“When you say it doesn’t feel like ‘just anything,’” he asks finally, “what does it feel like?”
I swallow.
“Like… breathing,” I admit. “Like coming into a room I didn’t know I’d been locked out of my whole life.” Shame heats my cheeks. “Which is dramatic, I know.”
“Coming from someone who’s spent the last decade playing with a man who jumped off a lighting rig because he ‘felt it in the bridge,’” Creed says dryly, “it barely registers.”
A startled laugh bursts out of me, half hysterical and half grateful. “Oh my goodness, I forgot about that.”
“He has not.” Creed’s lips press together in a faint smile. “His back reminds him every time it rains.”
We fall quiet again.
“Look,” he says eventually. “I’m not going to give you a speech about how love is worth the risk or any of that bullshit. You know that song already.”
“Yeah.” My chest tightens. “I do.”
“What I will say is this.” He shifts his weight, turning to face me more fully. “What happened with Marcus wasn’t your fault.”
The sentence lands like a slap.
I blink at him, stunned. “I?—”
“You got involved with a man who abused his power,” Creed continues evenly. “Who lied. Who made you responsible for his choices. Who threw you under the bus to save himself. That’s on him, Delaney. Not you.”
My throat closes. I look away, out over the valley, because if I look at him, I might cry, and I am very committed to not crying on mountain ridges with drummers.
“I should’ve known better,” I whisper.
“Maybe,” he allows. “But knowing better is a privilege people who haven’t been hurt love to talk about. You’re allowed to have believed someone who told you they loved you and then acted like a coward.”
The words get past my defenses in a way all the well-meaning “you’re so strong” pep talks never have. They’re too blunt to be platitudes. Creed doesn’t traffic in platitudes.
“I’m not saying don’t be careful,” he says. “You should be. Take your time. Ask for what you need. Set boundaries. Make mistakes. Apologize. Try again. That’s… life.”
I sniff, swiping at the corner of my eye before anything spills over. The wind helps. I can blame it later.
“And if,” he adds, “you decide that whatever’s happening with those three men and that kid and that ranch is something you want… then build it on purpose. Don’t let it happen to you. Choose it. Or don’t. But make sure you’re the one driving, not fear and not your past.”
I stare at the line of mountains in the distance until they blur.
“Do you ever get tired of being unreasonably wise?”
“Constantly.”
I laugh again, softer this time. The tightness in my chest eases a fraction.
Below us, the sun glints off something metal near The Hollow. A few tiny figures move around what might be the rec field behind it.
“What are we looking at?” I ask, needing a change of subject before my emotions go into full meltdown.
Creed follows my gaze. “Probably Lani and company setting up boards.”
“Boards?”
“Coyote Cup Showdown.” He nods toward the rec field. “Season starts soon.”
I frown. “What isthat?”
