Chapter 14: The Summer Everything Shifted

Ninth grade ended like a door closing on something I wasn’t ready to leave behind.

I felt more mature, grown up in ways that didn’t feel good. Life didn’t seem so simple anymore. I wasn’t sure of anything—where I belonged, who I was supposed to be, what the next day would bring. The world had started to feel heavier, and I was carrying it on shoulders that still wanted to be a kid.

I was living with Dad in his tiny house set back in the woods—me, him, my older sister Rhonda, and baby Brandi. The house was small, close, full of the smell of pine and whatever we managed to cook on the stove. Dad didn’t cook. Rhonda and I were responsible for everything: cooking supper, cleaning the house, doing laundry, taking care of Brandi. I loved her—deeply, fiercely. She was little and trusting, and I felt protective in a way that made me feel older than fourteen. But I was only ten years older than her, and some nights she’d wake me up after wetting the bed we shared. I’d get up, change her, change the sheets, soothe her back to sleep, then lie there staring at the ceiling, exhausted. I felt like a mama. Really, I just wanted to be a kid.

Dad worked nights, so he watched Brandi while we were at school, then slept during the day. We were alone a lot—responsible for the house and each other. He was hyper-critical about how we did everything: the floors weren’t clean enough, the laundry wasn’t folded right, the food wasn’t seasoned the way he liked. Nothing was ever quite good enough.

He also had his biker buddies over sometimes—big men with leather vests and loud Harleys who filled the small house with smoke and deep voices. They were always nice to us girls, joking lightly, asking how school was going. Of course they were—Dad’s 5’3”, 128-pound frame didn’t look like much, but he had a way of carrying himself that made people careful. Even grown men stepped lighter around him.

Dad was strict about boys—controlling in a way that felt like a wall closing in. I wasn’t allowed to talk on the phone with boys, wasn’t allowed to date, wasn’t allowed anything close to “too young for that.” He watched me like he knew exactly what trouble looked like, and he wasn’t about to let it walk through his door.

Before Chet came along, there was Raoul. He rode his bike at least thirty minutes from town just to see me. One day Dad wasn’t home, and I was determined to learn how to kiss. Raoul was so sweet—curly hair, gentle eyes. We sat on the sofa, and he kissed me tenderly, sweetly. My body responded in ways I didn’t expect—excitement, warmth, things happening that I was unaware could happen. He definitely got my juices flowing.

Dad came home while Raoul was still there. Although we were only kissing, he told Raoul to leave and never return. He threatened to kill him if he ever came back. So I never saw him again.

It was just a few short moments, but I learned so much about my body in that time—how it could wake up, how it could want, how it could feel alive.

Granny had sold the old farmhouse up the road on the hill and moved into a cozy little single-wide right across from Dad’s house. She loved it. The farmhouse had grown too big and too hard to care for—termites had eaten into the uninsulated wood plank walls, chewing away at the bones of the place. The single-wide was easier, warmer, just right for one old woman and the family that still came by. It had two bedrooms and two baths—one room at one end for us girls when we stayed over, the other at the opposite end for Granny. Central heat and air kept it comfortable year-round, and she loved it. She’d sit in her rocker with the cool air blowing, fanning herself with a church bulletin even when it wasn’t hot, saying, “Lord, this is livin’.”

Granny was like clockwork—every single day at 1 p.m., you could find her parked in her rocker right in front of the television, tray table set with her lunch, watching Days of Our Lives. As long as I could remember, that was her sacred hour. If you walked in at 1:00 sharp, she’d be there without fail, fork in one hand, eyes glued to the screen, the familiar intro rolling in soft and steady: “Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives…” She called it “my show,” and heaven help anyone who tried to start a conversation before the credits rolled. She’d just hold up a finger—quiet, please—while Marlena or Hope or Bo dealt with whatever drama was unfolding in Salem. We kids learned quick: wait your turn, eat your sandwich, and let Granny have her hour of make-believe heartache. When the show finally ended, she’d set her plate aside, smile like she’d just visited old friends, and say, “Alright now, what’s on your mind?” Those quiet afternoons, the hum of the TV, her soft laugh at the plot twists—they’re some of the sweetest memories I still carry. Fun, simple, and hers.

Simple was no longer simple.

I’d been kissed more than once—okay, twice—and each one had left a small mark, like a question I didn’t know how to answer.

Then there was Chet.

I was standing in the middle of the dirt road at the end of Aunt Janice’s driveway when I saw him. He rode up on a big chestnut horse, wearing a cowboy hat, jeans that fit his strong, muscular legs just right, cowboy boots, and a white T-shirt that caught the sunlight. His hat had a miniature hand of cards tucked into the band. When he tipped it at me and smiled, those eyes sparkling beneath the brim, I swear the world slowed down.

I had never seen anyone more handsome—or more beautiful.

I wanted to jump on the back of that horse right then and ride away with him.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

I didn’t know his name yet.

I didn’t know anything except that everything had just changed.