Sweetest Obsessions - Anthology

by Anthony, Jane

  "That's great," I falsely congratulate him. "It's a great opportunity for you and the guys."

  "That's the other part of it. It's just me. Warner Brothers offered me a solo deal." Shock must clearly register on my face, because Alex winces, when he sees my reaction.

  "Are you really okay with that?"

  "No, I wouldn’t have gotten here without them, but they only want me. I talked to the guys already, and they're good with it." I guess it shouldn’t come as a surprise since Warner Brothers only invited Alex down for a live audition versus the rest of the band over spring break. Bobby, their drummer, already announced his departure the minute he got a full ride scholarship to play football at Purdue University in northern Indiana. The band was essentially done the minute Alex signed on the dotted line. He leans back against the seat with a hard thump. "This is what I've always wanted, but moving away from home, from family, and from you, it's a lot to give up for this opportunity," he says with a slight emphasis on the part about me. "I want you to promise me that, even though I'll be a few states away, that we'll still be friends."

  "We’ve already gone over this a million times, Alex. Nothing is going to change between us," I reassure him. "Three hours isn’t that long of a drive.” The most convincing lie of my life is slipping easily from my lips. He smiles over at me, while the lie burns my throat, as I swallow the truth. The distance is going to change everything. He will get out there, make a name for himself, and then disappear. It’s a child's whimsical dream to think that this won’t change who we are, or who we could be in the future. This is Alex's dream, and for tonight, until he leaves, I won’t squander away a single memory, knowing that they will be our last. Even if I don’t have him, I will still have those to look back upon later.

  "Ready to go?"

  I take a deep breath, plastering the best smile that I can muster on my face, as my heart shatters into a thousand, tiny, jagged pieces. "As I'll ever be."

  I’m losing my best friend, and there is nothing I can do about it, but pretend to be happy for him, as I die inside, while I dance with him at our prom.

  Alex is going to become a star, and I will fade into the shadows of his limelight.

  2

  4 Years Later

  “Time to get up, Lizzy,” my dad calls out from the other side of the door, before his heavy footsteps trail down the hallway towards the kitchen. My weary eyes crack open, and immediately, I take note of the lack of the sun, peering into my windows, and the time on the alarm clock next to my bed. Four thirty in the morning. After years of this schedule, you’d think I would have gotten used to it by now, but I haven’t. When you work on a farm, there are no days off and no sleep-ins. Just naps in the barn in-between milking, feeding, and stall cleaning. I live the glamorous, shit-covered farm life. Let me tell ya, farm life is about as far as you can get from Hollywood in Kentucky.

  Slipping from my warm bed and bidding the covers goodbye, I stalk to my dresser and pull out my work clothes. A Moulton Dairy Farm gray t-shirt with a flannel long sleeve over it to keep me warm, and my favorite pair of ripped jeans. I run a quick comb through my unruly, morning hair, and then toss it up in a ponytail. With the addition of deodorant and a pair of thick boot socks, I trudge from my room towards the fatty, delicious smell of bacon, coming from the kitchen. Our white Labrador, Pete, meets me at the doorway with a wag of his tail.

  “Morning, Petey,” I greet him with a pet to his head. “Ready for breakfast?” He yips, before bolting down the hallway. How Dad trained Pete to wait to eat, until we all sat down for breakfast, still blows my mind. Even at four-years-old, the routine is the same. He waits for me at my door, and when we are all around the table, then he eats without a single command. He even goes so far as to bring his bowl to my dad to inspect, before we head out for the morning to start milking. Pete is unique, I’ll give him that. He’s too smart for his own puppy good. Even the dog trainer that Dad hired, to work with him for hunting season, remarked on his advanced intelligence. You can tell him to go find a specific toy, and he’ll find it and bring it to you, but he will only chase after it, if you are sitting in a specific chair on the porch. Dad’s cedar rocker. How he knows that I don’t think I’ll ever understand. His white, furry head pops around the corner of the kitchen entryway, checking to see if I’m coming. Pushy little shit.

  I make my way into the kitchen just as Mom puts down a bowl of scrambled eggs in front of Dad, who is reading the local paper. Mom smiles, as I pop into my place at the end of the table, and then start to fill my plate. She brings over a glass of water, before sitting down herself. Meals times at our house are rather quick and quiet. When you have a decent size herd of heifers ready to be milked, you don’t dally on small talk. Work is more important. After a few big bites and a gulp of my water, I push away from the table, slip on my shit kickers, sitting on the rug near the front door, and then head right out into the brisk, but fresh spring air. A shiver from the change in temperature has me tugging my flannel shirt closer to my body. The warm, summer mornings should come any day now. I’ve been over the cold, since the first snowball last November.

  Small operations like ours are becoming a thing of the past, as the industry moves towards larger, automated farms. In the last three years, we’ve struggled not only with keeping the farm, but with being able to pay the few hands we can afford. Mostly local teens, who are looking for hands-on work experience through their Future Farmers of America program at the high school. Last year, we sold off the remaining farm ground to the locals, who leased it from us to make our loan payments. This year, I’m afraid we’ll have to start culling the herd for slaughterhouse sales, if things don’t start to look up for us. Life has been hard on our family, but Dad is determined not to see the Moulton Dairy Farm go under on his watch, and so am I. Despite knowing that we can’t fully automate the farm without a mass amount of capital investment, and money doesn’t grow on trees around here. Believe me, I’ve checked.

  I pry open the bar door, and twenty pairs of Holstein eyes lock onto me. Like clockwork, they begin to bellow and moo, lining up inside the inner pen nestled inside of the barn from the pasture. Like the more significant operations, a routine is critical. Most heifers prefer to be milked about every twelve hours, making it easier on us, when it came time. Five in the morning and five a night. It’s like the mooing clockwork, and let me tell you, if you are late, they will let you know.

  “Good morning, ladies,” I call out to them, grabbing one of the metal buckets, hanging over the barn’s sink from where I left it to dry last night, and then turn on the faucet, letting one of them fill up. Mooella, one of our oldest heifers and my four-legged arch rival, leans her head over the top pen and tries to take a bite out of me. Named after Cruella di Ville from 101 Dalmatians, she truly lives up to her name.

  “Hey!” I shout at her. “I’m moving as fast as I can. Stop trying to eat me.” She snorts back. “Quit sassing me, or you’ll get milked last.” Mooella gives me a look. The same one I’ve seen her give a few of the younger heifers in the herd, when they try to bulldoze their way to the feeding troughs ahead of her. She may be older, but this one knows how to hold a grudge.

  I reach over the fence, grabbing her harness, and lead her into one of the milking stations to the left of the inner pen. I tie her off to the post in front, before stepping back over the sink and tossing a clean sponge inside. Mooella fidgets in the stall, flicking her tail into my face.

  “You about done showing off?” I warn her.

  Crouching into a kneel, I take the sponge, wetting it with clean water, and then clean off her teats. A quick inspection of them and her udder later, I hook up Mooella to the milking system and let it do its work. The machine hums along, while I bring in two more heifers into the adjacent stalls, mimicking the same process, until all fifty head in this pasture are finished a few hours later with the help of our newest hand, Connor, before he heads off to class at the local high school. Although, he is one of our more inexper
ienced workers, he is a fast learner. With my set done, I check on Dad in the other barn, before getting to work on clearing out the stalls and using the Bobcat to fill the troughs with feed.

  By noon, everything is nearly finished up, until the next round of milking. Mom makes us a quick lunch, before I head to my room, just down the hallway from the kitchen, to get a shower and a change of clothes. Usually, I use the few hours of downtime I get to catch up on my Netflix or to squeeze in a quick nap, but today, I have to grab a few things for Mom from the small grocery store in town. Not that we have many options on where to shop.

  Willow Branch is a metropolis of a locally owned grocery store and butcher shop, two gas stations, one with a Subway inside, and more than enough churches to pray for the entire state of Kentucky. Amenities are definitely a rarity around here. There was a rumor a while back with the new wind farms popping up around us that it would bring more business in the area, but that was a rumor that died quicker than flowers on the first frosty morning of fall. Willow Branch is never going to be a bustling town. A revelation that took a long time for me to accept, when leaving it became an improbable option, after my brother left the farm for greener, more lucrative pastures, as an engineer. Not that I blamed him. Ryan was meant for more than the daily farm grind. I, on the other hand, seem to be built for the work. More so, I honestly enjoy it outside of the ass crack of dawn wake-up calls. It’s a fulfilling feeling to know you are a part of your family legacy, and that feeling is enough for me. I don’t need much to be happy. Simplicity at its finest.

  “Heading into town, Mom,” I call out, while breezing through the kitchen, snatching her list and the truck keys from the counter, before heading out of the door and into Big Red, my Ford F350 diesel. Well, the farm’s truck, but deep down, there is an unwritten rule that Big Red is mine. Just ask me. Hauling my ass into the lifted interior of the truck, I wait until the engine is primed, before starting it. The rumble of the diesel engine flares to life with one twist of the key.

  The local country radio station fills the cab with one of my former best friend's songs, blaring through the speakers. His smooth, deep tones cause a shiver down my spine and all the hair on my arm to prickle. Just like it did back in high school, when I was in the crowd, watching him sing on stage. I can’t deny his voice still affects me, even after he broke his promise to “keep in touch” within a few months. The calls became more infrequent, texts went unanswered, and visits home were non-existent. Alex had a new life. One without me or anyone else, who was there at the beginning of his career, in it. Just as I had predicted it would happen. Fame has a funny way of separating you from your youthful pursuits and roots.

  It has been years, since Alex stepped foot in our small hometown. The broken promise still stung, but I knew it would happen, the second he got a taste of the high life. Those who succeed tend to forget about those who were there in the beginning. Even more so, when you had your pick of Hollywood starlets and other country singers, begging to be on your arm at the next awards show. Not that I was keeping count or anything. When Alex won his first County Music Award a year ago, that’s exactly when I knew I had lost him for good, when my congratulatory call went straight to voicemail. As his star shined brighter, the more the one between us grew dimmer. Even his own parents fled for the bright lights of Nashville, leaving their house empty for almost an entire year.

  “I hope y’all enjoyed the new single from Kentucky native Alex McCloud from his upcoming album, Small Town Life,” the male radio host casually drops in, when the song ends.

  I roll my eyes, as I peel out of the driveway and head towards town. Alex McCloud knows nothing about the small-town life. Not the struggles to keep your family business afloat, or the long hours of zero pay that goes along with it. Instead, he chose to sing about driving down a backwoods road with a country girl in a string bikini, and her feet up on the dash. The typical country hit song pattern. The real Alex McCloud’s music is more meaningful. His lyrics and voice are intoxicating, when he isn’t pushing this pre-written Nashville bullshit. His original songs were anthems about our lives, and our adventures together as kids. Not this overly produced dribble that masquerades as a country hit, repeating the same story over and over again. Just like, girls in bikinis with their feet up on the dashboard. Country really needs to find something new to sing about.

  “The rumor mill is buzzing about Alex McCloud,” the female show host interrupts. “Seems that his rumored love affair with country star, Taylor Aldean, may be heating up.” A jingle for their local music news section chimes, as she continues on with the story, but I turn off the radio, electing to ride in silence, instead of listening to them go on and on about Alex’s new woman. His love life has never included me, so why start caring now. He’s the only man that I’ve ever loved, and if I let him, he will continue to break my heart hundreds of miles away over and over again with each new girl that graces his arm. I learned a long time ago that blocking it out is the only way to stop my heart from hurting, when it comes to him.

  Stuck inside my own head, I think and drive, until the little local grocery store pops up on my left. I find a spot quickly, pulling in near the door. Mrs. Smith, Willow Branch’s most infamous gossiper, toddles out of the automatic door with a young boy behind her. The grimace on his face is clear as day. If I had to wait hand and foot on that woman every day, I’d probably have the same look myself. She is the worst of the worst in a small town. She knew your business, before you ever did. Cross her, and you’ll be the subject of her latest ladies group round table discussion.

  I jump down from the truck, offer her a pleasant good afternoon, and slip inside without any further chance of pissing her off. With a quick walk to the back of the store, I find the meat counter. Each of the cuts in the case, come from the local farmers. It might be a bit more expensive on an already tight budget, but the Driscoll’s support the local farmers. They even go to the 4-H auction every year and buy livestock from the kids. Just like they did for us by buying our milk off the shelves of the same establishment. Small town living at its best.

  Mr. Driscoll, the owner and the head meat cutter, pops his bald head over the top with a smile.

  “Got your order already for you, Lizzy.” He places four white paper packages on the top of the counter. “Need anything else?”

  “That’s it,” I answer back, as I reach and toss the packages into the handbasket I had grabbed on my way towards the counter. “Have a good one, Mr. Driscoll.”

  He smiles, as I walk away. Pulling Mom’s list from my pocket, I grab the few remaining things she has on here, before heading to the checkout near the front of the store. Mrs. Driscoll greets me with a smile almost as big as her husbands, making quick work of the transaction. With a proper goodbye, I grab my haul and head back out to the truck just as my phone begins to buzz in my pocket. The groceries nearly fall from my grasp, as I try to fumble my phone from my pocket. Tossing them in the bed of the truck, I retrieve my phone and peer down.

  “Hey Dad,” I answer, pressing my phone between my shoulder and ear, as I try to open the door. “Mom need something else?” His booming voice yells from the phone.

  “Cows got out. Get home.” He hangs up without another word.

  “Dammit!” I yell with a punch to the steering wheel. The gears of Big Red grind, and a plume of black smoke billows from the dual exhaust pipes behind me, when I peel out from the parking lot and bust ass to get home, before they get too far. Chasing a cow is hard enough as it is. Dad’s usage of the plural form tells me this isn’t just one stubborn Holstein, making a break for it. I speed home, as I mentally hype myself up for the chase waiting for me.

  As our house comes into view, so does one of the heifers, standing dangerously close to the edge of the round, where it curves towards the McCloud’s property. Traffic is next to nothing this time of day, but I’m not about to take the chance of some kid, driving like a bat out of hell, coming upon her. I lay on the horn, startling her. She jumps
, but only moves closer to the road.

  “Are you serious, cow?” I grumble. “Do you have a death wish?” I say out loud, as an idea hits. Not a particularly good one, but it’s all that I have. Using the truck, I slowly roll up behind her rear and give her a small tap, and she moves this time towards the barn. “There you go.” She continues on with Big Red, and I’m hot on her hoofs all the way to the barn. Mom spots me and opens the gate, ushering her inside. Crisis averted.

  I kill the engine on the truck, hopping out and dashing straight to Mom. “How many got out? Where’s Dad?” She secures the latch, before pointing out to the west end of our property.

  “Ten at last count. Mooella attacked one of the new heifers and broke the fence. Your dad got it patched the best he could, before he took off after the rest. He’s out on the Gator, trying to lure’em back.”

  Mom quickly walks with me to the barn, where I retrieve a few leads to take with me. “I called The Troy’s. They’re on their way.”

  “You wait for them here,” I instruct her. “I’ll head over towards The McCloud’s. Mooella likes that creek bed. She’ll head that way.”

  I take off towards The McCloud’s, cursing the heifer’s name the entire way. It doesn’t take long to spot her against the dark woods that separate the property line. I slowly approach her one step at a time, praying she doesn’t bolt. The woods would be easier to navigate without vegetation this time of year, but I’m definitely not dressed for a muddy walk in the woods, after a stubborn ass cow with a mind of her own. See if she gets top billing tomorrow for milking. Two can play at the revenge game.