Page 49 of Wild Horses

I was serious when I told Bond I don’t want to drag her down. I did it to Tuesday for almost thirty-four years. She shines now. Free and happy. Her new light comes from being out from under my parents’ thumbs, sure, but I can’t help but think it also comes from being away from me.

Next to me, Laramie snuggles closer. She’s been the big spoon all night, one arm thrown around my waist, the other tucked under her cheek. In charge, even in her sleep.

Careful not to wake her, I slip out from her hold and stifle a laugh when she frowns and tugs a pillow into her clutches. I rummage through my dresser and slip into a pair of sweats before padding down the hall and into the living room.

The box Tuesday and Bond brought with them the nightwe arrived in town sits on the bar that separates this room from the kitchen. I grab it, tossing it from hand to hand, debating whether to open it now, later, or bury it in the backyard. Sighing, I wander back to the couch and drop onto the springy cushions. Treating the box like a basketball, I shoot it up and catch it until it’s snatched out of the air.

“I’ve given you four days of wait time, Pretty Boy. You ready to talk about this?” At my nod, she plops down next to me. “It’s from your dad?” Again, I nod. Laramie shakes the box, holding it to her ear as if that will release all its secrets. “I’m not trying to overstep, but if you want to open it, I’ll hold your hand.”

Pulling her closer, I kiss her hair and tangle my fingers with hers. Laramie’s hands are rough, working hands. Hands that have grown up holding reins and pulling her back up when she falls. That she’s here now, offering those hands to me… God, I’m gone for this woman.

Laramie looks at me, waiting for my confirmation. When I sharply jerk my head up and down, she pulls on the expensive ribbon and pops the folded seams. “I made the first tear. Your turn.”

Somehow, it’s less daunting, seeing the ribbon—that probably took my mother hours of her life to decide on—crumpled on the floor and the heavy-weight paper torn. I hook a finger into the rip and pull. As the rest of the wrapping falls away, I’m left with a velvet box.

I know what this is.

I snap open the lid, and there lies my watch. The one I left on a table with my dad in a dive bar in Lubbock. There’s a small folded card below the timepiece.

Warren -

Consider this my final offer: You will return to Dallas and Phillips Construction as a one-third owner. Out of mygenerosity, I will restore your sister to a silent one-third owner, though she will remain in New Mexico except for pre-agreed-upon company and family events. Neither of you deserves this, but I am offering it despite your repeated disappointments.

If I do not receive a response from you and Tuesday by the end of the month, I will take your silence as agreement to fully disinherit you both. At that point, there will be no further communication between us. You will cease to exist in this family.

Think long and hard about the consequences of your actions. How much your mother and I have done for you both. I have been more than patient. Your selfish and childish behavior has embarrassed this family and tarnished its name. It is time for you to grow up and take responsibility. Prove to me you are capable of salvaging what respect remains.

- Warren Phillips Sr.

My temper flares, and I crush the note and drop the box holding the watch to the ground. Everything around me fades as I stomp on the timepiece over and over. Five times. Ten times. So many times, I lose count.

“War.” The sound of my name is a pebble in the ocean.

Every hurt. Every slight. Every time I changed myself to be what he expected. Every dream I let go to please him. I smash it all.

There’s movement near me, a faint blur in my peripheral, but I am too lost in my rage to pay it mind. I don’t feel the glass shattering and splintering beneath my bare foot. Or the red gold frame warping and denting. I don’t even notice the traces of blood on the floor. It’s not until Laramie shoves me to the couch and barks out a command that I’m jolted back to reality.

“War! Stop it! You’re hurting yourself.”

She’s on her knees before me, this time for a totally different reason, her lips pressed into a firm line. There’s a washcloth in her hand, and she narrows a harrowing glare my way. “Give me your feet.”

“No, you don’t need to?—”

“Now.” The fierceness in that single word stops me from any future protests.

Laramie cradles my foot like I’m a delicate bird and dabs at the cuts before pulling out a first aid kit and a slim pair of tweezers. She stops working long enough to hand me my phone. “Call your sister.”

I take my phone, walk on shredded feet to the kitchen, and pour myself a generous shot of bourbon. Downing it, then another, I hobble back to the couch and collapse next to Laramie, my head buried in my hands.

What the actual fuck? Anger and disgust roil in my gut. Whatever small sliver of a ledge I stood on when considering going back to Dallas is demolished. Blown apart by two dollars’ worth of linen and ink.

Ten minutes later, Tuesday and Bond crash through my front door. The mess I made—at least the physical one—is gone. Swept away with warm water and a broom. If only I could say the same about the emotional destruction left in its wake.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

laramie

I rarely wish ill on people. Karma and all that. But Warren PhillipsSr.—as he so warmly signed the card to his son—is someone I wish a lifetime of tooth loss and irreversible genital shrinkage on.

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