Page 151 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
For the first time in years—really light. No weight of what-if or what-was or what-could-be.
Just me, moving to the beat, letting it take my body the way I used to wish he would—fully and unafraid.
Then I felt it.
That stare.
The heavy one—the one that used to undo me.
I didn’t have to look to know. I did anyway.
And there he was, across the bar, one arm resting on the edge of the table in front of the mechanical bull, his drink untouched, and his eyes pinned on me like I’m something holy and forbidden all at once, watching something he’d lost, but never expected to miss.
Dark. Wanting. Ache behind the jaw.
And once upon a time, that stare would’ve cracked me wide open. I would’ve stopped dancing, walked to him, and let him pull me back into the mess.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I smile, not at him, but to myself, and close my eyes, letting the music take me deeper.
Not to tempt him.
Not to punish him.
Just because I finally can.
We dance for what feels like hours before we line up beside the railing bordering the mechanical bull.
Josie slaps her hands on her hips, sizing up her next conquest.
“This thing better put up a fight. I’m not here for no weak-ass buck,” she says.
“Hell, yeah.” Hannah tilts her head from side to side, as if she’s about to step into a wrestling match.
“She’s such a lightweight,” Natalie whispers to me. “She’s drunk enough to marry the bull if it moves right.”
“We need to start controlling her drinks,” I add.
“I can hear you both.”
My sister and I share a look and laugh.
“I’m tipsy, at best.” Hannah tries to speak clearly, but her words come out slurred.
I don’t go out drinking with my sisters often, but I’m pretty sure Hannah doesn’t either.
“I’ll make this bull beg to throw me off.” Josie sets her cell phone on the table behind us, where the guys are threading their way toward.
“That’s right.” Hannah adjusts her blouse. “You show it how a real cowgirl handles a wild one.”
“This is either going to be sexy or tragic.” Ceil knocks back the rest of her whiskey shot. “Y’all remember the last time she rode the bull at the lodge, right?”
“No.” Harper props her boot on the bottom rail and leans her hip on it, facing us.
“Exactly.” Celi twirls her empty glass in her hand.
“She was knocked off and never got back on.”
