To my dismay, Peyton’s hot on my heels. And she plunksherself into my lap when I sit down, sending sharp jolts of pain from my armpit to my fingertips. A few weeks of casual dating and a breakup text later, here I am with a stage-five clinger.
And I could look past the fiery ache in my collarbone, or my annoyance at Peyton’s bony ass on my thigh, if either thing ignited a single spark in Blair’s eyes. But the full glass of beer clunks down in front of me, sloshing over the rim, and she carries on. No hint of jealousy or questioning, no eye contact filled with longing. It turns out seeing me with another girl has zero effect on her. Meanwhile, that ring on her finger—even without knowing anything about the guy—has me silently apologizing to my liver for the oblivion I’m about to drink it into.
“Hart.” I catch a fleeting moment of her attention. “Bring over a tray of shots. Whiskey.”
Denver
(thirteen years old)
My boots clapped together, sending dust and dried mud shrapnel into the air. Seated on the tailgate of Mom’s pickup, I was watching her tack up a seven-year-old gelding. Somewhere, Dad and Austin were likely practicing their team roping. Jackson was in his own world—as always—slowly, thoughtfully brushing his mare. And I had nothing to do. Nowhere to be until it was my time to ride…in a little over three hours.
I loved rodeo. My entire family loved rodeo. So much, in fact, that my grandfather was the local rodeo association president for more than twenty years, and it was his dad before that. From April to October, each and every weekend was consumed by rodeo. Mom was one of the top barrel racers in British Columbia. Dad and Austin made a powerhouse team roping duo, with Aus heading and Dad heeling. Jackson was on track to be the top tie-down roper in the provincial high school rodeo circuit.
And then there was me. The only one not needing to groom or exercise my horse. No practice outside of jumping on unbroken horses and unruly cattle on our ranch. Despite my family’s objections, I rode steers rather than roping or wrestling them.
Folding the ten-dollar bill my grandpa had given me atbreakfast that morning, I tucked it into the front pocket of my jeans and hopped off the tailgate.
“Gonna go buy a drink from the concession,” I said, glancing over at Mom.
“Okay, baby. If you see Blair, buy her one, too.”
“But Grandpa ga—”
“Denver Wells.” Her tone was blunt, tightening around me at the same time as she pulled on the horse’s cinch. “You be a decent boy and buy that girl a drink. She just had her best run of the season so far. She deserves it.”
I rolled my eyes with a huff. I had mucked out extra stalls the day before for that money, and now I had to spend it on some girl.Great.
“And Denver,” she called as I walked away. “Maybe it would be fun if you two hung out together. She doesn’t really know anybody except us here.”
Double great.
Now I had to spend my hard-earned money on herandhang out with her?
Should’ve slipped away when Mom wasn’t looking.
Regretting my decision to open my mouth, I trudged across the rodeo grounds. Navigating between stock trailers, I kept my head down. The way I figured, I couldn’t get in trouble for not buying Blair a pop if I genuinely didn’t see her on my way to the concession.
Fat chance.
There she was. On a patch of grass directly in the middle of my route. Watching a steer wrestling slack event in dusty jeans and a hot pink rodeo shirt. Her dark brown hair was braided down her back, and the warm sun had it shining.
Blair Hart.
We’d known each other since preschool. Same age, same grade, and same class for our entire lives—not that it meant we were friends. Mostly, we passed each other in the hallways, and sometimes I’d be a middleman when she passednotes with her friends. We operated in separate circles until Blair decided she wanted to start barrel racing. The Hart family wasn’t in the rodeo scene like mine, so Mom took her under her wing. She’d said something about wanting more estrogen in a house full of boys, on a ranch full of cowboys. Suddenly, Blair was tagging along for nearly every rodeo, and taking the school bus home with us three days per week to practice in our arena.
She was a nice enough girl. Smart, a bit quiet, and she could even be funny sometimes. Though I’d never admit that to the guys from school.
Still though, I wasn’t interested in hanging out with her for the entire day. Ireallydidn’t want to buy her a stupid pop with my hard-earned cash. And yet, I’d rather do both than deal with Mom’s rage.
“Hey, I’m headed to buy a cold drink.” I stared down at her, waiting for her eyes to meet mine. “Whaddya want?”
“Oh, um.” Blair popped up to her feet, brushing the dirt from her pants. “Let me see what they have.”
She fidgeted with the sleeve of her pearl-snap shirt the entire fifty-foot walk to the concession. Keeping a gap wide enough for two more people between us, she clearly didn’t want to be stuck hanging out with me any more than I wanted to be with her. Thankfully.
Two cans of pop and a measly amount of change back, I handed a can over to Blair beneath the thin shade of a pine tree. She grinned, wiggling a finger under the metal tab to open her Dr Pepper with an aggressive crack and carbonated hiss. “Thanks, Denny.”
“No problem.” I took a swig of my Mountain Dew while looking around for somebody to hang out with, stuffing my change into my pocket.
