Page 80 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
I nod, biting back a smile. “Yeah. Gotta be a little crazy to climb onto the back of a pissed-off animal bred to throw you.”
She glances at me for a long moment, then says, “Cash said you used to ride bulls, those giant monsters.”
“Eight seconds at a time, or at least I tried,” I answer, and there’s a flicker of pride there. Still is. “They say you’re not a real cowboy ’til you’ve eaten dirt with a mouthful of regret.”
Her brows rise. “Were you scared?”
I glance at her, then back at the stars. “Not at first. When I was young and stupid. It was a rush. Power. Crowd screaming. Felt untouchable.”
“Cash and Walker told me… what happened. About the accident. And that’s why you didn’t come with us to the rodeo.”
The words hang between us, quiet but loaded.
I don’t look at her. Just track a slow-moving star across the sky and take a sip of whiskey.
“It wasn’t the rodeo,” I say finally. “That’s not what got to me.”
She waits, giving me space.
“It was knowing you were there,” I add, the words barely audible. “And I wasn’t.”
Her brow furrows slightly. “Why does that matter?”
I shake my head, half a laugh escaping. “Forget it.”
“No,” she says, voice gentle. “I want to understand.”
I risk a glance at her. Moonlight hits her cheek, that soft, open expression. She’s not pushing. Just… asking. Curious and kind in a way I’m not used to.
But there are some things I’m not ready to lay bare. Not yet.
“Maybe some things are better left in the past,” I murmur. “Doesn’t mean I want to talk about them.”
Her face falls a little, and I instantly hate myself for putting that look there.
“I’m not trying to pry,” she says. “I just, when I heard, I felt like an idiot for enjoying the night so much while you were?—”
“Don’t.” My voice comes out rough. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Silence stretches between us again. Her fingers shift slightly on the wood beside mine, not quite touching, but not quite pulling away either.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, softer now. “For whatever that night meant for you. And for bringing it up.”
I nod, eyes back on the sky. “Not your fault.”
She leans in a little, like she’s testing the weight of what we are. What we’re not.
“You don’t have to talk,” she whispers. “But if you ever want to, I’ll listen. No questions. No pressure.”
My throat tightens. I don’t answer, just let the silence settle again. Let her words echo somewhere in the parts of me I keep closed off.
Eventually, she shifts her weight, and her shoulder brushes mine—light, warm, grounding.
We sit like that for a while. No more talking. Just stars. Just stillness.
And the quiet ache of wanting something I don’t know how to hold.
I move slightly, the memory I hate crawling back in detail. But I don’t look away.
