43 Lucas Brings Milkshake to the Yard

August 14th

It was finally happening—tonight I would meet Armand. He was saving me a seat, and we would watch our mutual friend in a play, and no amount of flat tires or rabid fans or cosmic tomfoolery would change The Plan.

I'd finally committed to cutting the tag from the Easter-egg blue button-up and paired it with comfy white chinos. But even after a shower and shave and cologne, I found myself standing in front of the bathroom mirror just a bit too long.

Maybe it was the warmth brought on by the most recent text exchange with Armand, but there was a slight possibility that I didn't look completely terrible. My freshly washed and styled hair was cooperating, and the pastel of the shirt brought out my eyes, which were the better of my assets.

If Armand met me like this, would he like what he saw?

"You're always fishing for validation," Darren had said. "It's exhausting. And childish."

And maybe it was—but I couldn't help it. I was who I was. At least Armand hadn't given me any credible reason to think he would be judgmental or cruel. It was more than likely that, should I be repulsive to him, he would simply fly off back to England and I wouldn't have to see him again.

But that wasn't nearly as comforting as I'd thought it'd be.

It was over an hour before curtain, but I couldn't spend another minute pacing the apartment and overthinking. I could overthink on my way to the theater to beat the crowds. Multitasking.

My phone buzzed just before I was about to merge onto the highway. I answered the call on speaker. "Hello?"

"Lucas, honey"—it was Mom, her voice soft and tight—"do you think you can make it over to the ranch tonight?"

I hadn't really talked to her since she'd copped an attitude about Darren. "I'll see what I can do, but I have a lot planned tonight and tomorrow—"

"Baby, it's Milkshake. I've given him some pain medication, but he's going. If you wanted to be with him to say goodbye ... Dr. Sanchez says it'll probably be tonight."

I swerved into a U-turn.

The End is Neigh was quiet when I arrived. I hurried toward the stables but saw that instead of being in his stall, Grandpa Milkshake had been led out into the pasture, lying on the grass. Dr. Sanchez, the family vet who had partnered with us in looking after our horses for years, was crouched beside Mom, her eternally friendly face unmistakably grave.

"I'm glad you came," Mom said as I made it over. Her eyes were red-rimmed already, her face ashen. How long had she been out here with him?

"Of course." I sank onto the grass on the other side of Grandpa Milkshake's head, which rested on Mom's lap. He was still breathing, though each breath was labored. I was immediately grateful that Mom had anticipated and given him pain medication. He deserved to go without struggle.

Mom and I stroked his face, and neck, and side, hoping he was still present enough to hear and recognize our voices. I watched his big, beautiful black eyes blink slowly up at us. He'd been sick for so long, after such a rich, productive life, and if leaving us meant that he wouldn't be in pain anymore, then so be it. But my throat closed up regardless, eyes stinging with tears.

Mom had been there for several horses passing over the years but had never let me be present. She'd figured that after Dad, I'd dealt enough with death in the family at a young age without adding more. I was older now and I knew what to expect, but suddenly the dark inevitability of it knocked the air out of me. My hand, which was stroking Grandpa Milkshake's thin mane, started shaking.

Mom reached out, grasping my hand tightly.

Around us, the sky moved from blue to pink and purple. Distantly I realized that the play would be starting soon, and unless I headed out I would miss it.

I would miss Armand.

But then I glanced over at Mom's face, lined with sadness but staying strong, and knew I couldn't leave. Besides, my pants were already ruined with mud, the shirt that had done me so many favors earlier was sweat-stained and wrinkled to hell.

We grew quiet as Grandpa Milkshake's wheezing breaths began to slow. I'd been sitting long enough for my legs to cramp, the stress of just waiting for it to happen wracking me with exhaustion. I stared down at his frail body and wondered if horses could sense death and whether he was scared.

My hand was still clutching Mom's when we felt him breathe one last time and then go still.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, to Milkshake, or Mom.

Or Armand.