Page 30 of Craving Her Cowboy
I’m not here to ask you to forgive me. I don’t even know if you should—
That, too, was struckthrough. The page showed the record of his failure. He flexed his fingers until the joints popped, then ran his palm back and forth along his scalp, the gesture so hard it pulled at the skin above his ear. He forced his eyes shut, counted to five, and tried to ignore the feeling of loss churning in his stomach.
This shouldn’t be so hard. He’d written resignations, apologies, even condolence notes for men he’d seen bleed out in the dust. He’d never once needed more than a minute to say what he meant. But this was her, Asha, and she made words turn to static in his head.
He started again. This time, the pen moved slower.
Asha,
I'm not good at this. You know that. I've spent my whole life learning how to keep my mouth shut unless I was on the defensive, but I can't leave without telling you what's in my heart.
What I wanted to say—what I can't seem to say to your face—is that you changed everything for me. Not by fixing me. Just by seeing me. All of me. Even the broken parts.
He paused. Jaw clenched, breath coming sharp and uneven. He stared at the words, then at the clock. 7:16.
He pictured her. Her beautiful brown skin. The way her eyes softened sometimes when she thought he wasn't looking. His chest ached with a pain so clean and bright it felt like healing.
He forced himself to keep going.
I want you to come with me. But I want you to choose what makes you happy more. If that's not me, I understand. I'll carry what we had here back with me to Virginia. I just wanted to matter. Not to the ranch, not to my father, just…to you.
Whatever you decide, thank you for showing me I could feel this way again.
The pen hovered. He considered signing his name, but it felt performative. Instead, he let the words die there. He put the pen down, closed his eyes again, and listened to the silence in the room.
A minute passed. Two. The urge to tear up the page was immediate and overwhelming.
He read it over. It wasn’t good, but it was true. That would have to do.
He folded the page once, then again, then into a tight square. He held it between his palms, the edges digging into the callus at his thumb. He told himself he’d throw it away on the way to the truck.
He set it on the desk, glared at it, then looked around the room for distraction. Nothing left. The suitcase was zipped and propped against the door. Every personal item was in its place: the old boots, the Stetson, the suitcase that would take him back to the world of glass buildings, corporate negotiations, and multi-million dollar deals. Even the mug in his hand was ready to be rinsed, dried, and left behind. The bed was made, the blanket folded, the pillow already stripped of its case. He’d even remembered to unplug his phone charger from the wall.
He rose, joints stiff, and crossed to the window. He pressed his forehead to the cool glass of the window. He watched for a minute, the way the wind barely moved the tops of the cottonwoods, the way nothing changed. He didn’t expect it to.
He turned, walked back to the desk, and picked up the letter. He stood with it, just holding, letting the weight build in his hand. He wanted to throw it, or eat it, or torch it in the fireplace. Anything but deliver it.
He sat again, the letter in his palm, as he thought about what would need to happen next. He looked at the suitcase, then at the door. Then, without letting himself think, he jammed the letter in the pocket of his light jacket and zipped it up.
He left the cabin without another sound. He didn’t bother locking the door. He walked the distance to her place, staying out of sight, skirting the edge of the yard. Every few steps he patted his pocket, as if the letter might slip away on its own. He practiced what he’d say if she answered the door, then practiced saying nothing at all. He decided he liked the second way better.
He stood there, staring at the door, running through the last ten things he wanted to say. He almost turned back. He almost left without taking this final step but knew he needed this final step. Gavin raised his hand and gave two quick knocks on the door. Then he waited.
He took the letter out and let it rest in his palm, as if it could explain every decision he’d ever made in his life.
The door opened, and there she was. Hair pulled back in her signature ponytail, sweatshirt swallowing her frame, bare feet planted on the cold wood. Her eyes went right to his hand, then to his face, then back to his hand.
He held it out.
No words, no grand gesture. Just the letter, shaking a little in his grip.
She took it. Her fingers brushed his, and in that one second, he felt the heat of her skin.
He wanted to say something. He couldn’t.
She stood in the doorway, reading his letter. Gavin stood at the edge of the porch, eyes locked on the brown skin of her face. He waited for a sign that she’d finished reading his words. Maybe she’d slam the door in his face. He hoped like hell she gave a different response than that, but he was ready for anything.
Instead of cursing him out and telling him to get out of her face, Asha lowered the page, letting the silence draw out. Her hand, still clutching the paper, trembled the tiniest bit.
