“We all have our stories.” He was quiet for a moment, then seemed to make a decision. “Mine involved a bottle of bourbon and a hotel room in Vegas about five years ago. I woke up days later with no memory of how I'd gotten there and about six missed calls from Ibrahim wondering why I'd disappeared.”
The admission hit me like a physical blow. Vincent—successful, put-together, unflappable Vincent—had been where I was now. Maybe not exactly the same circumstances, but that same drowning feeling, that same desperate need to make the noise in his head stop.
“What happened?”
“I got help. Therapy, medication for a while, a complete restructuring of how I approached stress and pressure.” He straightened up from the wall, and when he looked at me, there was something fierce in his expression. “It wasn't fun, and it wasn't fast, but it worked. I'm still here, still running this place, still figuring out how to be a whole person instead of just a collection of achievements.”
The parallel wasn't lost on me. A collection of achievements. That's exactly what I'd been: Cordero Morales, quarterback. Take away the football, and what was left? Who was I without the thing that had defined me since I was eight years old?
He studied me a beat longer. “Success is the best accessory. Just make sure it fits the person you are, not the persona you built.”
I huffed out something that wasn't quite a laugh.
“So, if what you need right now is a few days away from people and pressure, somewhere you can fall apart safely and put yourself back together…” He gestured toward the hills beyond The Ranch. “Dusty's right. My cabin's a good place to start. No audience, no expectations. Just space to breathe. We'll keep Dr. Hart looped in. Twice-daily phone check-ins. I'll handle Ibrahim.”
Relief flooded through me so fast I had to lean against the wall. “Thank you.”
“Don't thank me yet. This is going to get worse before it gets better, and Dusty's putting himself in a complicated position to help you.” Vincent's expression turned serious again. “Don't make him regret it.”
“I won't.”
“Good.” He pushed off from the wall. “Go pack. Light—you're not moving in permanently. And Cord?” He paused at the entrance to my suite. “Whatever happens out there, remember that this is temporary. You're not broken, you're just bent. There's a difference.”
“Sí,” I said, surprising both of us.
Inside my suite, I moved on autopilot, throwing clothes into the same duffel bag I'd brought from Denver four days ago. Four days. How was it possible that my entire life had shifted so completely in less than a week? I'd arrived here as one person, bitter, medicated, barely holding on.
Now I was about to disappear into the hills with a man who'd somehow become essential to my breathing.
The thought should have terrified me. Under normal circumstances, the idea of being isolated with someone I'd known for four days would have set off every self-preservation instinct I had. But these weren't normal circumstances, andnothing about my reaction to Dusty fell into any category I recognized.
I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror as I grabbed my toiletries. The face looking back at me was thinner than it had been a month ago, stubble covering a jawline that looked sharper than it should. But for the first time in months, my eyes didn't look dead. There was something there. Fear, maybe, but also hope. When had I last had hope about anything?
My phone buzzed with a text from Ruben: How's the vacation going? Ready to talk surgery dates yet?
I stared at the message, then turned the phone off and shoved it into the bottom of my bag. Whatever decisions I needed to make about my future could wait. Right now, all I could handle was the next few hours.
Vincent walked me out to the lobby where Dusty was waiting, a small duffel slung over his shoulder. He looked different outside of the studio setting, more casual in worn jeans and a faded t-shirt, his blond hair pulled back in a loose knot at the nape of his neck. When he saw me, his expression shifted from anxious to relieved.
“You ready?” he asked, voice soft like he was afraid speaking too loud might spook me.
“As I'll ever be.” I adjusted my shoulder brace, already feeling the familiar ache starting to build. How long before it became unbearable? Six hours? Less?
Vincent walked us to the door, handing Dusty a set of keys. “There's food in the fridge. Call if you need anything.” He clasped my good shoulder. “Remember what I said, Cord.”
Outside, an ancient Ford pickup waited, its blue paint sun-faded to the color of a desert sky. It looked out of place next to the luxury of The Ranch. Dusty tossed our bags in the backand helped me into the passenger seat. The interior smelled of leather and dust and something green. Sage, maybe.
We drove away from The Ranch's manicured grounds onto an unpaved road that meandered through scrubby hills. Dust billowed behind us as we bounced over ruts, each jolt sending a stab of pain through my shoulder. I closed my eyes, focusing on my breathing the way Dusty had taught me.
The truck slowed, and I opened my eyes to see a small wooden cabin nestled among cypress trees beside a narrow creek. It looked like something from another time, simple and sturdy, built to last rather than impress.
I climbed out slowly, taking in the absolute quiet broken only by the burble of water over stones and the whisper of breeze through leaves. The air smelled clean in a way city air never did, and I was ten years old again, camping with my parents and Maria in the mountains outside Santa Fe. Dad teaching me to fish while Mom sketched the landscape and Maria collected “treasures” from the forest floor.
“No neighbors for miles,” Dusty said, misreading my silence for concern. “The Ranch is about twenty miles back if we need it.”
I stretched carefully, rolling my neck. “That's not a bad thing.”
When I turned to grab my bag, I caught Dusty looking at the cabin like a man who'd just agreed to hold lightning. He nodded anyway.
