The Longest Ride

Kansas or somewhere, and he drove all the way back here to drop it off before turning right around and heading to Texas for another set of rodeos. It wasn’t until he got back that he realized it didn’t work. He had to rebuild the thing pretty much from scratch, and it took him almost a year to get it working the way he wanted. But by then, you came along and he’d pretty much retired. It sat in the barn here collecting dust until he eventually put you on it… I think you were two years old at the time. I got pretty mad about that, too, even though it was barely moving. I somehow knew that you’d end up following in his footsteps. The thing is, I never wanted you to ride in the first place. I always thought it was a crazy way to try to make a living.” In her voice, he heard an uncharacteristic trace of bitterness.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“What was there to say? You were as obsessed as your dad. You broke your arm when you were five riding on a calf. But you didn’t care. You were just mad because you couldn’t ride for a few months. What could I do?” She didn’t expect an answer, and she sighed. “For a long time, I hoped you’d grow out of it. I was probably the only mother in the world who prayed that her teenager would get interested in cars or girls or music, but you never did.”

“I liked those things, too.”

“Maybe. But riding was your life. It was all you ever really wanted to do. It was all you really dreamed about, and…” She closed her eyes, an extended blink. “You had the makings of a star. As much as I hated it, I knew you had the ability and the desire and the motivation to be the best in the world. And I was proud of you. But even then, it broke my heart. Not because I didn’t think you’d make it, but because I knew you’d risk everything to reach your dream. And I watched you get hurt over and over and try again and again.” She shifted her stance. “What you have to remember is that to me, you’ll always be my child, the one I held in my arms right after you were born.”

Luke stayed silent, overcome by a familiar shame.

“Tell me,” his mother said, searching his face. “Is it something you feel like you couldn’t live without? Do you still burn with the desire to be the best?”

He stared at his boots before reluctantly lifting his head.

“No,” he admitted.

“I didn’t think so,” she said.

“Mom —”

“I know why you’re doing this. Just like you know why I don’t want you to. You’re my son, but I can’t stop you and I know that, too.”

He drew a long breath, noting her weariness. Resignation hung on her like a tattered shroud.

“Why did you come out here, Mom?” he asked. “It wasn’t to tell me all that.”

She gave a melancholy smile. “No. Actually, I came out here to check on you, to make sure you were okay. And to find out how your trip went.”

There was more and he knew it, but he answered anyway.

“The trip was good. Short, though. I feel like I spent more time in the truck than I did with Sophia.”

“That’s probably right,” she agreed. “And her family?”

“Nice people. Close family. There was a lot of laughing at the table.”

She nodded. “Good.” She crossed her arms, rubbing her sleeves. “And Sophia?”

“She’s great.”

“I see the way you look at her.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s pretty clear how you feel about her,” his mom stated.

“Yeah?” he asked again.

“It’s good,” she said. “Sophia’s special. I’ve enjoyed getting to know her. Do you think there’s a future there?”

He shifted from one foot to the other. “I hope so.”

His mom looked at him seriously. “Then you should probably tell her.”

“I already have.”

“No,” his mom said, shaking her head. “You should tell her.”

“Tell her what?”

“What the doctor told us,” she said, not bothering to mince her words. “You should tell her that if you keep riding, you’ll most likely be dead in less than a year.”

20

    Ira
    “W hen you wander the house at night,” Ruth suddenly interjects, “you do not do as you say.”

“What do you mean?” I am startled to hear her voice again after this long silence.

“They are not like the diary you made for me. I could read all my letters, but you do not see all the paintings. Many of them are stacked together in overcrowded rooms and you haven’t seen them for years. And the ones you store in the oak boxes you do not look at either.