t remember the last time I saw her step foot in this dirty barn.
Bailey and I are eight years apart, and when we were growing up, I always used to joke with her that she was an ‘oops’ baby. Of course she wasn’t, but I was older so it was my duty to pick on her. Despite our difference in age and my occasional need to make her cry, Bailey and I have always had a great relationship. I’ve always been the tomboy, never afraid of dirt and hard work, and Bailey has always been the girly-girl, in love with designer clothes, manicured nails and makeup. While I spent hours out in the barn or the field helping Daddy, she sat inside having tea parties and playing with her Barbies. We’ve always been complete opposites, but best friends nonetheless.
Until recently.
“Bailey?” I ask cautiously, glancing outside to confirm what I already know. Yup. Still dark. “You do realize that the sun won’t come up for at least another twenty minutes, don’t you?”
She shrugs her shoulders and looks down. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Okay,” I answer slowly as I turn around to keep shoveling. My hands are tired and achy, but I keep going because if I don’t do this—if I don’t take care of Mac, Molly, and Toby—then no one will. Bailey and Mom don’t understand why I insist on keeping the horses, and I don’t understand how they could possibly think of getting rid of them. I know that the horses are expensive and they take a lot of work, but that’s why I’ve taken over the burden. I want to do it. No, I need to do it. They’re a part of us—a part of him—and right now they’re the one thing that’s keeping me tethered to the past … a past that I’m not ready to let go of.
Forty days.
That’s how long it’s been since we buried my father. January 3, 2006 will go down in history as the single worst day of my life, and I’ve spent every second since then living in hell—three million four hundred and fifty-six thousand seconds, to be exact. And they’ve all been filled with a bone-shattering anguish that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy.
It took fourteen days for my family to realize that I wasn’t grieving properly, but little did they know I wasn’t grieving at all. I’ve merely been existing. And then it took another two weeks for them to convince me to talk to someone.
“I’m worried about you.”
And there it is! Of course she’s worried about me. That’s all I’ve heard since I walked out of that damn hospital. Frustration bubbles up inside of me, my muscles coil tight and, without thinking, I start firing words back at my sister. “Really, Bailey, you’re worried about me?” I scoff. She steps in my line of sight and I catch her glare before continuing. “Don’t you have better things to worry about, like the classes that you’re failing?” She opens her mouth, but I don’t give her the chance to talk. I’m pissed. “Or how about your boyfriend? Didn’t you tell me you thought he was screwing around on you behind your back?” Bailey’s eyes widen as if she can’t believe I went there.
And yes, I’m well aware that I’m way out of line, but I can’t find it in me to care. Unfortunately, that’s what happens when you shut down, and it didn’t take long after Daddy’s funeral to realize that it’s much easier to be angry than it is to be in pain. The downfall is that I’ve become numb, and not just to my own feelings but everyone else’s as well.
“Fuck you, Katie!” she yells. My heart slams against my ribcage as I wait for her to tear into me some more. Lord knows I deserve it. “Shit,” she hisses. Her eyes squeeze shut and she drops her head. “This isn’t about me, it’s about you.” Her voice is softer but still strong, and I’m both proud and jealous that she was able to control her emotions when I wasn’t. “I’m worried about you, because you’re my sister and I love you.”
“Don’t worry about me, Bay. I’m fine.” That’s a fucking lie. I’m far from fine, but I’m dealing with things the only way I know how. I have to get through this in my own way and on my own terms.
“You’re not fine.” Bailey’s eyes are hard and unyielding when they find mine. “You’re losing weight and you have dark circles that have become permanent fixtures under your eyes. You work all the time, and when we do see you, it’s nothing more than ‘hi’ and ‘bye’ on your way out to the barn. You’re running yourself ragged and you’re going to kill yourself, Katie.”
“Right,” I say with a snort. Tossing the shovel to the side, I tug the gloves off of my callused hands. “I would hardly consider mucking stalls life-threatening.” Arguing the other points she made is useless because they’re all true.
“It’s not just mucking stalls, it’s everything. If it’s your day off, you’re here in the barn from the asscrack of dawn until well past sunset, and if it’s your day to work, you’re here before and after you put in a twelve-hour shift at the hospital. Seriously, do you even see Wyatt anymore?”
“First, don’t worry about my relationship with Wyatt,” I warn, my blood boiling at the mention of his name. “It’s none of your business. Second, I come here because it’s peaceful and it gives me time to think—”
“Dwell,” she interrupts. “It gives you time to dwell. I get it, Katie. I get that you’re hurting. I’m hurting too, and so is Mom. But what you’re doing isn’t healthy.”
“Healthy? I’m not healthy, I’m in pain! Drexler killed our daddy, Bailey,” I yell, running a hand through my hair. “How does that not bother you? He was selfish, and his actions are the reason that Mom will grow old by herself and our future kids will never know their grandpa.”
Bailey’s shoulders slump. “I get that,” she concedes, sadness in her eyes. “I know that Andrew Drexler is to blame, but you need to forgive him so that—”
“What did you say?” I hiss, taking a step back as though she’d slapped me across the face. “Forgive him? You’re joking, right?”
“No, I’m not joking, and yes, I think you should forgive him. Look at you,” she says, waving a hand in my direction. “You’re angry and bitter over something that you can’t change. You can yell and scream and cry, and you should do all of those things. Hell, you could even hurt the man that did this, but you know what?” she asks, tossing her hands up at her sides. “It won’t bring Daddy back. So you can be angry and keep living this shell of a life that you’ve been living the past month and a half, or you can grieve with the rest of us and remember all of the good things about Daddy.”
The air swirls with tension so thick I could choke on it. We stand for several seconds just staring at each other, and I eventually have to look away or risk breaking down—and I do not want to break down. Not now, and certainly not here.