Our friendship was real, though. At one point, I was fully convinced we were closer than he and Ash ever were. Despite him being locked up while I tried to pretend I wasn’t falling into depression, we were best friends. His letters were the only reason I got out of bed most days. Fuck knows working for his parents wasn’t doing that.
Clearing my throat, I slap the box shut and shove it behind the couch. Once it’s out of sight, I pull a beer from the lukewarm mini-fridge and step outside. The night is a welcome change of scenery as I plop my ass on the grass and crack open the beer.
With the Painted Sky truck parked in front of my trailer, I finish my beer and let the last words my therapist in Nova Scotia ever told me flush my mind.
“You’ll know you’re finished healing when it stops pissing you off that they’re still breathing, Tilly. You’ll get there.”
I reread that letter and still wish Rowe hadn’t written it in the first place. That he wasn’t here, out of prison and acting like what he said to me didn’t shred my naïve heart into pieces. Time hasn’t softened any memory I have of this place or the best friend I lost in the blink of an eye.
I hate him.
Not for what he did that night or that he told me he didn’t do any of it for me.
But for the way I still want to believe he was lying.
16
ROWE
“Are you punishing me for something?”
My dad stares blankly at me, hiding his immediate reaction to my question. His hat is pushed up slightly, exposing the silver hair at his temples as he huffs a breath and stands a bit straighter.
“Did you do something that deserves punishing?”
“Not sure. It feels an awful lot like you’re sending me out when Otis would be better at this sweet-talking bullshit. I’m too busy to leave. He’ll convince him that everything is going fine.”
“Yeah? So you’ve got that bastard saddle broke, then? Is there an end date I can give him, since you’ve got it all figured out?”
I glance away, my jaw tight, gums aching. “We’re getting there.”
“It’s been a month, and he still won’t let you ride him. Enough’s enough. You’re taking the trip out to his owner’s place, and he’ll hear it fromyourmouth why he should continue to pay to keep his horse here when he’s not getting better. I’ve gotnothing to tell him myself anymore. No more excuses to pull out of my ass.”
“You know it isn’t always quick. Not with a horse like that,” I grate out.
“It’s quicker than this, Rowe. He’s paying thousands for nothing more than luxury boarding at this point, and I’ve been making excuses for your lack of progress for weeks. It’s your turn. This is your responsibility now.”
I scratch my jaw and try to calm the rage burning inside my chest. “You want to send me, I’ll go. But she’s not fucking coming with me.”
“That’s not your call, son. Watch your mouth.”
“What’s the point? She’s more useful here,” I push, unable to let this go.
For the last two weeks, I’ve kept myself clear of Tilly. When she enters the stables, I walk out the other side. The only time I speak to her is when I demand she finish useless tasks that have her spitting mad by the time she gets back, finished with them. Brock was thrilled when I gave him the day off from mucking the stable yesterday and had him hand his shovel off to her.
I could still hear the way Tilly screamed and cursed my name when I was at my cabin last night.
Putting us in such close proximity for longer than two minutes is the worst decision my father has made in the last decade. But he’s stubborn as fuck, and there won’t be any changing his mind, no matter how much longer I stand and argue with him.
“She’s going to work on his other horses while you’re there. Maybe she can sweeten him up a bit as an apology for the delay in fixing the one still in my goddamn pen,” he says, his tone sharp, final.
My skin prickles with discomfort. “Is she getting paid for the work?”
“I don’t let anyone here work for free.”
“Fine. She’s okay with it?”
“Why does it matter so much to you, son? Let it go. You leave in an hour.”
