ONE
Kennedy
I can’t believeI’m doing this.
Resting my forehead against the cool glass of the plane window, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. My mind has been racing since we took off from Kentucky a few hours ago, and as we’re nearing descent into California, my thoughts are no less settled.
Three weeks ago, I had a crazy idea to book a month-long stay at a dude ranch out west to help me get over my fears once and for all. Now that I’m almost there, however, I’m starting to have my doubts.
As the plane hurtles toward the runway, I open my eyes, inhaling sharply when the wheels touch down with a smack. Too late to turn back now.
See, I have a secret. I’m Kentucky Derby royalty. Between my grandparents and parents, we’ve secured places in the biggest horse race for decades. Sounds great, right?
It would be, except I’m absolutely petrified of horses. I have been ever since the accident.
I curl my fingers into fists, slamming my eyes closed against the memory of that day. It happened ten years ago, yet the panic filling my lungs makes it feel like I was just pulled out of the water.
My muscles jerk at the phantom waves tugging at my limbs, and tears burn my eyes when I hear the faint sound of a horse screaming in torturous pain.
Stop,I tell myself, concentrating on my breath. I inhale slowly, even though it feels like I’m breathing through a straw. Focusing on the breath, I let it fill my body, forcing the fear back down into the corner of my mind.
There’s no use getting worked up over anything right now. I should really save my panic attacks for when I’m face to face with horses again. I’ve tried working through the giant knot of fear on my own, but I can’t get past my fight or flight response. Most people would just avoid all things ranch and horse related, but that’s pretty hard to do when I’m surrounded by horses and the constant reminder of how fragile life is.
I’ve gotten around my fear by just never stepping foot in one of the barns or anywhere near the stables. Of course, my parents knew about my skittishness, but I didn’t want my classmates to know. I didn’t wantanyoneto know. How stupid is it for me to be afraid of the thing my family has done for decades?
Avoidance isn’t going to cut it anymore, however. Not when there’s real work to be done and no one left to do it.
Last year, my mom ran off with one of the hired hands on our ranch, leaving even more work for my poor father. Then, last month, my dad had a heart attack. He’s on the mend, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’ll be taking on more responsibility around the ranch.
Basically, I really,reallyneed to get over this phobia. Like, yesterday.
No pressure, or anything.
A dinging sound brings me back into the present, along with the flight attendant's voice over the speakers, announcing our arrival in California.
I’ll be spending the next month in sunny Sequoia, California, on the Ford Farm Dude Ranch. I booked the whole place to myself so no one will be there to witness me freak out.
Why am I the weakest link? It’s not like I’m the only person to have a traumatic accident involving a horse. Apparently, I’m just not strong enough to get over it.
That ends today.
Regaining some of my confidence and composure, I brush a few strands of my dark brown hair away from my eyes as I head down the ramp of the plane and into the airport. I keep my head down as I make my way through the terminal, toward baggage claim.
Leaning against the back wall, I check my phone as I wait for my bag to come out. I have no new messages, and I try to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I know my dad is busy on the farm and he’s supposed to be resting more and taking it easy since his heart attack. I understand him not checking in, even if it hurts a little.
I guess I was hoping one of my friends would have reached out to me. Growing up on a multi-million dollar farm is kind of lonely. All of my friends are kids who went to my fancy private school or kids who live on nearby farms. Everyone back home is obsessed with fashion and having designer brands, but I can’t relate.
I’d rather have my nose in a book or be curled up in my pajamas watching a movie at home than go out to some fancy party or get my nails done. That made me the odd one out already. Add in that I was always finding new excuses to not be around horses, and my friend group quickly dwindled to almost no one.
Even the friends I’ve managed to keep aren’t that close. I’m always the third wheel whenever we go out and sometimes, I swear that they’re talking in code. I never get half of their references and since I don’t watch reality tv, I’m not up to date on the gossip they all share.
Still, I thought maybe someone would text and say they were going to miss me. Is that a horribly bratty thing to want? To be missed?
Shrugging away that depressing thought, I spot my bag on the luggage carousel and hurry to grab it. It takes me only a few minutes to pick up my rental car, and then I’m making my way out into the sweltering California heat toward the dude ranch.
Ford Farm Dude Ranch is in Sequoia, California which is about an hour and a half outside of Los Angeles. I stop for food before I turn onto the highway toward Sequoia. I try to think about anything besides horses and where I’m going to be spending the next thirty days while I drive but it’s no use.
My heart is racing and my hands are beyond clammy as I make the final turn onto the Ford Ranch drive. I pass an old sign with the Ford Farm logo faded. Someone has spray-painted "Stud Farm" over the faded part, and I frown, wondering what that means as I drive past.