I miss you. I always will. But I can’tcarry the weight of your absence the way I used to. I have to carry the weight of her presence, too. I have to try.
Love, Easton
The moment the captain announces we’re approaching Cheyenne and to prepare for landing, my stomach twists so hard, I swear I can feel it in my throat. The wheels kiss the tarmac, and all I can think about is Teagan, about telling her all the things that went unsaid the night I left the ranch.
Traffic is a nightmare. An accident has the interstate moving so slowly it might as well be gridlocked. My fingers flex around the steering wheel, gripping until my knuckles whiten as I mutter curses that would make a sailor blush. I pull onto the shoulder, racing down it as cars honk and I risk one hell of a ticket.I don’t care.Nothing matters except getting to the arena.
When I finally pull to a stop the parking lot, my legs are nearly shaking as I leap from the truck. I charge toward the entrance, and a pair of security guards step in front of me, arms crossed.
“You need a ticket, sir,” one says.
“I don’t have one,” I admit, panting.
“Youneed a ticket.”
The line at the ticket booth is at least thirty people deep. I don’t have time to stand there. I need to get to Teagan. I swallow hard and do the one thing I haveneverdone in all my years of fame. “Do you know who I am?” The words feel dirty as I say them. “I’m Easton Shaw.”
“Yeah, and I’m Taylor Swift,” the taller guard mocks me.
His eyes growing wider, his coworker nudges him. “HeisEaston Shaw.”
The guards exchange a long glance, and, finally, reluctantly, they step aside. I barely give them a thank you before I start running. The arena stretches out in front of me, massive and alive with energy. Horses snort in their stalls, and riders shout instructions to each other. The announcer’s voice blares through the speakers, calling the next rider to the gate. I don’t slow down. Every heartbeat pounds with impatience, dread, and hope.
I weave through aisles, over seats, past bleachers, scanning every face, my eyes desperate for her. But I can’t find her. Not in the stands. Not by the stalls. Not anywhere in the sightline I have. Panic coils in my chest, and I stumble toward the announcer’s booth, nearly collapsing onto the railing. “I need the microphone,” I gasp. “Please. Just let me?—”
“No,” the announcer, a stocky man with a sunburned face and narrow eyes, huffs without pulling his stare from the paper on his desk.
“Please!”
He quickly cranes his neck, an irritated expression rapidly morphing into one of surprise. “You… You’re…”
“Yes!” I nearly shout. “Please, I just need to say something. It’s important.”
He hesitates, squinting at me. “During the rodeo?”
“Yes. Now.Please.”
The pause stretches, unbearably long before he finally shrugs. “All right. But don’t do anything stupid.”
When I step into the booth, my heart is hammering like a drumline as I lean over the microphone. I call her name, my voice raw as it carries through the speakers and across the arena. “Teagan. Teagan Wilson. You’re needed at the announcer’s booth. Teagan Wilson.”
The sound bounces off the walls. Riders glance up at the booth, confused. Recognition starts small, slowly tearing through the crowd until it’s a loud roar.
The announcer leans over, whispering, “You sure you want to do this now?”
I nod, my voice firm. “I don’t care. I need to be heard. She needs to hear me.”
After pulling the microphone from its stand, I climb down into the arena and walk toward the center. The crowd goes feral, thousands of people cheering, clapping, hooting, and shouting my name. I raise my hands, trying to silence them, waving desperately.
“Please! Quiet!” My voice cracks slightly, but the audience starts to bend. Slowly, the volume drops enough for me to speak over it. I take a deep breath, gripping the mic tighter. I’ve sung in more sold-out concert venues than I can count. Standing before this crowd should be easy, but my pulse isracing. I spin in a slow circle, my gaze roaming over the crowd and riders for her face.
I take a step forward, heart thundering against my ribs. “I’m sorry for interrupting the rodeo,” I call out, finally cutting through the static of the crowd. My words are swallowed a little by the arena, but I keep going, “Actually… I have a lot of apologizing to do tonight. Not just for interrupting your night, but also for being an idiot.”
The arena quiets more, though the crowd is still buzzing with anticipation. I clutch the mic like it’s a lifeline. My pulse is deafening, and my chest feels like it’s about to cave in.
“Most of all, I need to apologize to the woman who taught me how live again?—”
A collectiveawwwwwashes over the crowd.
