Page 37 of Eight Seconds

I can’t.

Travis Frost is dead.

EPILOGUE: CHARLOTTE

COEUR D’ALENE, IDAHO — DECEMBER,TWOWEEKSLATER

Wilder sits at the edge of the frozen pond. The snow that fell last week has hardened into pockets of ice under the continuous cover of branches on the path. I stand inside the perimeter of the tree line, watching as he tips the bottle to his lips. It’s only a beer, but it’s eight in the morning.

It’s been this way every day since we drove back from Vegas. He stops before he gets too drunk, and he never touches the hard stuff, but the smell of stale hops and sadness has replaced the sweet hay and rich leather I used to burrow into every time he held me. He doesn’t touch me now. Recoils when I reach for him. He’s even taken to sleeping in the small living room of the trailer instead of beside me. Although sleeping is a generous assessment. He passes out from lack of self-care or the fatigue and melancholy that permeate his body. Just another change in him that I can’t help with.

Wilder’s dropped significant weight in the last two weeks. He refuses to eat any meal consistently, and his jeans are hanging off his hips. The soft outline of his ribs shows through his skin when he strips long enough to take a shower. Otherwise, he wears the same clothes to sit in this same spot nearly every day. I don’t know how he does it. It is bitterly cold, but a warm day considering the temperature is above freezing. Other days haven’t been, and the numbness I know he’s experiencing in his heart must extend to his body because he stays bundled, but never complains of being cold.

I know he’s grieving Travis, but I can’t continue to watch him drown. If it were just me, I’d be willing to keep quiet and wait until he came around. But I can’t think of myself anymore. There’s a tiny human who needs me to care about them, too.

Yesterday, as I threw up again—alone—I made the terrifying and heartbreaking decision to leave. I started packing—slowly, meticulously unraveling the life we’ve built together. Every bag I settled into the cab of my truck cracked a new fissure in my heart. It shattered fully this morning when Wilder watched me put the final bag in the cab and said nothing, turning his back and walking the familiar path through the woods.

If he hears me approach, he makes no move to recognize my presence when I come to stand next to him. I hesitate, the words I want to say sticking in my throat, and I have to suck in a breath to chase away the tears that threaten to blur my vision.

“You leaving then?” Wilder speaks first. He doesn’t turn his head, eyes still fixed on the other side of the pond, voice flat and empty. He sounds like he’s forecasting the weather, and the sting of it lances through me.

None of this is easy. Choosing to leave is a temporary measure. A Band-Aid on a bullet wound that is beginning to become infected from lack of treatment. Still, it doesn’t stop a final flash of hope from lighting inside me, slipping free between us in an exhausted voice.

“Give me a reason to stay.”

I want my request to do something—meansomething—to him. I want it to be enough to take the dullness out of his eyes. The once brilliant color has long gone flat in these last few weeks. I want it to be enough for him to remember that I’m here—he’shere.

Weare still alive. We still have each other.

But Wilder doesn’t speak, and it says everything. He raises the bottle to his lips again, drawing deep, effectively emptying it.

“Wild.” I can’t keep the tremble from my voice, and my hand shakes as I reach for him.

I barely brush a finger against his shoulder before he bolts upright, stepping away from me and spinning to pin me with a glare. His eyes aren’t empty and soulless anymore, instead, they blaze bright with anger. His face twists ugly and dark under the patchy beard that has grown in, his lips curling in disgust. I retract my hand, clasping it tightly against my chest as though I’ve been burned.

“Please,” I beg him. “I know you’re hurting. Can you justtalkto me?”

A derisive laugh huffs out of him, the warm breath leaving a fog in the chilled air. He shakes his head and grits his teeth, forcing the words between them with all the venom of a viper.

“I can barely evenlookat you sometimes, Charlotte.”

The use of my full name lashes against my battered heart, its broken pieces trying to pull themselves back together as they continue to beat for the man before me. The stupid organ doesn’t realize what’s happening, even if my brain is supplying plenty of information. It’s pleading with me to protect what’s left, reaffirming that the space I want to give him will be best. The war inside me is tearing me apart, and I don’t try to stop the tears that spring forth and spill from my eyes.

“Why?” I ask, stupidly inviting more devastation. “He was my friend, too. I miss him, too.”

Wilder throws the empty bottle onto the iced surface of the pond. It doesn’t give a shattering crash, which only seems to fuel his anger. It clunks and bounces around, spinning idly as he lets loose.

“Because when I look at you, I think about how if anyone other than Brett was riding recovery that day, Travis would be alive. Because when I look at you, I can’t stopblamingyou, and it makes mehate you.”

I step back from the weighted blow of his words.

“How—” I shake my head, trying in vain to wrap my mind around the illogical tangle of accusation and emotion Wilder is conflating. Somewhere inside, I know that he doesn’t actually blame me. Brett’s presence at the finals was unexpected. We all knew he shouldn’t have been there, and while Wilder could have faced charges for the beating he gave the man involved with Travis’ death, the rodeo association opted not to when we revealed our history with the man. It was out of our control that Brett would be put in charge of the riders’ safety, and I’m shocked by any possible insinuation we failed to prevent it.

But when I look back at him, I know there’s nothing I can say. I watch as the anger fades to anguish that he doesn’t understand either. His expression crumples and caves, eyes covered in the gloss of unshed tears, and his mouth opens with an unspoken plea.

Suddenly, I understand. Grief doesn’t move in a linear fashion. It ebbs and flows like the ocean tides. Some days, the sea is smooth, bringing the promise of a stable shoreline into view. Other days, the riptide pulls, casting the helpless traveler further out to sea.

And I’m the rock he’s breaking against.

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