Page 111 of Ride Me Cowboy

“It’s okay,” she says. “I mean, it’s weird, but okay.”

I shake my head, though. “He was kind to me when I needed it—he helped fix me, because that’s what he does. It wasn’t special. It didn’t mean anything. I think, because of everything I’d been through, I just couldn’t see that clearly, even though he explicitly told me.”

“Mmm.” She doesn’t sound convinced.

“It’s okay,” I repeat.

“It’s just, he looked like he wanted to maul me with his bare hands,” she says, thoughtfully. “He looked like he’d throw you behind him and take a bullet to save your life.”

My heart speeds up, because I can well imagine Cole looking like that. But the reality of Cole stops me from letting her words lift my spirits. “That’s just who he is. He’d look that way for someone he just met. He’s a protector. I wasn’t special. Not to him.”

The more I say it, the more I hope I’ll finally get it through my head. That I’ll stop thinking about him constantly, remembering all the ways he made me feel like Iwasspecial. Like what we shared was the sum total of everything he wanted in life.

“Anyway,” I stand up, a little uneasily, moving toward the window and looking down onto the street below. People are tiny little specks, flitting on the sidewalk. Cars jerk slowly through the traffic. “I’ve decided I need to pack up our apartment.” I glance at Elsie, for her reaction. She’s nodding slowly, though, which gives me strength. “I can’t live there again. It’s too hard.”

My voice cracks and Elsie is moving, rushing across to me and hugging me, telling me again, how very, very sorry she is. It’s not her apology to give, and yet, somehow, it floods into crevices of my body, gluing together parts of my pain, making me whole in different ways. Healing is a multi-faceted thing, and this conversation has brought me a step closer.

Cole

There is a strange desolation that comes out of loss. I knew it after mom. That emptiness sat with me a real long time. Hell, it’s still in me. With dad, it was different. That hollow feeling of grief was tangled up with anger at him for getting himself killed, even when I suspect I’d have done the exact same thing, in his position. Betrayal, too, because of what we’ve lost on the ranch,what he’s exposed us to. I know he probably thought there’d be time to sort it out, that none of us might ever need to know.

Yeah, I’ve known desolation before, but this is different.

Departure isn’t death.

Beth not being here isn’t because shecan’tbe. It’s because I told her to leave. Sitting alongside this godawful sensation of having had my insides carved from my body, this feeling that I’m walking like a zombie through my life, is the knowledge that it’s because of me.

If I could have done what she asked and opened myself up to the risk of loss that comes from loving someone, if I could have just kept my big mouth shut and not suggested she leave, Beth might still be here, and maybe all that love stuff would have blown over. Maybe she would have loved me, but still decided to get back to her life. Who can say?

All I know is that there’s a localized apocalypse hanging over me. The sun has been extinguished, for all the light it gives me, and the nights are torture for how damn lonely I am. For how much I miss her. For how much I want to hold her.

The thing about Beth is, she’s right. Exactly what she said in her letter, about me breathing my way into her heart and soul: that’s how I feel. I can’t take a breath without feeling her in me. I can’t speak without hearing what she might say in reply. And her letter is etched in my mind, the words tumbling over themselves all day long.

And in one sense, I know she’s right.

I don’t need to fight this battle on my own.

I pushed Beth to be honest, and she was, even when it hurt like hell. Even when it scared her. She faced that fear, that hesitation, and she did it anyway. So, what kind of hypocrite does it make me, if I can tell her to bare her soul but I’m not willing to do the same?

I called this family meeting in that spirit.

Everyone’s looking at me warily. I guess I’ve been different, ever since she left. In fact, that night with the letters was the last time we’ve all sat down at the table. I’ve taken over the bookwork for the last two weeks, giving Reagan the rest of the time she asked for, without putting the job onto anyone else.

Because sitting at Beth’s desk, doing what Beth once did, makes me feel close to her. It’s all so fucking pathetic.

“Cole, what’s going on?” Nash asks, glancing across at Beau. Yeah, even Beau’s come back for the meeting. That’s how seriously they’re taking this.

I stare at the woodgrain table, that we grew up having meals around. The table that housed our full, loud, happy family, when mom was around, bustling in the kitchen. The same table that heard our grief, our shouted conversations, as we tried to process what had happened. The table dad sat right here, at the head of, for so many years, where I now am, and I realize it’s been the backdrop to so many family meals. It’s almost like dad’s here with us now.

I take a deep breath, aware of what I’m about to take from my siblings, as well as Caleb and Mack. The hero worship they felt for dad, the way the scales are gonna fall from their eyes.

But I have to do it. The thing is, I just don’t know if I can save this place on my own, and if saving it is the most importantthing in the world, then I have to put that first. Even if it means disappointing dad. Even if it means admitting defeat.

“What I’m about to say is going to come as a shock.”

Nash’s eyes narrow. “You’re quitting?”

I visibly recoil, staring at him like he’s just said I’m half cat. “What the hell? No, I’m not quittin’. Why the hell would you say that?”

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