Page 14 of Sexting the Cowboy
Blaze is about to ride, and that’s where my attention belongs. Not on what I can’t have. Not on what I might want. I square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and let the noise of the arena drown everything else out.
5
ANNIE
By the timewe drop the tent flaps and bungee them to the poles, the fairground has gone from blistering to just plain hot. The floodlights click on one by one around the arena, throwing long spears of white across dusty air. The crowd thins to trickles. I stack a final tray, wipe a last smear of Betadine from the table, and peel my gloves off with that soft, rubbery sigh that tells my body the day is over, even if my mind still hums like a generator.
Jaden shoulders the med bag he never actually hands off to anyone and tips his cap like he’s introducing act two. “Come on, Doc. You need fries and something brown poured over ice.”
“I need a shower and eight hours of silence,” I say, and then my stomach betrays me with a long, hollow growl. “Fine. Fries first. Silence later.”
“There’s a bar two blocks from your place,” he says. “We’ll Uber there, you can shuffle home like a tipsy grandmother after.”
“Tremendous medical plan.”
“It’s evidence-based,” he deadpans. “I have multiple randomized controlled trials proving salt and grease cure rodeo-adjacent headaches.”
“Lead the way.”
We lock the tent and wave to the volunteer guards. The shuttle path is a churned-up ribbon of dirt, light bulbs strung overhead like a carnival spine guiding the stragglers toward the parking lots and rides that still hum for whoever refuses to go home. A kid runs past us with a corn dog longer than his forearm. Someone laughs too loud. A bull bellows, indignant at the indignity of bedtime.
In the rideshare, I let my head sink against the seat and close my eyes. Heat still clings to my scalp under the elastic of my ponytail. My wrists ache in that tender, overused way that means tomorrow will be a symphony of tendon complaints. Jaden scrolls his phone, the screen light painting his face pale and blue.
“You did good,” he says without looking up. “Only one sprain you argued into sitting out. That’s a record.”
“She’ll hate me until she’s forty,” I say. “Then she’ll realize keeping her ligament attached was a gift.”
“Delayed gratitude is still gratitude.”
The driver drops us on a side street where string lights zigzag over a patio and a chalkboard sign promises live music later. The bar is one of those neighborhood places that tried to grow up without losing the sticky floors—reclaimed wood, old rodeo posters, three televisions tuned to different sports. The air smells like beer, fryer oil, and lime. At a high-top near thebar, two men argue warmly about a call on the screen. Someone tosses a dart; it thunks into cork and someone else groans.
We slide into a booth against the half wall that separates the bar from the dining tables. It’s the kind of booth with springs that sigh when you sit, the kind that remembers everyone who’s ever complained about their day here. I put my back to the wall and the room in front of me. Old habits die hard.
A bartender with a braid down to her waist swings by with two laminated menus tucked under her arm. “What’re we drinking?”
“Whiskey, rocks,” I say, surprising myself with how fast the answer jumps out. “And a basket of fries the size of a small state.”
She grins. “Iowa or Delaware?”
“Iowa.”
“Two Iowas,” Jaden adds. “Make the fries a double. And can we get the spicy aioli, the ranch, and the mystery orange one that seems to be on everything?”
“You mean the house sauce?”
“I never met a house I didn’t want sauce from.”
She laughs, scribbles, and glides away.
I let my shoulders sag until my spine hits the backrest with a quiet thud. The wood is cool through my scrub top. Jaden’s knee bounces under the table. He’s incapable of being still, even at rest.
“You’re vibrating.”
“I pre-gamed with a Red Bull.”
“You’re a nurse. You can’t handle your caffeine?”
“I’m also a person.”
