Page 2 of When Hearts Collide
But family always comes first.
Jerome whistles, ignoring my buzzing phone. “Look at this motherfucker.” His black boot toes the hog on the ground. “Dead center, Ryland. Perfect shot.”
He crouches down and eyes the animal. “Too bad for you, buddy. Can’t escape fate.”
My heart plummets, my fingers shaking as I hold the vibrating phone in a death grip.
Can’t escape fate.
Life has a way of curling invisible chains around your hands, dragging you off to a predetermined fate, and no amount of kicking and screaming will set you free.
The thought sobers me, and I blow out an exhale, my breath coming out in a white plume. The wild boar, a large beast that terrorized the rest of his herd and strutted around like the king of the grasslands a little while ago, is still, its beady eyes unfocused toward the clear blue sky, facing a freedom he’ll no longer experience.
It’s another futile attempt for me to rewrite history.
The small scar on my right eyebrow flashes in phantom pain. A reminder all freedom comes at a cost. There are often unforeseen circumstances.
I stare at the dead hog.
I won. You lost. Again.
The victory is hollow. For the first time, the thrill of the hunt is short-lived. Muted. The sharp, serrated knife has finally dulled at the edges after years of use. It still cuts, but with more effort and energy, the satisfaction of the knife slicing through thick slabs of meat like butter no longer there.
The buzzing of the phone stops and begins again.
I shake my head to dispel the thoughts. Breathing deeply, I press answer. “Miss me already? I’ve only been gone for two weeks.”
Maxwell’s deep chuckles come across the line and I crouch down, pull out twines of rope and other supplies, and prepare the hog for our descent back to base camp. My fingers deftly tie the rope around the boar in a combination of clove hitch and square knots, the motions as natural to me as breathing. It’s a ritual I have every time I make a kill. I need to be the one to prepare the carcass, to pay my respects, the least I could do to honor the fallen prey.
He murmurs, “Just checking to see if the wilderness has finally gotten to you. I don’t understand your fascination with hunting. It’s barbaric, not to mention dangerous.”
“Says the man who regularly risks his life racing motorcycles and fast cars. Pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think?”
Finishing up, I step back and motion to Jerome and his assistant. They can do with the meat whatever they want. I don’t care. It’s always about the thrill of the chase for me. I know they will redistribute the meat to other people as they always do after each hunt. Slinging my sleek Christensen Ridgeline FFT rifle over my shoulders, I hike back toward base camp.
Maxwell stays silent, no doubt reflecting on something I said. We may be fraternal twins, but we’re two sides of the same coin. He’s the silent, stoic one—a man of a few words, heavier burdens, and I’m the outward face of the family, the epitome of wealth and success.
All smokescreens, fake smiles and even faker charm for press junkets, when all I want to do is snarl at them. But the public eats it all up.
“How’s LA treating you? Things aren’t the same without you here,” Maxwell asks.
I hear the faint sounds of classical music echoing in the background, a song from Puccini’s La Bohème, the melody rich and heartbreaking, with the unique scratchiness of the vinyl record playing from our vintage phonograph, and I smile. Maxwell is predictable this way. He must be at the estate, his preferred place of solace.
“I’ll be back before you know it. The company will survive without me and the IPO isn’t for another year or two.”
I kick a pebble on the ground. “And Edmund only needs me to cover for him for his courses for a few months at ULA while he steps away for his family emergency. I’m happy to help. Is everyone doing all right?”
I’d stay behind to teach full-time if life allowed me, if I could shed my heavy cloak of responsibilities. The intoxicating rush of satisfaction when I see my students’ eyes sparkle with newfound knowledge is unparalleled.
Academia was a dream I shared with Mom; a woman cruelly taken away from us too soon. And now it’s a dream I carry alone.
“Same old shit. Rex is partying it up with some flavor of the week. Ethan is brooding over something, but he’s tight-lipped about it, and Lana is in Paris for a business trip. We had a family dinner at the estate last week.”
My chest briefly warms as I think about my younger siblings. Despite my resentment toward the obligations of being an Anderson, I love Dad and my siblings with all my heart.
I close my eyes and breathe in the crisp air, which carries a hint of earthiness mixed with fresh morning dew on golden grasses and fallen leaves. The smell of freedom.
I’ll never be “just Ryland,” but out here, somewhere near Bitterwater Valley in Central California, I’m as close to him as I can be.