A Risk Worth Taking
Copyright ©2013
Heather Hildenbrand
A Risk Worth Taking
A Risk Worth Taking is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s
imagination or are use fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living
or dead, events, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this sample
may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form
without permission. All rights reserved.
Cover by
Emily Mah Tippets
Editing by
Kristina Circelli
Here’s to choosing.
Here’s to being chosen.
Summer
“What you seek is seeking you.”
–Rumi
I
looked around my bedroom at the growing pile of cardboard boxes and sighed.
There was something seriously depressing about moving home again, regardless of
the fact that it’d been voluntary. I picked up a box, calculating open space,
and set it down again. My college dorm room had been roughly the same size. How
had I accumulated more items than the space allowed between there and home?
My
room was exactly as I’d left it almost four years earlier. Right down to the
purple-and-charcoal bedspread with curtains to match. Dad hadn’t made a single
change while I’d been away. Not in my room, not in the rest of the house, and
from what I’d seen, not with his business either. The only change he’d made
hadn’t been his choice. She’d made all the changes for him. And she hadn’t
looked back.
But
that’s why I was here. To pick up the pieces she’d left behind.
The
furniture was a dark oak with neutral accents, but instead of making the room
feel depressing and drab, the muted colors were soothing, like sitting
underneath a giant shade tree. Being in this room had always been the one place
in the house I could escape.
Living
at Heritage Plantation came with a certain level of chaos. There was always a
body in the house, whether family or staff or someone we considered both; the
noise and bustle was constant—all part of the territory when you lived under
the same roof that you worked. Well, the business end of things was under this
roof. The office, now mine, was downstairs off the kitchen, an add-on my dad
had given the place when the farm really got rolling several years back. The
rest—the hay and cornfields, the greenhouses, the tractors—had their own space.
And lots of it. Heritage Plantation was big enough to get lost in and still
never leave “home.” I loved that.
Still,
when the crowd became too much, my room was my solitude. My peace and quiet. I
was hoping for that same feeling now that I’d come back again. But things were
so different, I wasn’t sure there was any place that could make me feel that
way. Dark thoughts crept in before I could stop them, my eyes pricking with
quick tears. I hated that the thought of her, of what she’d done, still shook
me like this.
The
sound of boots on the stairs startled me out of my thoughts. I pretended to
survey the boxes as I blinked away the moisture. A pair of weathered hands
appeared, wrapped around a large box. My dad’s narrow-brimmed cowboy hat bobbed
up and down behind the cardboard, his face obscured by the load he carried. He
grunted as he set the box at my feet—somehow finding space in the middle of the
mess—and then straightened. His back popped as he arched it in an exaggerated
stretch.
“You
okay?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I
am now. That was the last one. Finally.”
“Thanks
for helping me carry all of it up.”
He
snorted. “Next time we’ll get a crane. Whaddya have in these bags? Bricks?”
“Close,”
I admitted. “I brought a lot of books home.”
He
grunted something unintelligible but didn’t complain further. We both knew what
I’d given up in coming home. I’d had plans for a Master’s, a career in the
city. The farm had always been my parents’ thing, not mine. He’d tried and
tried to talk me into staying, to pursue my dreams. But how could I follow a
dream born from a life built on a lie?
“I’ve
gotta get back to work. I’ll see you for dinner?” he asked.
“Wouldn’t
miss it, Pop. Thanks,” I told him, planting a kiss on his cheek and following
him to the top of the stairs. His boots made a clop-clop sound as he trudged
downward. The sound was a familiar one. I’d been listening to it from my
bedroom doorway my whole life. It was comforting, steadfast in a way other
things weren’t. Not anymore.
For
the millionth time since walking in the door, I thought of my mother and a pang
shot through my gut. A cross between nausea and heartache. Even after six
months to digest it, my mom’s decision to leave, to divorce my father, still
seemed surreal—especially now that I was home.
I
examined the foyer from my perch at the top of the stairs. It wasn’t so much
what was here as what was missing. Little things. Figurines, cross-stitched
pictures in frames, coffee table books. The absence of fresh flowers on the
side table. And even though it hurt like a fresh cut, I’d said nothing as I’d
followed Dad through the house and upstairs. If it was this painful for me, I
could only imagine what it did to him every time he walked by.
I
yanked on the tie holding my hair back and let it shake free. Thick brown waves
with honey highlights spilled over my shoulders. I ran absent fingers through
the ends, brushing out the tangles that seemed to form the moment I moved my
neck in the mornings. I was forever combing tangles—a trait that had skipped a
generation if my mom’s perfectly groomed twists were any indication. Although,
I couldn’t complain too much; thanks to her Brazilian heritage, I could eat and
eat without gaining an ounce. Something I was grateful for when the other girls
at college had been too obsessed with their figure to enjoy a good dinner. Sorry
for your luck. This girl was eating her entire cheeseburger. And fries.
My
phone beeped inside my pocket. I pulled it out, examined the screen, and bit
back a grimace. I’d avoided this long enough. Now, standing in the privacy of
my own room, I decided I’d better get it over with.
“Hello?”
I said, struggling to keep the resignation out of my tone.
“Summer?”
The familiar voice on the other end was a mixture of both worry and relief.
“What
is it, Aaron?”
“I’ve
been calling you for days.”
“I
know. I just—there wasn’t anything left to say.”
He
paused. I wasn’t sure if it was because he knew I was right or hadn’t really
expected me to answer the phone in the first place. “So nothing has changed
then?” he asked quietly. “You still want this … us to be over?”
I
knew his words, the very sound of his voice, should tug at me, make me feel
something. Aaron and I had been together two years, after all. But I felt
nothing. That, in itself, was my biggest clue I’d done the right thing in
breaking things off before graduation.
“Nothing’s
changed,” I confirmed.
Aaron
was silent. I pictured him squeezing his eyes shut, trying to find the right
words. But there weren’t any. None that would make me change my mind, anyway. I
needed to make him see that without hurting him in the process. Well, more than
I already had.
“You
and I were good together, Summer,” Aaron said. “We got along, never fought, we
had fun. I was happy with you. I thought you were happy with me too.”
“I
was … sort of.” How in the world could I explain it to him when I couldn’t
fully make sense of it myself? “This thing with my parents has made me think.”
“Think
about what?”
I
tried to keep the frustration out of my voice, but it crept in. Just like it
did any time I tried explaining to someone exactly what the divorce had done to
me. No one ever got it. My friends at school had worn blank looks, my dad
didn’t seem to want to talk about it. I’d avoided anyone else who might ask
just so I wouldn’t have to face the strange looks when I tried to make them understand.
“I don’t want to ‘get along’ or ‘have fun,’ Aaron,” I said. “I want to live. I
want to feel it. I want it to matter.”
“I
thought I did matter.”
“I
…” I’d already said it once and that had been hard enough. Why was he making me
say it again? I squeezed my eyes shut and whispered, “I just need to go my own
way.”
Heavy
silence hung on the line.
“If
it’s space you want, I’ll give it to you,” he said, his words clipped. “Enjoy
the wide open. But Summer?”
“Yes?”
“I’m
not your mother.”
“I
know that,” I said. Then I hung up.
I
took my time unpacking, carefully choosing what to store and what to keep out.
Space was limited, but I didn’t mind. I needed the dilemma the shortage of
space provided—it distracted me from problems that had no easy answers. Like Aaron.
And my mother.
I
knew Aaron was working through disbelief and heading for anger. And he had a
right. We’d had no real issues, no obstacles that would raise a red flag in the
relationship. He was nice. Took me on dinner dates. Remembered birthdays. He
laughed at my jokes. Listened—mostly—to my rants about the literary research
papers I had to write, and about my professor with a crooked nose and nasally
voice that you couldn’t hear unless you sat in the front row. Aaron was
patient, always understanding when I couldn’t see him because of a test to
study for. He was predictable. Steady. Calm.
I’d
actually liked those things about him at one point. Even the predictability. It
meant something you could count on. Both were things I wanted in a boyfriend.
Both were things I’d seen in my own parents’ relationship. Until I’d come home
for winter break and my parents had said they were separating. Not a trial
basis, but the first step toward the d-word. Papers were filed. My mother had
already moved out. Gotten a little apartment in the city. And from the way my
mom had smiled when she’d said it, I knew it was really over. It grated on
me—that smile, that happiness.
It
made me furious.
If
the two people who seemed the most stable in the entire world couldn’t make it
last, what chance did I have?
I’d
gone back to my last semester of school without an answer. Aaron had complained
that I was distant, but when I brushed him off, he let it go. That was his way.
And I’d realized it wasn’t enough. I wanted more. A connection so tight the
other person couldn’t possibly ignore the other’s hurt. Or distance. Or pulling
away. Did that exist? I thought it did, but after seeing my parents split,
maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was all a fairy tale.
In
my mind, it wasn’t worth finding out. The hurt I saw in my father was all too
real.
The
day I’d graduated, I broke it off with Aaron and told my dad I was coming home,
business degree in tow. I would pick up the slack Mom had left behind, do the
books for Heritage Plantation—her job up until six months ago. And maybe figure
out what it was I wanted in the process. The big city—the rest of my life—could
wait.
Heat
from the kitchen drifted through the hardwood, warming my feet and signaling me
for dinner. I always knew when a meal was being cooked. This floor conducted
heat like a metal rod in a thunderstorm. I gave up on unpacking the latest box
of books onto an already full bookshelf and headed for the kitchen. The scent
of hot food made my stomach rumble.
I
rounded the staircase, nearing the bottom when I heard boots stomping against
the welcome mat below me.
“Uncle
Frank,” I called, zipping down the last few steps and launching myself at him.
Frank
grunted but held firm. Years of manual labor had taken its toll on his aging
body, and I knew there was muscle hidden behind all that flannel. “Goodness,
girl, what do they feed you up at that big fancy school? You must’ve gained a
ton.”
“Either
that or I’m not six anymore.” I laughed and pulled back so I could look up at
him. His leathery cheeks had a few more fine lines, but otherwise, he looked
the same. The sight of him was familiar and comforting, and though he wasn’t
blood related, he’d been my dad’s best friend and surrogate family for so long,
no one remembered we weren’t related.
He
squinted at me. “Coulda’ fooled an old man. Every time I look at ya I still see
a gap-toothed smile.”
I
punched him lightly as my attention was drawn to the sight of another familiar
face coming through the front door. His cheeks were scruffier than the last
time I’d seen him. His hair was longer, too.
“Hey,
sis,” he said, grinning at me as the storm door slammed shut behind him.
“Casey,”
I squealed, launching myself at him even harder than I’d done with Frank. I
wanted to knock this one off balance, just for bragging rights. But Casey
caught me easily and swung me up, lifting my feet off the ground and spinning a
full circle. By the time he set me down again, it was half-hug, half-wrestling
match and we were both laughing.