We stood there a minute longer, the silence stretching between us. It wasn't awkward anymore. It felt heavy, but in a good way. Like the air before a storm.
"Come on," I said finally, pushing off the fence. "Pops'll skin us alive if we're dragging ass tomorrow. Early chores wait for no one."
"Yes, ma'am." He fell into step beside me.
As we walked back to the house, I let my mind wander a bit. Beau was fitting in better than I'd expected. The town liked him now, thanks to his open-bar stunt. He’d survived the truck. He was trying.
But he was still the Dallas boy. Still leaving come fall. Still the kid who'd vanished twelve years ago without a backward glance.
We reached the porch, and he paused at the door. "Night, Winnie. Thanks for letting me tag along. And for the driving lesson. Even if it was terrifying."
"Night, Sterling." I flashed him a quick smile. "Don't let Pickles eat your hat in your sleep."
He chuckled, shaking his head as he headed inside. I lingered on the porch a second longer, tilting my face up to catch one last look at the stars before the house lights swallowed them up.
The weird warmth in my chest? Just the tequila talking. Had to be.
I slipped inside, kicked off my boots by the door, and trudged up to my room. Bed was calling, and tomorrow was another day of mucking stalls and dealing with whatever fresh complaints Beau had about his blisters.
Temporary. That's all he was.
I fell asleep to the sound of crickets outside my window, dreaming of nothing in particular. Or at least, that's what I'd tell myself in the morning.
BEAU
In which I become a (somewhat) functional human
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
5 AM
"I am changing, trying every way I can. I am changing, I'll be better than I am."
-DreamGirls
***
I woke up at 5:25 AM.
On my own.
Without an alarm, a bucket of ice water, or a SWAT team intervention.
For a solid thirty seconds, I just lay there staring at the water-stained ceiling, wondering if this was the first symptom of a personality disorder. Because the Beau Sterling who had arrived in Oklahoma eight days ago would rather have choked on his own designer tongue than wake up before dawn voluntarily. That Beau Sterling considered noon "early" and 3 AM a reasonable bedtime.
ThisBeau Sterling—Ranch Beau, apparently—had just woken up five minutesbeforehis alarm was set to go off, feeling... rested?
"What the fuck," I whispered to the empty room. "Who am I?"
My body ached, but it wasn't the screaming agony of the first few days. It was a dull, manageable throb. My hands were developing actual calluses—rough patches on my palms that looked like proof of life. My shoulders, which had felt like they’d been beaten with meat tenderizers last week, now just felt... solid.
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, squinting against the blue light, and opened my messages.
Z:[3 days ago]
Last message. Three days since Z had texted me.
I scrolled through the rest. A few cursory "You alive?" texts from Dallas acquaintances, but nothing recent. The group chat I’d been the king of—the one that buzzed incessantly with party plans and gossip—had 847 unread messages. I scrolled through a hundred of them.
