Meet You There

Chapter Three: Safe Place

My suspicions were correct. I was up early, anyway, having spent the remainder of my time in Colorado going to bed early and waking up at the crack of dawn in order to train myself in to a sleeping pattern appropriate for farm life. At 7am there was a loud knock on my door. Frank. “Up and at ‘em!” he calls, and I finish my coffee, and head outside. He’s lurking about outside, and I can see Brody heading in to the stable in the distance.

“I’m assuming you know the basics of harvesting zucchini or we’re gonna have a problem.” Frank leans on his shovel and smiles.

I don’t tell him that I have literally spent my entire summer researching agriculture and gardening, but I nod my head and walk over to him, squinting slightly because of the sun.

The next hour or so are spent harvesting vegetables with Frank, him surprised and pleased that I know what I’m doing. I felt like I was in a montage in some awful teen movie. I could practically hear a cheesy country-pop song playing in the background.

Frank tells me Saturdays are when he goes to the farmers market in the next town over, and that Brody will teach me the basics of equestrian care. Again, more stuff I already know, but I don’t tell him that.

I find Brody outside my place, leaning on the wall and looking around, probably wandering where I am. I begin to jog over, he spots me and waves.

“Hey,” I say, “So, horses, yeah?”

He nods and guides me over to the stable. It seems a lot bigger inside than it looks outside, and I recognize a lot of the same horses from my childhood times spent at this farm, although I can’t remember all their names. There’s seven. Some I don’t recognize.

There’s a white saddlebred, and I remember her being born. Daisy, they called her. Brody clears his throat and catches me looking at Daisy and approaches her. “You were here when she was born, remember?” he asks, petting her and gesturing for me to. I do.

“Yeah, Daisy.” I smile fondly, remembering the day Grandpa woke me up at 5am to go down to the farm to see her being born. I’m not one of those people who gets all mushy and emotional when it comes to animals, but Daisy is a beautiful horse.

Neither of us say anything else for a few minutes while I pet each horse. Unable to deal with the awkwardness and deciding it’s ridiculous that I’m finding it so hard to talk to this boy who was once one of my best friends, I speak up. “I remember most of their names, but I don’t recognize some of them.”

He goes through all their names and manages to sound like he’s doing Santa’s reindeer roll call at the start of the song Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer. I ask if there’s anything we actually have to do, or if I’m just here because Frank felt obliged to give me a job so that he wasn’t paying me for nothing. “Actually, we’re pretty much done for the day,” he tells me, making his way towards the stable door. “So, uh, you can go back to your place and rest.”

I decide I want to spend some time with Brody. Why not? “Actually, do you wanna just hang out for a bit?” I ask, preparing myself for an awkward ‘thanks, but no thanks’.

But surprisingly he wants to and actually seems quite enthusiastic about it. “That’d be nice,” he smiles, “Megan is blasting terrible music at home and I could do with a bit of company.”

Deciding we’d seen enough of the farm, we go over to the lake at the edge of the Ranley, a small circular opening in the trees that surround the lake. When we get there, Brody sits right next to the water, takes off his shoes and socks, rolls his jeans up and dips his feet in the water, like he’s done this plenty of times. Like this is his place to come think and be alone. His safe place. Back home in Denver, my place to feel safe and relaxed like this was the train station. I have no idea why. It’s weird, because something about the chaotic atmosphere, crowds and noise relaxed me. If I’m right and this is his version of that, his makes a lot more sense than mine, and it’s the complete opposite of a Denver train station. It looks like something you’d find in a brochure or magazine. 'Tired of city life? Come to Ranley.'

We sit there in silence for a moment, before he looks around suspiciously, and turns to me. “Do, uh, you smoke weed?” he asks.

Taken aback, I just look at him and shake my head. Is he asking me because he’s interested in it or because he does? Brody is the last person I’d expect to go near drugs, even weed. He seems pretty vanilla, in every sense of the world. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of person to even go near alcohol, let alone drugs, but this is the first time I’ve hung out with him in years, and I guess if Megan drinks despite being the child of conservative Christian parents, Brody can smoke weed.

He stands up, and looks around again quickly before walking a couple of feet away to a pile of rocks leant up against a tree. He moves them, and takes out a small wooden box from behind them, takes it back over to where he was sitting, opens it, and begins rolling a joint using the necessary implements.

It’s funny, I’ve never smoked it, despite being given the offer at parties from my stoner ass friends. It smells really bad and I don’t get the appeal.

Whilst taking a puff, he picks up a small stone and tosses it in to the lake with his other hand. I’ve accepted that things are going to me awkward for a while because both of us are pretty introverted, but it’d be nice to converse with my childhood best friend.

After a moment he clears his throat and looks at me as if he’s about to say something, but then stops, like he’s changed his mind. Deciding we can’t spend the afternoon sitting here in silence, I try to kick start a conversation. “How’s life, Brody? How’s senior year so far?”

Feeble attempt, I know. But at least it gets a reply from him. “We start ths semester tomorrow, not exactly looking forward to it but whatever.” He takes another pull from the joint, then finishes it and tosses it in to the dirt. He pauses then continues. “Why did you decide to do this, anyway? Coming to work here, I mean.”

I’m getting kind of tired of explaining this to people. Especially when my upper middle class distant relatives ask what I’m doing with my life and what university I’m going to, and I have to explain to them I’m going to live in a redneck town to help out on a farm for pennies. “It’s just what I wanted to do. I like this place.”

“Oh. I’d give anything to get out of here.”

I remember the brief moment of silence at dinner last night when Frank told me Brody didn’t want to go to college, but I ask him why he can’t, anyway.

He shakes his head and looks across the lake. “My dad wants me to stay here and take over this place when he dies, keep the family tradition going.”

Talk about medieval, but then I realize I was sort of in his situation, only reversed, last year. “I feel you. My dad wanted me to go to university and, quote, ‘get a real job.’”

He laughs. “If only we could switch places.”

We talk for a little longer and head back. I guess the weed helped him feel less nervous around me. When I get back, Frank gives me a few books on agriculture to add to my collection and I spend the rest of the night stuck in them, and for the first time since my childhood, I feel at home. I'm happy. Not over the moon, elated or overjoyed, just happy and at peace, plain and simple.