Page 4 of Every Promise Broken

Music plays in the distance, a few people dancing off to the side, but my eyes can’t help but gravitate toward the man across the firepit, sitting amongst his friends with tired eyes behind a pair of thick-framed glasses, a forced smile, and a cable-knit sweater wrapped around his frame despite it being a warm evening. If there’s one thing Whit will be, it’s cold. No matter the temperature, he’s always looking for something warm to wrap up in.

Seeing him here never gets any easier, no matter how much time has passed. Sure, over the years, I’ve learned to shove the dull ache in my chest every time he’s near to the far corners of my mind, but that doesn’t make iteasier. Our lives are so intertwined, it’s impossible to not see him. Nights like this are especially hard; when he’s here, not as a veterinarian, but because he wants to be. Having him be so close does nothing but remind me of everything that I once had. Everything I lost.

Not a day goes by that I don’t regret how we ended, that I don’t wish things could have been different. The longer he stays with his dipshit boyfriend, the more it stings because I know, logically, they’ll probably get married one day. And the idea of somebody other than me calling him their husband makes my stomach sour. It makes my blood boil, even though I have no right to feel that way. I lost that right almost four years ago.

“Conrad.” Dragging my attention toward the sound of my name, my gaze connects with my friend, Max’s. “Will and I were talking about going night fishing next weekend. I’m getting that new boat on Thursday. Want to come?”

I nod, bringing my beer up to my lips and tipping it back, letting a mouthful of the chilled liquid roll down my throat. “Count me in,” I murmur.

Will recently moved back to town from Seattle, and the three of us have talked about going fishing since he first arrived, but up until now, it’s been just that. It’s something we used to do a lot in our early twenties when Will was in med school and Max was still competing in the rodeo.

It was always interesting to look at how close we all were growing up—how close we still are—yet how differently life took us. After med school, Will moved to Seattle for a fresh start and to begin his career with his then-wife, and Max dove head first into bull riding, making a name for himself all around the world, while I stayed here, helping my parents run our family ranch. Growing up as a rancher’s son, it’s pretty set in stone from a young age that this was going to be my life. There was never any question about whether I’d take over one day. It was an unspoken agreement between me and my folks.

Finishing off my beer, I get up and walk over to the row of coolers, grabbing another out of the ice before making my way over toward the barn where everybody is gathering now to singHappy Birthdayto Sterling. I join in, finding amusement in watching his boyfriend belt out the lyrics like he’s the next Justin Timberlake. It’s been a few years now since Sterling moved to town and found his place in the rodeo circuit. Like Shooter, he’s a bareback bronc rider. When he first moved to town, he lived in the loft above my barn. It wasn’t until recently that he moved in with Shooter.

Now I’m back to an empty nest again, which feels weird to say, but it’s true. I didn’t realize how much I enjoyed having somebody around until he was gone. For the most part, I prefer to keep to myself—something Whit used to tell me was because I am a Taurus…whatever the hell that means—but every now andagain, having company around the ranch is nice. All this land can get lonely sometimes, even for somebody like me.

Despite myself, I easily find Whit amongst the crowd again. His body language is off. Shoulders stiff and up to his ears, he’s got his arms wrapped around himself, and every time he laughs with his friends, it seems forced.

Which is probably why when I spot him walking toward the house, I count to five in my head before I follow him. Even though I know it’s not my place to pry, I can’t help it. I need to make sure he’s okay. The house is quiet and dark as I bound across the hardwood flooring. Light shines from underneath the hall bathroom, and I can’t help but grin to myself at how predictable Whit can be.

For as long as I’ve known him, he’s never been one to piss outside. When he used to work for my parents, we’d be out in the pasture working, and he’d have to go clear back to the house to use the bathroom. It never made sense to me, but that’s why it’s no surprise that he’s in here now. I hear the toilet flush and the faucet turn on, but the longer I stand out here in the living room, waiting for him in the dark, the more awkward it becomes. I look like a fucking creep in my own house.

I’m just about to say screw it and head back outside, when the door opens and Whit steps out, gaze clashing with mine. Based on the hurried step back and the widening of his eyes behind his glasses, I know I’ve startled him.

“What are you doing in here?” he asks as he glances around.

“Well, this is my house,” I deadpan, biting the inside of my cheek when he hits me with a look.

“Obviously.”

“I wanted to talk to you.” The words sound ridiculous as soon as I speak them.

Whit’s thick, dark brows pinch together in confusion. “Why?”

My jaw pops as I bite down on my molars, now wishing I had never come in here. We don’t do this. We don’t check in on each other anymore. Clearing my throat, I say, “You seem off tonight. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

His furrow deepens. “I’m fine.”

There’s a bite to his tone that takes me aback. “Are you sure?”

Quiet for a moment, he worries the inside of his cheek, the pad of his thumbs rubbing against his fingers in a way that he does when he’s anxious or upset. It’s a tell of his.Stimming,I believe he said it was called. A way for him to self-soothe or regulate his emotions when he’s overwhelmed or stressed. He’s always done it. Finally, his shoulders sag, and without looking me in the eye, he says, “Honestly, Conrad, I’ve been better.”

My chest tightens at how dejected he sounds. “Do you want to talk about it?”

His forest green eyes dart to mine, his fingers still fidgeting at his side. “Don’t you have something better to do than listen to me complain about my problems?”

“No.” It leaves my mouth without a second thought.

Chewing on his bottom lip, he folds his arms over his chest. “Okay,” he finally says. “It might be nice to get some of this off my chest.”

I nod, starting toward the hallway behind him. “Let’s go into the spare room. It’s quiet and we don’t have to worry about being interrupted.”

A few beats pass, but eventually I hear his soft footsteps behind me. Deep down, I realize this is weird. I realize this is probably crossing some sort of invisible boundary that we set years ago when our marriage ended. But there’s a louder voice in my mind telling me I need to find out what’s wrong and figure out a way to fix it.

And it’s that voice that will always win when it comes to Whit.

3

---