Page 6 of Came the Closest
“Oh?” Two perfectly shaped brows lift. “Why not? We were under the impression you’d want to. You know, talk is therapy.”
I’m beginning to wish I’d trusted my gut about this guy. It’s becoming clear he’s more interested in clickbait to draw listeners than genuine conversations with bull riders. The exact kind of reporter I’ve always avoided.
“That may be true,” I concede through gritted teeth, “but I’ll just have to deal with the trauma.”
“So, it’s not true that Kolter was drinking at the time of his accident? It’s no secret that you’re among the very few to be sober in the world of rodeo.” Rhodes’s eyes gleam wolfishly. “That has to be hard on you.”
I’m not a violent person by nature, despite my delight in riding the nastiest bulls, but that comment breaks something inside of me. Maybe it’s irritation, maybe it’s anger, or maybe it’s the razor-sharp sting of grief. Maybe it’s a combination of all three, bubbling to the surface after months of shove, shove, shoving them deeper down.
I snap.
I stalk up to Rhodes and take him by the lapels of his starched white shirt, my words low when I say, “Don’t bring his name up again. Are we clear? I will not discuss it, and if you try to push me, you won’t have a podcast anymore.” I shake him firmly by the shoulders, because despite it all, he still wears an infuriating smirk on his face. He knows alcohol wasn’t involved. Anger sears through my veins. “Do I make myself clear?”
It’s not until Travis bursts into the room, followed only seconds later by two uniformed police officers, that I remember this is all being broadcast live.
Chapter Three
What Hurts The Most
Cheyenne
I was six years old when my dad told me to rinse three times after brushing my teeth. He stood next to me at the bathroom sink across the hall from my bedroom at the lake house; the bathroom with the leaky faucet and my older brothers’ Hot Wheels cars hidden in the cabinet. It was my first time not using a tiny paper Dixie cup. I remember being ecstatic that it wouldn’t turn mushy in my hands.
I wish I’d paid attention to my dad instead. What the color of his t-shirt was or what his smile looked like. Because now, I can’t. Not like that. And even though it’s been four months and twenty-one days since that awful night, memories like this trickle in at random times.
Last week, I remembered how my dad always “forgot” to turn off my bedside lamp so he could tell me good night one more time. I was walking up the narrow stairwell to my temporary apartment above the flower shop when it hit me. Two weeks before that, sitting on a bench downtown and watching a dad follow his son on a bike, I remembered the day Colton stumbled, quite literally, upon our family. How Dad had known what Colton needed before Colton himself even knew.
This memory, the one about rinsing three times, comes to me while I’m walking up the neat path to my oldest brother’s cottage. I’m carrying a bag of greasy burgers and fries from Farm to Table, because even though Beau doesn’t know I’m coming, I know he won’t turn food away.
Usually I ring the doorbell—the tinkling sound annoys Beau deeply—but this time I knock. Somewhere inside, Beau hollers to come in. If I were feeling like myself, I’d also tease him that I could’ve been a serial killer. To which he’d do a once-over of me, shake his head disapprovingly, and then take off down the hall.
The first thing to greet is Chico, Beau and Kaia’s hundred-pound golden retriever. He stretches his long neck to smell the paper bag in my hands before nudging me to pet him.
Blinking to adjust to the dimmer indoor lighting, I look around. The pale coral accent wall in the living room with a light wicker bookshelf displays Kaia’s beloved novels. Yellow seashell throw pillows rest on the off-white sofa with a cornflower blue throw blanket tossed over its back. Natural light spills in through the kitchen to dance over white cabinets, colorful dish towels, and a vase of freshly cut pink tulips on the island. Tate’s toys are mostly in their designated bins, but I step around a toy truck and Hot Wheels car.
My sister-in-law insists on people leaving shoes on, so I wipe my Birkenstocks on the Welcome to our home, Sunshine! mat and cross to the kitchen. As I expected, Beau disappeared into the backyard after hollering for me to come in. I grab two paper plates, tuck them into the bag, and toss in a few extra paper towels for good measure.
We’re still easing towards summer, but even mostly bare, the backyard is my favorite part of this house. Beau arranged flat stones into a patio and strung bulb lights along the edges of a wooden shade overhead. Wicker furniture matches the bookcase inside, cushioned by sherbet orange cushions, and it’s arranged around a firepit.
Beau straightens from the raised flower beds, raising a dirty hand to shade his eyes against the May sun. “Is that what I think it is?”
“No. I saved the bag from last time and filled it with rotten potatoes.”
“That’s not funny,” he says, crossing the plush green yard to the patio. A light breeze presses his faded green t-shirt against his chest and ruffles his dark hair. “Not after my ninth birthday.”
I pass him his burger and a to-go cup of Sprite. “To be fair, I was only four at the time, old man.”
“There are pictures to document Grandma’s delight and my horror when I opened a heavy box with one Hot Wheels car, nine dollar bills, and nine rotten potatoes inside.” He peels the silver wrapping back around his burger and glances at me. “Also, I’m not old.”
“Thirty-five is practically ancient.”
Beau only grunts and takes a generous bite of burger before chasing it with a long pull of soda. His silver wedding ring flashes in the sun, and my burger suddenly becomes hard to swallow. My gaze falls to my bare finger where my own rings no longer reside.
If you would’ve told twenty-four-year-old me I’d be approaching thirty, freshly divorced, I’d have laughed. I had a plan—one with the fairytale marriages like my parents and grandparents. Stephen and I were supposed to have the never-ending honeymoon phase and the neat townhome to raise our children in and the perfect careers.
But here I am, months shy of thirty, with nothing of the sort.
Beau pauses for a breather after he’s inhaled three-fourths of his burger and juice drips down his wrist. Which is great, except that I know what’s coming. He wipes his hands on a torn paper towel and takes another obscenely long drink of Sprite before settling his full attention on me.