Page 16 of For Fillies and Monsters

Yeah, he doesn’t open car doors or know how to keep his fucking mouth shut.

FIVE

STETSON

March 17th, 2024

“Okay,but was the datethat bad?” Dale questions between bouncing in the saddle and cackling. I roll my eyes but can’t stop a chuckle of my own; around Dale, it’s easy, infectious almost.

“Yes, Dale. He’s a schmuck.”

“Stetson! He’s hot,” Dale chides.

“Yeah, and?”

“So, he’s a hot schmuck. You can’t have it all!” Dale’s eyes shimmer with mischief. She’s so carefree—her black mane whipping like a flag behind her in the Texas air. She looks how I want to feel:alive.

“You have him, then.”

Dale’s smile drops at my suggestion, her nose scrunching. I don’t get the impression that she likes him all that much, rather wants me to find someone,anyone, to be with. Why? Does she think I’m lonely or something—is it that fucking obvious?“He’s too much of a, uh, how do I put this? Pretty boy, for my taste.”

“Yeah, me, too. And he doesn’t open doors.”

Dale’s face wrinkles in confusion. “He doesn’t open doors?” She says each word slowly like there is some hidden meaning she is missing.

I roll my eyes again and turn forward, ready to drop it. “Never mind.” It’s a dumb hill to die on, but it’s the principle. He has no respect for me, and the more I’m around him, I don’t think he has interest, either. I’m more of a convenience, an opportunity to getsomethingfor himself, even though I haven’t figured out what that is yet.

Money? Land? Power?What does the richest guy in Moztecha even need?

“Oh, honey, let yourself like him. Even if it’s just for a while, so you can get fucked. You need it.” She states it like she is telling me about the weather. I spin on her, the action making my saddle creak, and Winston’s ears flick back toward me. Dale shrugs, all nonchalance, but the smirk that means trouble pulls at her dark-painted lips.

“What? You do, Stet! You’ve got this whole, dark downer vibe about you. You need dick, bad.”

“Dale.” I hate that she sees my vulnerabilities so plainly. I feel naked and exposed.

“Well, it’s true! I would know. I was the same way until I got some good dick recently. Trust me!”

I quirk my brow at that. “Who’s the lucky guy?” I force a hint of laughter in my voice, but the truth is, I do really want to know. This is something Dale has always teased about, but never really divulged. I want to know all her dark secrets, the same way I want to share all of mine with her—someday.

Dale shakes her head. “A story for another time.” She points her finger at me. “Adrunkertime.” She smiles, and I can’t help but follow suit.

We near the end of the last decrepit line of decaying barbed wire, my notebook full of notes and scribbles of where the fence is falling apart, what wells aren’t working, what grass is bare and gone. It would have made more sense to note where things aren’t falling apart instead—it would have been a shorter list.

The ranch has fallen into a state of shambles; anyone with eyes can see it. It isn’t my fault—I know that much—but it is my job to fix it, and that weighs on me. That is, unless I am ready to sell it. And there’s no way I’m ready to do that, either. I want to fix it up. I want to make my mom proud, even if I’m not sure she deserves it.

My mother, always kind and loving toward me, had failed me in almost every way that mattered. Most frequently, and painfully, by failing to protect me from the snake in our lives. I understand my mother got it bad too, worse than me if I have to imagine—the end was proof of that. But Poppy had chosen him; I had simply been born to him. And therefore, my mother should have fought harder, if only for my sake.

But she hadn’t, and as much as I don’t want to hate her, I can’t fight the acidic taste of hatred from climbing up my throat at the memory of her.

Yeah, it’s a hard place to be in—hating someone I also want to make proud.

Who is also dead.

Why am I doing this to myself again?I squint into the brutal sunshine, searching the sky for answers.

“Earth to Stetson.” Dale’s voice slices through the hot, muggy air. I turn to look at her, noting the sheen of sweat on her deeply tanned skin, and the crinkle of concern in her forehead. “Where’d you go?”

What can I possibly say? How can I ever explain my fucked up feelings about my mother to anyone? So I turn back toward the sky with a shrug of my shoulders.

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