“I’m working on it.”
And somehow, that’s the most honest thing I’ve said all day. Sam doesn’t push after that. Just nods like he hears everything I didn’t say out loud. He glances around the apartment, eyes landing on the flat-packed furniture still leaning against the wall, unopened and half-forgotten.
“I have a drill in the truck. Want me to help you finish these?”
Relief blooms in my chest because it means I won’t need to ask Will.
“That would be great.”
He grabs his keys without another word, and while he’s gone, I change into leggings and a soft tee, pulling my hair back and splashing cold water on my face. Nothing fancy. Nothing brave. But it’s a start.
By the time Sam returns, carrying his worn canvas tool bag, the apartment already feels a little brighter.
We fall into an easy rhythm. Me reading instructions, him assembling, both of us half-grumbling about confusing diagrams and missing screws. The occasional curse word slips out when a shelf doesn’t line up or a bolt rolls under the couch, but for the first time in days, I feel steady. Not fixed. But grounded.
By the time the last leg is tightened and the final shelf clicks into place, I’m smiling.
Sam steps back, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Looks nice, Phern.”
I glance around the room. At the table we built, the bookshelf we filled, the space I’m trying to make my own. It’s starting to look like a real home. Like a life I could settle into, if I let myself.
“Thanks for helping,” I say quietly.
He nods, then nudges me with his elbow. “Next time you feel like hiding under a blanket, just call me. I’ll show up with a drill and a six-pack.”
I smile, and this time, it’s real.
“Deal.”
As soon as Sam leaves, the silence creeps back in. Thick. Heavy. Familiar in all the worst ways. I sit on the edge of the couch and sigh. The stillness feels bigger now, like the apartment is too wide and too quiet all at once.
This isn’t going to work.
I know myself. If I sit here too long, I’ll spiral. Not into tears. Into nothing. Into that gray, half-alive version of me I fought hard to crawl out of after Brandon.
I need to do something.
And just like that, the part of me that remembers who I am kicks back to life.
Love Lost Rodeo’s in a month. Then there’s Cheyenne Frontier Days. Then the PBR Finals in Vegas. A full schedule of stories, riders, and adrenaline waiting to be captured in ink.
If I’m going to get this paper off the ground, I’ve got work to do.
I fire up my laptop, and dive into the interview I did with Trey. I clean up his quotes, organize my notes, and map out the structure for the piece. His comeback arc, his connection to the local circuit, the quiet charm that makes him easy to root for, even if he’s not my story.
After that, I draft a list of family questions and shoot them off to Sam, asking about Stonewater Ranch history, old rodeo stories, and which horses had reputations for being impossible. He’ll love that part.
Then, after a moment of hesitation, I reach out to Liam. I tell him I need a few sound bites about growing up on the circuit. Nopressure, but if he doesn’t respond, I’m telling everyone he cried duringThe Notebook.
I grin at the screen. And for the first time in days, I don’t feel like I’m unraveling. I feel like I’m building something.
By the time the sun starts to dip, I’ve made real progress. The Trey interview is done and polished. Sam’s already replied with a voice memo full of stories that’ll make the piece sing. And Liam? He sent back a single line.
Liam Stone
You’re lucky I like you. I’ll call tomorrow.
I smile to myself, the good kind. The kind that feels earned.
