Page 44 of Sexting the Cowboy
There’s no point rubbing salt into a wound, so I’ll never speak up about her. But I hate that it makes it seem like I’m ashamedof her. I’m not. I’m proud as hell that she spent a night with me. Can’t call it dating, not really. Haven’t been out on a date yet. But last night felt like breathing new life into my old ass, and I’m not going to screw that up if I can avoid it.
Blaze starts collecting plates and stacking them on the cart because she likes helping. Levi and Cash start arm wrestling, and I sit back, taking in the camaraderie of my kids.
Reno gets up and walks to the window, shoulder against the glass, looking down at the hotel parking lot like it might offer a better version of the night. He’s looser on his feet now, that old balance gone sloppy at the edges. He’s still handsome in a way that makes strangers assume he’s doing well.
“How’s the leg?” I ask, mostly to hear if his voice still lands on the same notes.
“Same.” He taps the cane with two fingers. “It is what it is.” He used to say that about bulls and weather. Now he says it about himself. I hate it enough to want to break something no one will miss.
“Ren,” Blaze says, gentler than she’s been all night, “you can crash here if you want. You don’t have to go back to your room.”
“I’m not drunk,” he says, offended by the suggestion more than the truth.
Levi’s mouth opens. I catch his eye and give the smallest shake of my head. Not like this. Not where he can’t win.
Reno turns from the window and points at the room service check. “I’ll get that.”
“I already did,” I tell him.
He scowls. “I’m not a charity case.”
“I didn’t say you were,” I say, voice steady, not rising. “The bill’s been paid, so there’s nothing for you to get.”
He holds my eyes for a long beat, then nods once. “Whatever.”
We settle again, the four of us drawing circles around a man who doesn’t want to be in one. Blaze pushes the cart to the door and wedges it out into the hall. “Tomorrow’s early,” she says. “I’m sleeping. Y’all gotta get.”
Cash makes a little show of stretching, cracks his back, and kisses her temple as he passes. “You did good, Bee.”
“Was there ever any doubt?” she asks facetiously, and for a second her smile reaches all the way to the edges.
Levi claps Reno on the shoulder as he moves past. “Night, man.”
Reno nods without looking. I stand to go, but I don’t leave yet. I look at my boy and try to see the line between help and harm like it’s painted on the carpet. It isn’t. It never is. Helping someone like him is a minefield. You never know when it’s appreciated or it’s ammo to use against you.
“You need anything,” I say, keeping it simple, clean, no father in it, just man to man. “Call.”
He sets the bottle down, stares at it like it’s got a mouth. “I’m good.”
“Okay.”
We file out one by one. Levi and Cash peel off to their rooms down the hall, murmuring low about call times. Blaze squeezes my hand hard at the threshold and then lets go immediately, because softness doesn’t come naturally to her.
I stop in the doorway and look back. Reno sits on the end of the bed where he started, shoulder to the window, eyes on nothing. The TV throws slow color on his face. He looks like a man halfway between deciding and avoiding. I know that shape too well. It used to be mine.
“Night,” I say.
He lifts his chin in the universal language ofleave it.
I close the door before I say something smart that will make both of us dumb.
In the hall, the carpet muffles everything. The ice machine hums down by the elevator. I rest my palm flat on the cool wall and breathe until my rib cage remembers its job and loosens. I should be thinking about lines and boundaries and the punishment a man earns for wanting something that might hurt someone he loves. Instead, I think about keeping my boys upright, and Blaze unburned, and Reno alive enough to hate me another day if he needs to.
I head back to my room, pass Ford texting at the end of the corridor. He nods without asking, and I nod back. It’s late, and we’re both tired old men.
The drive to my trailer is short—I’m there for the distance it affords me from Reno, or so I tell myself. Need distance to clear my head. But the truth is, my pillow still smells like Annie’s shampoo, and I’m not about to sleep anywhere else tonight.
In my room, I set my hat crown-down on the table and stare at my phone. I don’t text Annie. I don’t call. I don’t write a thing I’ll have to unsay later. My head’s too muddled for flirting or worse. So I just sit on the edge of the bed and let the quiet be bigger than the ache.
