Page 41 of Not Our First Rodeo
I think I’ve been bandaging my wounds for years instead of treating them. Now they’ve become infected and I finally have to fix it or risk damaging myself beyond repair.
Beau stares at me for a long moment, and the silence between us feels tangible, but not in a bad way.
“Okay,” he finally says, voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Thank you for being honest with me.”
I feel the words right in my chest. Like something warm that starts in its center and fans out, making me feel the glow all the way through my body. It gives me the courage to say, “We better go tell my parents we’re having a baby.”
He holds my gaze for a beat and asks, “You sure?”
No. But I think it will be easier with him there, having his hand to hold and his broad shoulders to lean on. So I say, “Yes.”
Myparentsaren’tpoorby any means. They live in a large house and run a profitable ranch in one of the most expensive states in America, but their wealth pales in comparison to Elsie’s parents. Growing up, I never knew much about my parents’ finances. They’re down-to-earth and don’t spend their money extravagantly. Elsie’s parents, however, live very differently.
I park my truck in front of their oversized house, and the two of us stare at it. I remember the first time I picked Elsie up here. We were sixteen, and I’d just used my entire savings from working at the ranch to buy this truck. I’d followed the GPS on my phone and pulled into a U-shaped driveway, the first driveway I’d ever been on that wasn’t dirt or gravel, but inlaid stones. In front of me was this sprawling house unlike any I’d ever seen in my small town. It was modern, with sharp, clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the mountains. Stunning, but out of place in this rugged slice of Montana. It was the kind of home that more and more rich out-of-towners would move here to build on land that they’d bought off struggling ranchers.
I didn’t like it then, and I’m not a fan now.
Beside me, Elsie sits with her hands clasped tightly in her lap. I used to think when she did that it was because she was unruffled or poised in the face of a challenge. Now I wonder if she does it to keep her hands from shaking. I’m starting to wonder how many tells she used to give me that I’ve missed, how many ways I’ve interpreted her incorrectly.
“You ready?” I ask.
Elsie squares her shoulders and lets out a breath through her nose. Now that I know what to look for, I’m surprised I didn’t see these little things for what they are—pushing nerves down, far beneath the surface.
“Yeah, let’s do this.”
My jaw tightens at the way her voice sounds, like she’s steeling herself. It’s what makes me blurt out, “Let’s make a signal.”
She rips her gaze away from the imposing house and finally looks at me, blue eyes confused but clear in the spring sunshine. “A signal?”
I nod, warring with the urge to turn around and drive home. But she’s right; we need to do this, even if I don’t like it. “For if we want to leave.”
“I’ll be fine, Beau,” she says, her voice unwavering.
I see a glimpse of the Elsie I’m more familiar with then, the one who doesn’t need help with anything.
“What if I’m not?” I ask.
She stares at me for a long moment, assessing. I wonder what she’s thinking in that brain of hers, and I hate that I can’t tell anymore. I hate that I’ve maybe never been able to tell, that what I thought all these years was actually wrong.
“You’ve never had a problem with them before,” she responds slowly, her eyes narrowed.
That’s not entirely true. Her parents have never been the biggest fans of me. They always thought I wasn’t good enoughfor her, that I was going to hold her back from her dreams—or theirs. Even when I left the only job I’d ever planned on having at my family’s ranch to follow her to Utah when she entered the dance academy there, they still thought I was going to distract her from her goals. Maybe I did, but I still think dance shouldn’t have been the only thing in her life. I think I was the first person to tell her that.
Still, despite their feelings about me, I’ve never had an issue being around them. I roll with their punches and let the not-so-subtle derogatory remarks they make about me, my family, and my family’s ranch slide right off my back, because I know their opinion of me doesn’t really matter.
So Elsie knows I’m trying to give her a way out now, and she doesn’t like it. I can see her deciphering my intentions and building her walls back up, brick by brick. I’m desperate to keep them down.
“Fine, no signal,” I say, “but I’m not making any promises to keep my mouth shut.”
Elsie’s eyes widen. Years ago, after the first time I watched Elsie perform live, I remember searching for her in the crowd of dancers being congratulated by their families on their performance and finding her with her mom, who was criticizing her for the way her foot turned out during one dance. She was saying it looked sloppy and that she’d never get accepted by a company performing like that. I may have been fine with her mom talking to me like I wasn’t worth a damn, but I wasn’t going to stand for her talking to Elsie like that.
I walked up to them and made some kind of comment of the sort, but Elsie told me to stop, that it was fine and her mom was right. Later that night, with her flowers sitting in the middle of the bench seat between us in my truck, she told me that she appreciated what I was trying to do, but that it wasn’t necessary. That her mom was just helping.
I bit my tongue then, but I’m not feeling particularly like I want to anymore.
“Fine, let’s make a signal,” Elsie says with a sigh.
I should feel rewarded, but I hate the way this makes her sound tired, like I’m just another task she has to conquer today.
