who: open [0/4] where: waneoft country club
Andi hangs over the edge of the porch, like wilting daffodil, a braid drooping in the bruised dusk. She’s back from the paddocks, still tasting the salt of the wind, already resenting switching out her boots. The horses are restless in the field, swishing their tails against the early summer gnats, stomping at ghosts only they can see. The sun sets the hillsides on fire as it dips behind the far line of oaks, and everything takes on that golden hush—the one that says don’t trust the quiet.
She's slung the back doors of the country club wide open, letting the linen curtains balloon out like sails in a wind too polite to rattle the glasses. Andi sucks on an ice cube, slow and thoughtful, tapping her heels against the weathered porch boards like a clock trying to remember time. Her blouse, linen and butter-soft, is cuffed with mother-of-pearl, the kind no one bothers to fake.
There’s someone at the end of the drive. She has to squint against the light, the shape of them all shimmer and no detail. Still, she smiles, like a field unfurling after drought.
“You’re either lost or curious,” she calls out. “Either way, there’s a cold drink if you make it to the porch.” She waves them over, hand easy, like she’s offering sanctuary. She is - and isn’t. The offer is real - but she also wants to know who they are. There's a part of her counting heartbeats, cataloging posture, watching for how the shadow at the end of the drive moves. She wants to know if this is a friend or a threat. She doesn’t like the look of the woods once the sun slides under. Doesn’t want her horses out there. Not anymore. Not since she learned what waits in the dark, patient as inheritance.
