At eighteen years young, I’ve learned something difficult to accept: if you love someone, at some point, you will feel pain. And I don’t mean a temporary pain like stubbing your toe; I’m talking about a pain that breaks you. 

“For Heaven’s sake, child, if you’re going to break, break with your beauty intact. You’re a mess, and we have somewhere to be.”

That voice belonged to Mother. Mere hours ago, she poked her nose in my room to find me in a heap on the floor, sobbing, nose running all over my alpaca-fur teddy bear. As you can see, she’s a pillar of empathy and leaves me to pick myself up.

I still struggle to believe it, but Grams has been dead for a week now. That Cancer bitch hit her out of nowhere, fast and hard like a Texas twister, and then she was gone. At least I had the chance to say goodbye. A small blessing, I guess. She tried to tell me my granddad needed her now—that was the “why” this was all happening. 

Well, I don’t want to live here without her! It’s that simple. 

Now I sit in this cold, businessy room, fiddling with the hemline of my yellow sundress, surrounded by those left. Mother groaned at my chosen attire earlier, so I knew it was perfect, showing off my long legs, nicely kissed by the hot sun. They are my best asset, if I’m honest. Even with them together, there’s a tiny space between my upper thighs for a hand to slip. 

Mother always fussed that my dresses should cover my knees, but Grams would offer, “Why, if I had those legs, I’d show them off, too. Show those young fellows what they're missing.”  Then, I’d flash Grams a grateful smile and pull the clips holding back my untamed, long hair to irritate Mother all the more. There’s a brat in me for sure, but my parents should’ve learned from years of living on the ranch that you can’t saddle a horse who wants to run free. 

So, this is what I’ve been doing for the last week—replaying memories like a broken record. It’s as if I’m frozen. There’s just no path ahead without Grams on it, yet I glance around at my family, and the rest of the world moves on as if…

Mother’s bony elbow pokes my arm. “E-liz-a-beth, he’s talking to you.” 

My shoulders draw up around my ears. Can the woman not just say my name without separating it into annoying syllables? I loudly exhale and look up at the lawyer who’d reduced Grams to land deeds, cattle, horses, and jewelry over the last hour. 

“Your grandmother left you this, Elizabeth,” he says before walking around his desk to hand me the manilla envelope. 

Cue collective gasps from the asses (that would be my extended family) in the room. “Poppy” is scribbled across the front in my grandmother’s handwriting. That’s what she called me—Poppy.

My heart catches in my throat, realizing she’ll never write my name again. We often wrote each other notes. Grams never gave up the old way of communicating with pen and paper, so I had big fun shopping for pretty stationary to write her notes back. She just lived down the road from our home on the ranch, but it was still fun to put a note in her mailbox and receive one from her. Hers always smelled of roses and vanilla, and I imagined her spritzing her favorite perfume on the note while thinking of me. No one thinks of me like Grams did; of that, I’m sure. Hopeful, I press the envelope against my nostrils but smell nothing. 

So, nothing in this envelope matters. Grams isn’t in there. I trace a finger over and over each letter until Mother nudges me again with her elbow. 

“Go ahead, open it.”

I peek inside before pulling out a piece of paper and a key. Tears sting my swollen eyes again. It’s the title of her powder-blue Mustang, and I assume it's key. 

“Well, what is it?” Uncle Tom barks.

“Blue,” I whisper.

“What?” 

“The title and key to her old Mustang,” Mother clarifies. The note of disappointment in her tone doesn’t miss me.

“And anything left in it,” the lawyer adds. 

I clutch the key to my heart and cry, and no, I don’t cry beautifully. I remember all our Sunday drives after mass–just Grams and me. She’d hand me one of her floppy hats to wear and push the top back on the convertible. We named the Mustang “Blue”. With the sun shining upon our smiling faces, she’d drive those winding, dusty roads around the ranch, sharing stories from her life while I shared my dreams—the past, present, and future colliding in the most wonderful way. Life slowed down on those rides. It was a magical escape for me, and I suspected it was for her, too. 

I let the black mascara mess up my face while my father discovers a morsel of emotion deep inside himself and puts an arm around my shaking shoulders. Folding myself into Daddy’s chest, I close my ears to my uncles and their over-inflated wives querying the car’s value and fussing about their kids getting nothing.

~ooOoo~

It’s been weeks now since the reading of her will. I’ve decided to leave the ranch for a spell. I can’t work through my grief here. Even surrounded by a lot of people, I’m lonely. Taking one last look around my room, one memory in particular makes me smile. I remember Dylan’s reaction when I first snuck him in through the window. He stood with his big old boots glued to the floor. “I’m afraid I’ll mess up something pretty,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he meant something in my room or me, but we ignored the fluffy pillowed bed with matching comforter and had sex on the floor. Whenever I felt lonely, I’d lie face down on that rug to try to smell him. More on him later. 

Now, I walk around, touching my things, things so unimportant. Trailing my fingertips along the soft bedding, I wrinkle my nose. Really, there’s too much pink in here for my changing taste. And so small now. Suffocating, really. It’s not hard to close my suitcase and walk out the door. 

As soon as I start down the stairs, I hear Daddy’s booming voice behind his bedroom door down the hall.

“That boy’s never going to amount to more than a stable hand.” 

“But Dylan adores her, Frank. He’ll keep her safe. Would you rather her go off on this ‘I need to find myself’ adventure alone?” 

I knock on the door before he can answer, “I’m leaving if you want to say goodbye.” I can’t keep the excitement from my tone, not that I didn’t try. Okay, I didn’t try. 

The door opens, and Daddy stares at my suitcase, then sighs. Mother brushes past him and gives me a quick hug. Her mouth opens but closes without releasing words, probably for the best. 

"Where are you headed first?" Daddy asks me for the umpteenth time. 

Deciding to poke him a little, I wink and answer, "I think I'll just follow a butterfly."

The tightening of his lips and jaw tells me he gets the reference from my childhood. 

As a little girl, I was pretty impulsive, putting me in a fair amount of trouble. At one of the many boring family events, I spied a blue Monarch and decided to follow it. I guess I was gone for quite a while, and when my panicked parents finally tracked me down, Grams stayed Daddy's hand from spanking me for wandering off. While he huffed and puffed, she pulled me onto her lap and sweetly asked to hear all about that butterfly. That was Grams—the only one who understood and appreciated my spirit. 

It’s kinda a weirder energy than usual between me and my parents, hard to explain, so I hug them one more time and quickly descend the stairs, promising them I’ll call, be safe, yada yada yada. 

It isn’t until I reach Blue that I stop and take a few cleansing breaths. Taking one last look around the ranch, I holler to Mabel, who nods and whinnies to me from behind the fence. Is it sad that I’ll miss her more than the people here?

I toss my suitcase in the trunk, and gravel spins as I drive away, excited for the adventure that awaits. 

When I reach the stop light by Saint Mary’s Catholic School, I decide to give them a special f u for their stupid uniform rules. I unhook my bra, maneuver it out from under my pink strappy sundress, and let it fly as I speed off with the green light. 

"Free the boobies!" I yell, hoping the crabby Principal Masters might be looking out his office window. 

A few moments later, I hear sirens. Shit! I see the flashing lights approaching fast. Surely, the cop isn’t after me. Go on by. Nothing to see here, Cletus. Nope. Cletus runs right up on my ass. 

I pull over, then fluff my boobs, hoping for a cop who could be swayed by my small but perky rack. The cop soon appears by my door with my bra dangling off his finger. 

"Miss, do you know littering carries a pretty hefty fine?" 

Time to bring out my sweetest southern drawl. "My word, officer, what do you mean? I would never litter." 

He loudly sighs. "Miss, I saw this bra fly out of your car." 

"Oh my goodness, that is my bra. The wind must have lifted it. Thank you so much for retrieving it for me, officer." I flash my pearly whites, lift it off his finger, and toss it into the backseat.

We lock eyes, and I hold my smile but am already formulating a new plan of attack if he isn't ready to let me go. 

"Mmmhmm. Well, see that nothing else gets lifted by the wind.'

I wait until he’s out of sight, turn the music up, then reach back and launch the bra again. 

The rest of the ride to Dylan’s house is uneventful until I pull up in front of his driveway, “You come back here, boy!” Dylan flashes into sight around the side of the house, running full speed with a duffel bag in one hand and his other wildly motioning for me to start driving. Oh, shit! This isn’t good. Here comes his daddy not far behind him. “I’ll beat your ass, boy!” 

I focus on his feet, willing them to move faster. “Hurry!” I scream.

When he’s close, I lift my foot off the brake, and as soon as he leaps over the door and his ass is in the seat, I floor it. In the rear-view mirror, I see his piece-of-shit daddy booking it after us, but he’s not faster than Blue. It’s a nerve-wracking few moments before we lose him, and I look over at Dylan, whose head is in his hands while he’s trying to catch his breath.

He’s bigger than his daddy in every way now, so I’ll never understand why he doesn’t fight back. I guess that asswipe broke him in some way long ago. I glance at Dylan again and pull the car off the side of the road.

“What are you doing?”

“This.” I lean over and smush my lips against his, cupping his face to hold him in place. We don’t move our mouths or tongue each other; it’s just an “I got you” kiss. When I finally break the suction, I pull his head to my shoulder and hug him until he stops shaking. 

He whispers, “Thank you for taking me with you.”

“There’s no one I’d rather be with.” I lift his chin so he can see my smile. “Now, ready for an adventure?” 

“Heck yeah.” He straightens, his beautiful brown eyes showing some signs of life. “Now, where to?” he asks.

“Does it matter?”

“Anywhere’s better than here. I’ll go wherever, but…” his voice trails off. 

“But?” 

“Elizabeth, I know you’ll be back for college in the fall, but I’m never coming back here. I just can’t.”

I squeeze his hand. “I know.” I want to tell him what I found in the glove compartment, but I decide to wait until later. Let’s just say, Grams planned for me to take Blue and do something like this. “And would you mind calling me ‘Poppy’ from now on?” 

His eyes smile so brightly. “I’d love to. It suits you, and I always hated the way your mom said, “Elizabeth.”

“Tututut, no mention of parents on this trip. Let’s pretend it’s like uttering, ‘Voldemort’. Deal?” 

I hold out my pinky, and he shakes it. “Deal.” 

I ease the car back onto the road, and we’re off. He settles back in his seat, and we’re both anxious to reach the county line. When we do, we don’t look back and leave that life in the dust. 

Will this trip change Dylan? How could it not, since he’s never been outside the county? But today, he’s the same boy I met three years ago, except bigger now. Much bigger. 

I heard an unfamiliar voice in the barn and walked in to see a boy not quite as tall as me with messy black hair brushing Mabel and sweetly talking to her as if she was a person. Daddy had hired him as a ranch hand. He was around fifteen at that time. I had just turned sweet sixteen. 

“Hanging out with all your friends, I see,” I said, thinking myself funny. 

When he turned around, I’d never seen such sadness in someone’s eyes, and immediately regretted poking fun at him. 

A few days later, I saw him washing his dirty shirt in the creek behind the barn. Raised whelps marked his lower back and trailed downward beneath the waistband of his jeans. I knew what made those whelps. He didn’t notice the butterfly fluttering around him, but I did. 

After that, I tried to get to know him, which was no easy feat because he wouldn’t look me in the eyes or talk. But I can be stubborn—a trait no one sees as a good thing except me. I guess I was always drawn to wounded animals. He eventually let me in. Let me see everything. Now I’m eighteen; he’s eighteen in a few months and a head taller than me. We’re the best of friends—with fun benefits—but you already knew that.

He hasn’t said a word in a bit, so I glance over at him. His eyes look straight ahead at a landscape new to him, yet I know he still sees nothing but his latest fight with his daddy. His thick black lashes flutter. He’s trying not to cry, so I have to do something. 

“Now look here, we can’t have this bad energy starting off, so get that thing out.”

He turns his head toward me, mouth hanging open. “Now?”

“Yes, now!”

“But… you’re driving.”

“And that only takes one hand. Get in my purse, find the lotion… and grab some tissues. You aren’t gonna mess up Blue.”

The mention of lotion gets his attention. He obeys, tosses the bottle back in my bag, and looks at me like an eager puppy. Those eyes! He wears his emotions in his eyes. They are a prominent feature on his face—big brown eyes, full lips. And yet, somehow, he looks so masculine. But no time to get lost in those eyes right now.

I don’t need to tell you what’s about to happen, but Dylan’s gonna be nice and relaxed in about five minutes. 

And in case you’re wondering, I love him. 

He loves me back. 

And we’re too smart to mess everything up by being boyfriend/girlfriend.

(to be continued)