Page 52 of We Redeemed the Rain

“Are you one of those people who separates lights from darks and does a separate load of towels?”

“Yep.”

I stifled a laugh, rolling the sleeves. “I just heave it all in together and crank the temp to hot—the weaklings have to fend for themselves. I put my mother to shame because she raised us to be sorters—” The words had no sooner left my mouth, than I froze, blasting to the past.

In one of our later letters, Scribbs explained the novelty of detergent in his childhood home.“We didn’t always have essentials like detergent. Only every once in a while. I usually did the laundry. Sometimes I used a little of Mama’s body wash or dish soap or just prayed the hot water would be enough (it’s not).”

How did I forget? That particular letter was so sad, so upsetting, butsohonest. I was fifteen-ish at the time. I cried over his words as hefinallyopened up to me about the scarcity he and Cooper suffered because of his mother’s addictions. So many things I never thought twice about weren’t guaranteed for him as a kid: soap, meals, electricity, water, properly fitting clothes.

“As hard as it was to miss meals, I wasn’t half as hungry as Mama. She had something worse than food hunger—heart hunger. And I guess I had a bit of that kind, too. We all did. Maybe we all still do.”

His laundry was only one way he daily overcame his past. Curiosity curled around me like a vice grip—what life had he truly lived? I possessed one tiny piece of Samuel Taggart—the part he puton paper. As a teenager, it felt like everything, but now…I realized how small my knowledge of him truly was.

We were honest and open. We gave each other advice, deciphered angry rant writing, and commiserated over the miles…but paper had its limits. I knew his history, his desires for the future, his thoughts about some things, his struggles, and what he was passionate about. Tag had truckloads of childhood trauma, and he told me all about that, too.

Except for his rain story. Despite my asking about it a few times.

But as raw and real as our letters were, they couldn’t teach me his ticks, his quirks, his demeanor, his personality, the presence he brought to a room, the sparkle in his eyes—all of which were very telling things.

In writing, we edit, only letting through what wewant. But real life has no editor. Faces, eyes, and knee-jerk reactions tell the story we would rather keep locked away.

Reality hit me square in the chest. Here I was, in the samesemias my dear friend. What a twist of fate! Life might as well have wrapped up the world and handed it to me.

I had three weeks to figure him out. Just three.

I wouldn’t waste the opportunity. I wanted to know him. Therealhim. The him that couldn’t be contained inside the four corners of a page. With new resolve and energy buzzing warm in my veins, I pulled the curtain back.

Tag’s gaze snapped toward me, trailing down for a fraction of a second before landing back on my face. He shook his head like he was disappointed. “Your sunburn looks terrible.” He sucked a deep breath, his chest expanding. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I shouldn’t have disappeared like that.”

I had wanted to ask why he did it, but I realized I already knew why—this loner cowboy didn’t let people get too close. Our letters were probably an anomaly.

He pulled his eyes toward the console and waved at the sandwiches. “Uh, have a sandwich. I hope McDonalds is alright with you. It was that or an all-hours Taco Bell.”

“You chose well.”

His lip twitched. “I can wait outside or we can catch up later.”

“Have you eaten?”

“No, but?—”

“Well, sit. I won’t eat two biscuits.” I plopped into the driver’s seat and unwrapped a McGriddle. “Seriously, it’ll go to waste.”

When he didn’t reach for it, I grabbed it and underhand lobbed it at him to where he sat in the passenger’s seat. He caught it against his chest.

“So, tell me what we’re doing today.”

For a second, he hesitated. Maybe thewe’rethrew him off. Then, he cleared his throat. “Uh, since my broncs are short-go, they’ll be part of the main events tonight with the bull ridin’.” He quietly unwrapped the sandwich.

“Short-go?”

“That’s the rodeo way of sayin’ finals or semi-finals.”

“Oh.” I was impressed. “I guess that means your horses are pretty good.”

He quelled a smile. “They’re pretty good. So are the cowboys.”

“So is this like pro-rodeo?”

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