Page 5 of Not Our First Rodeo
Right now, the house is cold, so I start by building a fire in the fireplace, making a mental note to chop more wood to fill the rack beside the hearth. I may not have been home in months, but it hasn’t stopped me from leaving piles of wood on the porch so Elsie never gets cold.
I warm my chilled hands over the cracking fire before heading into the kitchen. I’m not surprised to find that it isn’t well-stocked. Elsie has always been the healthier of the two of us, dedicated to fueling her body for the hours of ballet she’d practice every day. After her injury, the one that ended her dance career, she’d stopped eating except for when I was home to make her. She started wasting away. The light dimming from her eyes, the pallor seeping from her skin. Until she got pregnant and had a reason to take care of herself again.
When we lost the baby, she lost herself once more. The eating stopped, and so did the sleeping.
I’m happy to see leftovers in the fridge and fresh produce on the counter. It may not be the well-stocked kitchen it used to be, but it’s something. It’s evidence that she’s healing. Even if it’s without me.
I shove the thought away and get to work fixing breakfast. There are eggs and yogurt, so I decide to make scrambled eggsand parfaits. I’m finished with the eggs and cutting strawberries for the parfaits when Elsie pads into the kitchen, the blanket from our bed wrapped around her shoulders and her feet covered in fuzzy slippers.
It’s such a normal scene—me in the kitchen making breakfast, her walking in looking sleepy, her long hair a mess and eyes still bleary—that it almost makes me want to cry. A thick lump forms in my throat, and every bone in my body quakes to be closer to her, to feel her again, remind myself that she’s real and I’m here, not back in my too-quiet cabin, alone and dreaming. Without even realizing I’m doing it, I’m moving toward her, eating up the distance between us.
But then I notice the look on her face, and it stops me in my tracks. Bottom lip tucked between her teeth, eyes shuttered, and brows knit together. That look is regret. And guilt. And it feels like lead sinking in my gut, threatening to pull me under.
“I’m sorry, Beau,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “We—” she cuts herself off, looking for the words, eyes trained on the ceiling before they finally lower back to mine. Her shaking hands tighten on where she’s gripping the blanket beneath her chin. “That shouldn’t have happened.”
A rough exhale escapes me without my permission. I search her face, silently begging her to take it back. “You don’t mean that.”
Pain slashes over her features, like she knows she’s hurting me and it physically hurts her. I want nothing more than to erase it from her face. She’s felt enough pain in her lifetime, and I never want her to feel it again. It’s why I’ve stayed away when everything in my body rebels against it. If my leaving could keep her from hurting even a little, it was worth it.
“It shouldn’t have happened,” she says, sounding strangled. “I’m not ready for…us again.”
I swallow against the lump rising in my throat, my chest actually aching like she struck me there. Her words from two months ago come back to haunt me.
I need time. I don’t know who I am without dance. Or after…after losing the baby. I don’t know who I amat all. I need to figure myself out, get better. I can’t do that with you here.
Leaving was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I always thought after time, she would still wantme.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I search for the right words. I feel like I’m being strangled. Frustration claws at me, and time feels like it’s slipping through my fingers. I can’t leave again. She might need time, but I needher.
“Elsie—I—” A breath heaves out of me. “It’s been two months.”
Her eyes connect with mine, the blue of the summer Montana sky. “Sixty-three days.”
The fact that she’s been counting soothes some of the hurt roaring in my chest, but it still lingers. I need to touch her, feel her, beg her not to make me leave again. I dare to take a step closer. She looks so small, wrapped in our comforter, shivering either from cold or pain or nerves or a mixture of all three.
“Els, please,” I beg, not caring how my voice breaks, how desperate I sound. “Don’t make me leave again. We can figure this out together.”
For a moment, she almost looks like she might give in, like she might let me stay, but I see the moment the shutters drop over her eyes, and I know I’ve lost.
Her head shakes ever so slightly, looking like the movement is taking all her strength. “I can’t.” The words sound rough, like she’s forcing them out.
I want to protest, to tell her I’m not leaving. I want to push like I did last night, see if it makes her come alive again. But I don’t want to risk it having the opposite effect. I’ve never been able tostand seeing her hurting. So I force myself to nod, even though everything inside me is screaming to do the opposite. “Okay.”
Her shoulders slump and relief colors her features. I think we both know she would have caved if I’d pressed her, but I don’t want to. I want to come back when she’s ready, when she wants me to, even if every minute apart is ripping me to shreds.
It doesn’t keep me from drawing closer, from wrapping my arms around her, breathing in the achingly familiar scent of her—amber and vanilla, leftover perfume that I can imagine her spraying onto her neck last night. She sinks into me, inhaling the way I just did, digging her face into the crook of my neck.
We’ve always fit together so perfectly, like we were made with each other in mind.
“I made breakfast,” I say into her hair, the soft strands feeling like silk against my lips. “I can stay, if you want. Just to eat.”
She shakes her head, causing strands of her hair to get stuck in my mustache. Her voice is muffled by my neck when she says, “I have to go to work.”
I pull back, looking down at her, taking in all the familiar curves of her face—the pert nose tipped up to the sky, the blue eyes framed by lashes light enough to be almost invisible, the freckles covering her cheeks and forehead and nose, the berry-pink lips I love so much. Her eyes connect with mine. “You got a job?”
Warring emotions fight inside me. On one hand, I’m thrilled for her. Elsie is the most driven person I know, and being without a job has been difficult for her. On the other hand, I hate that I didn’t know. That I didn’t get to celebrate with her. That her life is happening without me.
“Yeah,” she says, a hand coming up from inside the blanket to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “At the dance studio. Ballet instructor.”
