His folded letter crinkles in my back pocket when I shift forward and give the door a try. It opens easily, unlocked. Pitch-black inside, the cabin beckons me through the threshold andinto its familiar embrace. I flip the lights on and shut the door behind me.
It’s . . . overwhelming being here without him. Rowe’s a private man, but I’m hoping I’m an exception to that. If not, I’ll be giving him even more reason to be upset with me once he finds out I’m here. That warning isn’t enough to have me turning around, though. I don’t think there is one that could make me leave without at least searching for something to sate my restlessness.
Without taking my boots off, I cut through the living room. The soft purple throw on the couch is still in the same place I had it last night when I fell asleep watching some auction show. Rowe had been working late, and I thought I’d be able to stay up waiting for him to get home. Instead, I woke in the bedroom this morning, and the sheets beside me were still warm despite being empty.
Fuck, that’s a domestic thought.
I flick the bedroom light on and stare at the bed I made this morning. The curtains are drawn, and I fixate on the laundry bin tucked beside the dresser, noting for the first time how intertwined our clothes are. I haven’t been to my trailer in days now. Not since I grabbed fresh clothes and hauled all of my hygienic products to this cabin.
I’m not officially moved in, but I may as well be living here full-time. The concept of sharing a space with a man isn’t new to me in the slightest, so why does it feel different this time?Right. Because this isn’t a house purchased in both my husband’s and my names. It isn’t in a cute little suburb with the white picket fence and the garden out back, and there sure as hell aren’t any nosey neighbours poking around.
Instead, it’s a two-bedroom cabin with the smallest bathroom I’ve ever seen and a kitchen with no dishwasher. The coffee machine is the newest thing here, and that’s only becauseI snuck away to buy it this week. There’s not enough closet space, even with the lack of men’s clothing inside it, and the dresser only has two available drawers.
Yet I feel more at home here than I ever did anywhere else.
With a tight exhale, I turn away from the bed and face the closet. There’s a tug in my chest as I stare into the tiny space and slowly run my finger down the arm of a black dress shirt. It’s the only one in here, tucked between sun-faded work shirts and the vest he wears when he competes. The PS stitched onto every breast is an obvious claim.
I flick my eyes up to the shelf above the clothes and roll my lips. There are a few hat boxes there that I’d bet store all of his championship buckles, and a pair of boots that look like they’ve never been worn. I take the left one and bring it to my chest, taking a closer look at the intricate designs working from ankle to calf. It feels like a waste to have these hidden away in the closet, but I’d bet he was gifted them, and Rowe has a terrible habit of not accepting gifts from anyone.
When I pull the second boot from the shelf, I pause, eyes stuck on the small box now visible. It’s pressed up against the wall, and there’s duct tape wrapped all the way around the lid like that would ever be enough to keep anyone from peeking inside. I huff a laugh and grab it, tucking it under my arm while shoving the boots back in place.
The moment my ass hits the bed, I’m ripping at the tape and dropping it on the floor. I figure there’s no better way to do this than just whipping it open to see what’s inside. If it’s a secret stash of porn, then I’ll even try and tape it shut again. But if it’s something else . . . I just need to take a look.
“Oh,” I whisper.
The lid of the box is still pinched between my fingers as I stare at what he’s been keeping tucked away inside. A red elastic band keeps a thick pile of letters held together. My name iswritten on the corner in a cursive that I couldn’t even attempt to replicate after all these years. It’s the sight of the prison address that has my chest breaking out in a blistering heat.
Slowly, I take the letters out and tug off the band around them. They’re in chronological order, from the first one I sent right after he was sentenced to what I know will be my last-ever reply. Emotion balls high in my throat as I pluck through each one, running my fingertips across the jagged slits in the sides of them.
Moisture clings to my lashes. The letters feel like they weigh a thousand pounds as I lower them to the mattress beside me. There are more, though. Ones that I don’t recognize the writing on until I look at the top corner and the name written there.
Otis.
My brows pull in as I take the first envelope and slide the letter through the opening.
Rowe,
How you doing, kid? You asked for updates, so that’s what you’re getting. Short and sweet.
Your girl’s here every day. She’s been busying herself with all the tasks none of these other fuckers want to do. It’s good for her soul. Don’t worry about her.
You’ve got my word that I’ll make sure she’s alright, even if that might include giving her jobs that include touching some nasty shit.
Keep your head in there,
Otis.
My palms are slick with sweat as I put that one aside and find another.
Rowe,
She got the job. Your father’s been on her ass, but she can handle him.
Never seen a horse’s eyes sparkle the way they do when she’s done with them. Diesel’s mane has been braided for a couple weeks now. He fucking likes it. If she tried, he’d let her put glitter designs on his ass. That’s your horse, kid.
We’ve still got her. Just focus on keeping your head on right in there.
Otis
