1
BECKHAM
Ikilled him.
That’s what ran through my mind as I stared at the coffin sitting at the head of the aisle.
My best friend died because of me. And because of me, he wouldn’t live to see his thirtieth birthday. Hell, he wouldn’t even live to see his twenty-eighth birthday—the one he was supposed to be celebrating in four and a half months. Instead,Iwould be there on that date. Living. Breathing. Doing everything he should’ve been doing.
What a selfish fucking thing it was to die.
Grieving was cruel. I was happy before all of this, laughing at Garrett’s jokes over the stupidest shit, watching him eat dirt every time he got bucked off the back of a bronc. He was the whole reason I got more serious with saddle bronc riding to begin with. The reason I packed a duffel bag full of clothes and hit the road and had the best fucking time of my life.
And now he was dead.
And I got to keep the memories.
Like I said—cruel. Selfish. Horrible.
Now, I sat in the back row at yet another funeral, remembering all of it.
But Garrett’s burial wasn’t today.
It was months ago.
Not an ounce of guilt had lifted off my shoulders since then, cinderblocks of regret holding them so far down I might as well be six feet under right next to him.
But rather than it being my body in that casket reflecting the cloudy sky above, it was another man.
The man who I wasn’t even sure deserved a funeral to begin with.
Parker Summerhill’s father.
Parker, the girl I spent the first eighteen years of my life loving, and the last ten years of my life missing.
I hadn’t seen her here yet, and I was half convinced she wouldn’t even show. I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t.
The man was a piece of shit—always drinking instead of doing what any father should: taking care of his family. Her mom wasn’t the best either, though I spared her a little more credit. She’d fight and yell with Parker’s dad day in and day out, telling him he needed to do better, but then she’d turn around and be just as big of a failure.
But the day after Parker turned eighteen, her mom died.
Her death was both sides of the coin. It ended hersuffering of lung cancer from years of smoking in their little singlewide, but in turn, left Parker with her dad.
Three days after her mom passed, before the funeral was even held, Parker left town.
And I hadn’t seen her since. Hadn’t heard from her. Hadn’t stopped thinking of her. Hadn’t stopped hating myself for letting her go, but fuck—I left, too. I said goodbye to her, looked her right in the fucking eyes as I did, and said I couldn’t go with her because I wanted to get more involved in rodeo. To ride broncs for money. To enjoy my twenties with my friends. Hell, Iinvitedher. But she said no. She wanted to travel to ranches around the country and learn all she could about cattle ranching. I told her I’d take her anywhere she wanted once I struck gold, but that wasn’t enough. She wanted out of this town. Wanted to live her life the way she always should have. Really, I think she only wanted to get the fuck away from her dad.
I didn’t blame her.
Parker and I, we both had our flaws. Mine was how I set my sights on something, and I got it, no matter the sacrifices. Hers? Wanting to run.
“She’s still such a sweet girl, just like when she was growin’ up,” said some lady with a scratchy, shaky voice from next to me in the back row.
I didn’t look up from the photo of Parker’s dad’s face printed on the thick cardstock in my hand, knowing the lady was talking to her friend on the other side of her.
“Too bad she left like that,” the other woman noted, her voice like nails on a chalkboard.
“Wonder where the dad is,” the first one added, straightening in her chair to look up the rows of seats.
