"I could cry," she says, calm and factual.
"I’m sorry," I say, "but that’s not on the itinerary for today."
She shoves me playfully.
Inside there are three twin beds with quilts that must be handmade, a little kitchenette, a bathroom that is blessedly larger than any bathroom I've had in a ranch cabin in my entire working life, and a ceiling fan lazily turning.
Lyla claims the bed closest to the bathroom because she drinks more than a horse. Laurel takes the one by the window since she loves the views. And I drop my duffel on the remaining one because I couldn’t care less. I unzip my bag.
That's it. I’m done unpacking.
Laurel has her suitcase opened flat on her bed and she's lining up four little zippered toiletry pouches in a neat row. Pink, blue, green, and clear. Each labeled. She glances at me. "Don't start."
"Laurel, my darling, my love, my best girl?—"
"Lark Riggs, I swear togod."
"What's in the green one?"
"Hair stuff."
"The blue one?"
"Face stuff."
"And the pink?"
"Body stuff."
"The clear?"
She huffs out a breath. "Emergency items.”
"Emergency?"
"It has Advil, Imodium, a sewing kit, a spare phone charger, a pocketknife, electrolyte packets, and those little hand warmers you crack and?—"
I cross the room and kiss her forehead with a loud smack. "I love you so much. I'd die for you. Please never change."
She shakes her head. "I don’t plan on it."
I try to catch Lyla’s eye as she reclines on her bed. It takes a moment, but finally, she notices and nods.
Then I grab my hat off the bedpost, tug it down low, and walk toward the door. "I'm gonna go wander. Stretch my legs. Poke around."
Laurel raises her head, alarmed. "Wait, what?"
“I’ll be back later.”
Laurel narrows her eyes. She’s an attorney's daughter and she was born narrowing her eyes. But then she looks down at her little clear Emergency pouch and gets distracted.
"Love you, birthday girl." I'm out the door before she can respond.
The walk across the property is maybe a quarter mile, and I take every step of it slowly on purpose. The sun is warm on the tops of my shoulders through my T-shirt and my boots kick up little puffs of red dust. Somewhere off to my right, a horse nickers, followed by the low murmur of a wrangler talking to it in that singsong voice they all use without really meaning to. My hair keeps getting in my mouth and I tuck it back under my hat.
There’s something about this place…and I've been a lot of places. I like when places hit me. That's kind of the whole point.
But this is different. This is…I’m not sure yet.