Page 15 of When We Met

Pushing on the cow’s head, he tries to move it away from him, but it’s been my experience that cows never listen. They do whatever the fuck they want. To prove my point, look at it. It’s licking the side of his face.

Morgan frowns at the cow. “Knock it off.” He blows out a heavy breath, frowning, and wipes his sleeve over his cheek. Shifting his weight, he removes his gloves, shaking his head. “Fuck. I can’t even explain it.”

“Hopefully you have a better answer for your wife.”

He sighs, staring out at the field, dark brown eyes that hold regret scanning the land we’ve called home our entire lives. “I don’t though.”

“Do you not want to be with Carly?”

“It’s not like that. I love Carly, and I didn’t want to hurt her. I just… I can’t resist Lil. I never have been able to. Last night was… I don’t even know. Fucking tequila.”

I laugh. “It’s always made you crazy.”

“You’re telling me.”

His senior year in high school, he got shitfaced on tequila and went streaking on the football field during the homecoming game. Graduation, he drove his truck through the side of our barn, and when he turned twenty-one, finally able to legally drink it, he did and decided riding a bull buck naked would be a good idea. He can’t father children. That’s how that played out.

Moral of this story? Morgan shouldn’t drink tequila.

Straightening his posture, he kicks his boot against the fence post he repaired. “I feel like shit.”

Reaching up, I adjust my beanie cap on my head over my ears. “Are you going to tell her?”

“She’s going to find out.”

“If she hasn’t already.”

He sniffs, rubbing his hand over his running nose and then the side of his face. He chews on his bottom lip and then regards me once more. “She asked me for a divorce the other day.”

“Carly did?”

He nods.

“So that’s why you drank tequila?”

Another nod. “Still… I shouldn’t have with Lillian.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” It makes more sense now though. Morgan loves Carly. “Was Carly serious, or was this a ‘you’re always working and I’m lonely’ plea?”

He considers my question, as if he’s trying to recall the conversation in his head. “No. It’s real. She told me two weeks ago she wanted a divorce. This morning there were divorce papers on the counter for me to sign.”

“Whoa.” My conversation with Tara flashes in my head.

“Sign the papers, Barron. Stop sending them back.”

“Honey, I want you out of my life just as badly at this point, but until you give me what I want, you’re staying married to me.”

I turn my head toward him. “Had you been fighting?”

“Every goddamn night,” he hisses, reaching inside his jacket for a flask. “For about the last year.”

I watch him down a shot, and then another. “That’s not tequila, is it?”

“Fuck no.” He looks over at me, screwing the cap back on and sending it my way. “Now I wonder what the fuck’s the point in telling her. She made up her mind on it already without talking to me about it.”

I take my own shot and hand it back to him. “I suppose so.” But then my thoughts immediately shift to Tara. I snort, my anger surfacing. I’ve been here. For the last three goddamn years. “I don’t understand women.”

Morgan laughs, the sound low and rough, much like his personality. I bet you their talk went something like this:“I’m lonely, Morgan.”

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