Page 102 of A False Start
I grunt, shaking my head, and make my way back into the barn, trying to find something to do that will keep me busy. Keep me from crawling to her place and acting like an idiot. I turn into the tack room, grabbing a bucket of water, a sponge, and a puck of saddle soap before getting to work on every stitch of leather hanging on the wall.
I get lost in the motion. In the process. Scrub. Wipe. Dip. Squeeze. Rinse. Repeat. I don’t know how long I work on the tack, letting my mind wander to my days on the field, all the friends I had—the ones who are nowhere to be found since my fall from grace. I fixate on the fact that my future ex-wife is going to splash our wedding story and sex tape across any magazine or newspaper who listens to her, hoping to get whatever money I won’t give to her. Regret pierces me in the chest, like a fucking spear to the heart.
“That why they pay you the big bucks?” Violet smiles at me from the doorway as she steps into the room and hoists a saddle up onto a rack.
“Something like that,” I grumble back, sounding like a total asshole but not caring. I’ve been a growly prick ever since Nadia walked over that hill and out of my life.
I thought I knew suffering. But I didn’t.
“You’re missing her something fierce, aren’t you?” Violet’s voice is gentle, even though I don’t deserve that tone. It also bothers me that everyone knows about what went on between us, but it’s not really spoken about. It’s like it never happened, and I hate that more than anything. There’s no proofweever existed.
A low grumble sounds in my chest. “Yes,” I clip out the single word. No point in lying.
“You sound like my husband when he’s in a bad mood.” She’s not the least bit deterred, in fact she’s smiling. A small smile. But still.
“He’s ten years older than me, you know.”
I glare at her longer this time. “Yeah? Is this theage is just a numberpep talk?” She doesn’t deserve me lashing out at her. “I’m sorry,” I add quickly, shaking my head as I stare down at the leather reins in my hands.
She shrugs. “I think in some cases, age is just a way to measure the number of years you spent without the person meant for you.”
Fuck. That’s poetic.
“You can grow together but taking the time to prove to yourselves that you can grow on your own is wise.” I swallow heavily as she continues. “What I know about Nadia is that when she wants something, she goes after it.” She takes a few steps across the room, squeezing my shoulder as she passes. “If you want her,you need to be ready for when she comes after you. If she grows, you grow. Don’t let her down by stagnating.”
And then she’s gone. Leaving me with an ache right in the center of my chest. I crush my palm there, like if I press hard enough, it will go away.
It doesn’t. It just gets worse all the time.
And I tumble. Straight into a deep pit of sadness and self-loathing. The itch to leave and go drown myself in a glass of amber liquid is so sharp, so present, that I crumble.
I toss the sponge into the bucket, stride out of the barn, and head straight to Neighbor’s Pub, dying to see if I’m still strong enough to come face-to-face with a big pour of bourbon and turn myself around. I’m out my driver’s side door and pushing through the heavy front doors before I can think twice. Sliding onto a stool at the lacquered bar top and ordering a drink before I can think at all.
The bartender slides the drink my way, and it lands between my fingers with a familiar weight and smell. Her eyes don’t linger. My cap is slung low, and I smell like horse shit. Clearly, today’s staff don’t recognize me.
I watch the amber liquid as I spin the tumbler, a syrupy outline of every splash dripping down the sides of the simple bar glass. I don’t even have to taste it to remember the flavor.
Or the dark fucking place it took me.
I stare at the glass, feeling the tug-of-war raging in my head, in my heart. So familiar. A vicious cycle. Find something, drown in that something,needthat something, let myself get to a place where I’ve convinced myself I need that something to function. That just a sip might cure me, might make me feel better.
I can’t be your antidote.
It made little sense to me when she said it, because I was too busy trying not to fall apart. But now, face-to-face with a whole different type of temptation, the clarity of her words almost bowls me over.
I want to be your reason.
I push the glass away hard enough that liquid sloshes over the edges and pools on the bar top. Suddenly, I’m repulsed by the sight. By my weakness. By how sad it is that I come here and do this to myself.
I pull my phone out and dial. When he answers, I sigh in relief. “Hey, Dad? Do you still have the names of those rehab programs you looked into?”
This shit ends here and now. Because I’ve never had a better reason.
38
Griffin
One month later
