That shuts Jesse up because it’s true. We were so focused on the physical, on the thrill of the forbidden, that we never built anything solid. No foundation beyond attraction and defiance.
We load our horses in silence while the crowd continues celebrating around us. Normal people with normal relationships that don’t require security details and social media warfare.
“This is bullshit,” Boone announces as we drive away.
“Yep.”
“Worse than that bull that stepped on my nuts.”
“Oh yeah. That was bad.”
The drive home is twenty minutes of Jesse aggressively changing radio stations, Boone with his hand on his balls, and me trying not to think about how empty the ranch is going to feel without Callie sneaking around.
At home, we tend to the horses on autopilot. The routine is just what we need—unsaddle, brush, water, feed. Simple tasks with clear outcomes. No complications, no mixed signals, no choosing between family and desire.
“I’m getting drunk,” Jesse announces when we’re done.
“It’s four in the afternoon.”
“And?”
Fair point.
We end up on the porch with whiskey that costs too much to waste on feelings but perfect for it anyway, and watching the sunset.
“We should have seen this coming,” Boone says after his third drink.
“We did,” I tell him. “We just thought we could dick our way through it.”
“Usually works.”
“Not with Thompsons apparently.”
Jesse pulls out the recipe Callie gave him, smoothing it against his thigh. “I think this is really her mom’s handwriting.”
“How would you know?”
“Same as the fair entry forms from years back. She won with this pie, I remember.”
We sit with that for a moment, with Callie giving us something as a goodbye gift. Not a fuck you, not a dramatic exit, just a piece of her history and a suggestion to let go of ours.
“Think she was right?” Boone asks. “That it was just sex?”
“No,” Jesse says immediately.
“Yes,” I say at the same time.
We look at each other.
“Maybe,” Boone concludes. “Maybe it was just sex that could have been more if we’d had time.”
“Or if our families weren’t a total mess,” Jesse adds.
“Or if the whole town wasn’t watching,” I contribute.
“Or if Madison wasn’t a psycho with a social media addiction.”
“Or if we knew how to have a conversation that didn’t end with someone’s pants off.”
