Page 31 of Dallas

“I worked at an auto parts store. It wasn’t a great fit. Men were always trying to get close to me, and I didn’t like that. I quit shortly after I started. I moved to Sherwood and started working at a diner, so that’s what set me up on that path. I decided to move to a smaller town to pay lower rent. Ended up in Winston, then in Sisters about six months later. I started doing school online, I started working at Daisy’s. I’d managed to keep anyone from getting to know me too well. I was just starting to change that when Chris showed up in Sisters.”

“I have a hard time imagining that you were mean to anyone,” he says.

“I was. Especially in high school. I was. You said that you lost it after I left, but I didn’t fare much better. I ran away from home once, but my mom made me too afraid to keep doing that. Because the first time I got dragged back, her boyfriend hit me and then made it very clear that if I kept behaving like that, my mom wouldn’t protect me if he decided to do…other things to me. And when men say things like that, I pay attention.”

“Your mom is a monster,” Dallas says, looking at me with hard, blue eyes.

“I mean, I definitely could’ve made things easier for myself.”

“No,” he says, his voice uncompromising. “She’s a monster. Because not only did she fail to protect you, she used that failure to manipulate you later. She kept menaround who were more than willing to hurt you, whether it was doing her bidding or not. You deserved better.”

“Thanks. I agree. It doesn’t change anything.”

I feel guilty about that the minute the words exit my mouth. I’m showing him a little of my sharper side. The ways that I’ve kept people distant from me, but I know he means well, it’s just that if I had a nickel for every time someone heard my story and said that things should’ve been different, I could’ve financed my college education by now. Wishing that things were different, knowing that they should’ve been, doesn’t change anything.

I suppose it’s not fair. Because people freaking out when they hear what happened to me annoys me too. People ignoring it. But then also the hyper-empathy, like they might cry hearing about my past irritates me too, and maybe the problem is me. As far as being able to have friends, as far as being able to connect with anyone.

Maybe it’s still me.

“I know it doesn’t change anything,” he says, his voice low. “But you need to know it. Really know it. You need to feel like you deserved better.”

“Why. So, I can make it better? Like it’s my responsibility to fix all the bullshit?”

“No,” he says, reaching out and grabbing me by the chin. All the breath rushes from my body. I can’t move. I can’t think. I can’t do anything but stare into his blue eyes, warring with a feeling in my chest that’s too big for me to breathe past. A feeling that I wish I wasn’t having. A feeling that I want to alchemize into anger, but I can’t. Because he smells so good, and he’s just so beautiful. And quite apart from anything else, he’s Dallas Dodge. The one man who’s ever meant anything to me.

“It’s not because I think that you’re responsible for fixing anything. It’s because I’m afraid that somewhere inside yourself, maybe you think you deserve it. And when you tell me things like… How you weren’t nice to people, when you frame it that way, I worry that maybe you blame yourself for where you are. You shouldn’t. I say it, because what I want you to know is how egregious it is. We both deserved better. But God, you deserved so much more than what you got.”

I take a deep breath and move away from him, swallowing hard, turning away. Trying to minimize the feeling that’s making me shake. “I appreciate that. I know that. There’s just no point going over any of it, okay? There’s nothing I can do about it. It happened. And I’m not excusing my behavior. Yeah. I’m traumatized. A lot of people are traumatized. But I think it’s taken way too long for me to figure out what to do with that trauma. I think it’s taken me way too long to try and figure out how to connect with people.” What I don’t tell him is that I still can’t bear to be touched.

Even his mom hugging me earlier today bothered me.

I didn’t want to say it, I didn’t want to react, because I know the problem is me. But I feel like I’m frozen in time, stuck with all this baggage that I can’t do anything about.

I can feel as bad about it, or as angry about it as I want, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m the one who has to live with the consequences of all of this, and so I’m the one who has to just… Get over it.

But it’s a lot harder to do than it should be. That makes me angry. Because I wish–I really wish–that I could just make it go away. But it’s always there.

I turn away from him. It’s safer than standing there like that. I don’t know which of us needs the safety. Me or him. I don’t usually feel unpredictable. I’m very boring, and veryself-protective, but right now I feel shaky. Right now, I feel like an unknown even to myself, and that has me frightened. Terrified of what I might do to implode this gift that I’ve been given. This new network, this new family with Dallas. With Gold Valley.

As we get into the truck and head back toward his house, I remind myself of exactly who he is. Who I am. And why it’s so important that I never forget.

Chapter Eight

Dallas

Sarah retreats to her room for the better part of the afternoon, until it’s time to go to dinner at the family house.

She emerges looking beautiful. So beautiful that for a moment I have to pause to catch my breath.

One of the first things I noticed when I saw her at the rodeo was how pretty she’s gotten.

Her dark hair curls just slightly, framing her face. Her cheeks are round and naturally rosy. She has a dimple on the left side of her face, and that is the part of her face now that reminds me most of her face when she was a kid. But it’s changed along with the rest of her. The context of where it sits now feeling less cute, and more enticing.

She is not very tall. She only comes up to my shoulder, her frame petite, her figure neat and lovely. I really shouldn’t be looking at her figure. That is the very last thing I should be looking at, and I make sure to force my eyes upto hers the moment they’re tempted to drop to examine her body.

“My mom said she made spaghetti,” I say.

“Oh. Sounds good,” she says.

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