At least the she understands.
I’mon the ridge that overlooks the McCoy property line because I’m definitely not stalking them. No, I’m checking fence integrity. The fact that I can see them working their own fence from here is pure coincidence. Geographic proximity. Nothing more.
I brought binoculars. For bird-watching. The fact that there are no birds is irrelevant.
They’re about three hundred yards away, close enough to see but far enough that they won’t notice me unless they’re specifically looking. Which they’re not, because they’re focused on their broken-down fence. Not broken-down me.
Through my binoculars, I can see details I probably shouldn’t be cataloguing. Jesse’s wearing that gray shirt that fits just right, the one he wore the first time we... nope. Not going there. Boone’s got a new bruise on his forearm, probably from another failed attempt at something reckless. Wyatt’s hat is pushed back, and there’s a line of sweat down his spine that’s making his shirt stick in a way that should be gross but isn’t.
“This is pathetic,” I tell myself. “You’re pathetic. Sitting on a ridge with binoculars watching men fix a fence. This is a new low.”
But do I leave? Hell no.
Jesse’s wielding a post hammer like he wants to kill it. Each strike seems personal, as if the fence insulted his mother or, more likely, reminded him of something Thompson-related. He misses, smashes his thumb, and lets out a string of cursing that carries across the distance. The words are muffled but the sentiment is clear. Something about “fucking fucks” and a string of other creative cuss words.
Boone’s holding wire with the enthusiasm of someone at their own execution. He keeps looking at the sky and gesturing, probably asking the universe what he did to deserve manual labor and romantic frustration in equalmeasure. Every few minutes he stops working entirely to stare at nothing, which I recognize as the universal posture of someone remembering better times.
Ask me how I know.
Wyatt’s just working. Steady, methodical, emotionless. But there’s something about the set of his shoulders, the way he’s not talking to his brothers, that screams “I’m fine” in the way that means the opposite. He’s doing that thing where he overworks to avoid feeling, which I recognize because I did the same thing yesterday. Except instead of fixing a fence, I reorganized the spice cabinet. Alphabetically. Then by color. Then by frequency of use. Then I gave up and made more pie.
They look miserable.
I’m glad.
No, not really. I don’t want them miserable. I want them happy and fulfilled and living their best lives. Just... somewhere else. With someone else. Someone whose last name isn’t Thompson and whose father doesn’t fantasize about McCoy destruction and whose goat hasn’t committed crimes against their property.
“I miss you idiots,” I whisper to the wind, because the wind can’t judge or tell anyone or post about it on Facebook with those awful caring emojis.
Jesse hits his thumb again. This time, he throws the hammer, which is both dangerous and satisfying to see. It lands maybe ten feet away, and he has to go retrieve it, which somehow makes it funnier. Boone says something that makes Jesse flip him off. Based on the gesture, it was probably about his aim or his anger management issues or both.
Wyatt continues working as if his brothers aren’t losing their shit just three feet away, which is peak Wyatt behavior.
This is what I’ve been reduced to. Spying and stalking like a freak, pretending I don’t care, acting as if three weeks of incredible sex and almost-feelings didn’t happen. As if I don’t know exactly what sounds Jesse makes when he’s close, or how Boone laughs when he’s actually happy versus when he’s covering, or how Wyatt’s face relaxes in those moments when he thinks no one’s looking.
“You’re torturing yourself,” I say out loud. “This is self-harm via binoculars.”
But I keep watching.
Twenty minutes later, they’re packing up to leave. Jesse kicks the fence post he was working on. Naturally, the post doesn’t move, but Jesse starts hopping on one foot, having forgotten that fence posts are harder than feet. Boone throws the extra wire in the truck bed with enough force to dent something. There’s a metallic clang that suggests he succeeded.
Wyatt just stands there for a moment, looking out across the pasture.
Looking directly at the ridge where I’m sitting.
Shit, shit, shit.
I freeze. He can’t see me from this distance. No way. Can’t know I’m here. It’s impossible. I’m hidden behind scrub, just like any professional stalker.
But he raises his hand, just slightly. Not quite a wave. More an acknowledgment. A “I know you’re there and I’m not going to make it weird” gesture.
I don’t move. Don’t respond. Don’t breathe.
He lowers his hand, gets in the truck, and they drive away.
I sit on that ridge for another hour, trying to convince myself that was coincidence. That he was just stretching. That he didn’t know I was there watching them with binoculars borrowed from Dad’s hunting supplies.
But Wyatt always knows. It’s his superpower and his curse.
