Page 23 of The History Between Us

“It’s fine,” I finally offer. “Can we get on with it, please?”

His shoulders visibly relax, and the smile returns to his face. “Yes, of course.”

From there, the appointment goes smoothly. He advises me to take it easy, to not push myself too hard, but to be sure to keep up with my exercises. I have physical therapy again in a few days, and I’m praying they tell me I can remove the sling after that appointment. As I’m leaving, I schedule my next appointment. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask the receptionist if William is here yet, but I bite it back. I don’twant to seem crazy or desperate, but I would like to ask him what his fucking problem is. So what? We hooked up one time years ago. Does he really have to fire me as a patient for that? And without even discussing it with me. What a coward move.

My dad is waiting for me in the parking lot as I exit the building. Aside from asking how the appointment went, the drive home is made in silence. All I want to do is go home and lie down. I’m agitated, but that seems to be the only emotion I’m capable of feeling these days. Dr. Braylon suggested it may be a good idea to talk to someone about all of this, like a therapist. Probably because he could tell how irritated I was, and he probably chalked it up to being about the injury. He’s probably right. Yes, I’m annoyed that William got rid of me as a patient, but if I’m honest with myself, had I not been injured and unable to compete, that fact probably wouldn’t annoy me as much. I’m on edge, that’s all.

Taking the steps up to my parents’ house two at a time, I stroll inside, leaving my shoes near the rack by the front door, and just as I’m about to barrel up the stairs in search of my bed, my mom pokes her head around the corner.

“Hi, honey. How was your appointment?”

“Hey, Mom. It was fine.”

“Can you come in here, please?”

For fuck’s sake. I just want to lie down.“Sure.”

“I was hoping you could help me,” she says as I step into the kitchen. “I’m baking sugar cookies for Ginny’s surprise birthday party, and thought maybe you could cut the dough for me while I roll out the next batch. You can do it with one hand.”

Clenching my jaw to ensure I don’t bite out that doing anything left-handed is not easy, I nod, taking a seat at the table where she’s got a huge thing of dough flattened and readyfor me. There’s a circle cookie cutter beside it and a couple of cookie sheets lined with parchment paper on the counter behind me.

“Are you planning to go to Ginny’s party?” she asks as I get started on my task. It’s actually not as challenging as I thought it would be. “I think it’ll be fun.”

Practically the whole town is getting together at the diner this Sunday to celebrate Ginny’s birthday. Her daughter works in the shop next to Whit’s clinic, and she’s the one who told us about it. Well, told Whit, and Whit told me.

“I don’t know, not really in the party mood,” I murmur with a shrug.

Glancing over at me, something softens in my mom’s eyes as she takes me in. “Honey, I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you, to be hurt and not able to ride. I wish I had the magical fix to make you feel better, but I don’t. I know I’m just your mom and probably the last person you want to talk to, but please know, I’m always here for you.”

My mom is a big talker. She believes in talking about your feelings, getting them out there, and working through it all. She’s always been that way, while I tend to take after my dad and hold everything inside. What is talking going to do? Is it going to make my shoulder better? Is it going to get me back on a bull any faster? No. So, what’s the point?

A twinge of guilt squeezes at my chest, though. It’s not my mom’s fault that I’m in this situation, and she doesn’t deserve my anger or my poor attitude. With a tight smile, I say, “Thanks, Mom. I appreciate you saying that.”

“Know what I think?” she asks, a glint in her eye.

I shake my head.

“I think your shoulder is going to heal nicely, and you’ll beback to competing next season. I know it can be easy to wallow right now, when you have nothing but time on your hands, but the body is an incredible thing. You’re young and healthy, and I think it’ll surprise you how quickly you get back to normal with a little bit of time.”

“We don’t know that,” I mutter.

“A little positive thinking never hurt anybody,” she replies with a wink.

My mom isn’t the biggest fan of the rodeo, or my bull riding. Considering what happened to her husband when he was a professional bull rider, it’s understandable. I’m not dumb; I can admit that his injuries were significantly worse than the ones I’m suffering from. Hell, he was in a coma for a while and nearly died, but I can’t imagine the fear that clutched at my mother when she saw me get bucked off that bull and then stepped on.

It was a surprise to nobody when I announced I wanted to be a bull rider when I was younger. For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be just like my dad. I’d go with him to the arena, I’d watch him train, and every summer until sophomore year in high school, I’d travel with him as he competed on the circuit. I was his little shadow for as long as I can remember, bull riding always a dream of mine. I joined the rodeo club in high school, and dedicated all of my free time to learning to be the best I could be. My mom always supported my dreams, rooted for me, even when I knew it terrified her. Even though I know she has always wished I would’ve taken a different route.

She doesn’t say anything else, and neither do I. After I’ve cut the dough into circles and put them all on the cookie sheet, she puts those in the oven as I get started on the next slab of dough. Working side by side for the next hour or so, I allowmyself to enjoy this little moment. I force myself to let go of some of the anger I’m holding on to and appreciate this time spent with my mom that, had the situation been different, I wouldn’t be here for.

Once we’re done, she fixes us some sandwiches, fruit, and chips, and we eat outside on the porch together. I don’t know how she does it, but by the time we’re finished eating, I’m feeling better than I have in days.

12

Colt Bishop

Fuck.I wince, breathing harshly through my nose as I try to maneuver my shirt over my head without hurting myself. So much for feeling better.

Yesterday, after helping my mom, I went up to my room, drank a handful of beers, and made the mistake of looking up the rodeo stats. More specifically, bull riding stats. It was not my finest moment. Nor my smartest. Especially when I decided a late-night workout in my dad’s garage was a good idea. I think I overdid it, and it doesn’t help that my father caught me mid-workout. You’d think he caught me rubbing one out with how startled we both were when he walked into the garage and found me.

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