Then, mercifully, Charlie jumps in.
“Sam told me about the articles you’re doing,” she says, her voice bright and warm. “If you’d like I’d love to help.”
I blink at her. “Seriously? I can’t believe I didn’t think to reach out to you before.”
Charlie used to be a reporter before she married Sam.
I grin. “I absolutely want your help. That is if you’re serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” she says, already moving to clear space on the table like we’re diving into battle.
I grab my laptop, still open from earlier, and flip it around to show her what I’ve been working on—notes, quotes, roughoutlines. She leans in immediately, scanning the screen with laser focus.
“Okay,” she murmurs, pointing to a sentence. “Let’s tighten this. And this stat could use a source. Also I know a few people from my byline days who might have good stories about the PBR circuit, if you want them.”
My heart swells a little. This is what I needed. Not a fight. Not another emotional detour. Just this. Purpose. Progress. Someone who sees the work and respects it.
Somewhere between edits and laughter, Sam stands and heads for the door. “I’ll be at Flowers End if you need me.”
“Don’t start a bar fight,” I call out.
He smirks. “Only if it’s worth it.”
And then he’s gone. Just me, Charlie, a sleeping baby Sam, and the blinking cursor of something finally taking shape.
The month blurs.
I tell myself it's because I'm busy. That I’m focused. That I’ve got too much going on to think about Will and what he said in the truck. And maybe that’s true. Most days.
Charlie and I fall into a rhythm that feels good. Comfortable. She shows up every morning with coffee and that old reporter gleam in her eye, ready to dive in. We build the calendar for the Love Lost Rodeo together. Line up interviews, chase down quotes, plan coverage like it’s our own tiny newsroom. It’s chaos. It’s exhausting.
And I love it.
We spend long nights in my living room with draft pages scattered across the floor. Some nights we talk more than we work. About the riders. The old rodeo stories. About what it’s like to leave one version of yourself behind to become someone else.
In all this time I manage to avoid Will.
Well, not really. I see him more than I want to, and when I do, I hurry to be anywhere else. I cross the street when his truck pulls into Flowers End. I pretend to be on a call when he walks into the feed store. When I have to be in the same space, I sit as far from him as I can. That’s life in a small town, though.
He doesn’t push. Not directly. But I feel him watching. And every time my phone buzzes, part of me wonders if it’s him.
Nash texts every now and then, always light. Thoughtful. He doesn’t press, just reminds me I’ve got people in my corner.
Sam hovers. Brings over food. Checks in under the guise of “how’s the article going?” but I see the way he studies my face when I’m not looking. I keep telling him I’m fine. It’s not a lie. Not exactly. It’s just that fine doesn’t mean fixed. It means I get out of bed. I hit my self-imposed deadlines. I show up.
The town starts shifting as the rodeo draws closer. More boots, more dust, more buzz in the air like thunder just out of reach. Posters go up. Tourists trickle in. Charlie and I check our final edits like we’re sending them off to war.
And then one night, I find myself standing alone at the edge of the arena, wind picking up around me. I look at the banners hanging from the rail, all those names and sponsors and legacies. I see Will’s name. But I don’t look away.
That’s when my phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Phern. It’s Nash.” There’s a pause—static on the line, and something heavier behind it. “I’m not going to be able to make it toLove Lostthis weekend. Natalie’s sick.”
Disappointment flickers in my chest, but I keep my voice soft. “I understand.”
He lets out a frustrated sigh. “I feel like the universe is out to get me.”
