"Oh," she says quietly. Then: "Shit."
"Hazel's a better trainer than I am anyway," I say. "You'll be fine."
"That's not—" She stops. Regroups. "You're really not going to keep working the colt with us?"
"I'll be there Saturday," I remind her. "For hauling, setup, whatever you need. I just won't be training."
She nods slowly. Doesn't push. But I can see it in her face—the disappointment, the confusion, the concern.
"Okay," she says finally. "If that's what you need."
"It is."
I push off the fence and turn before she can ask anything else.
I'm halfway to the truck when movement catches my eye.
Hazel.
Coming out of the barn, scanning the drive like she's looking for someone.
For me.
She hasn't seen me yet. Hasn't looked this direction.
I could call out. Walk over. Pretend yesterday didn't happen.
Every instinct I have pulls toward that sound. Toward her. My hand tightens on the truck door.
I could turn around. Walk back. Take whatever she's willing to give me for however long she's willing to stay.
I could.
The door opens with a metallic click that sounds too loud in the quiet.
I get in.
I don't look back.
I just put space between myself and the place where I'd start bending again.
By the time I reach the far fence line, the sun's high enough to burn the last of the morning chill off my skin. I park, get out, and walk the line alone, checking posts that don't need fixing, tightening wire that's already fine.
It's physical. Mindless. Exactly what I need.
By the time my hands ache and sweat soaks through my shirt, the ache in my chest dulls to something manageable.
Not gone. Just quieter.
I lean against a fence post, breathing hard, staring at nothing.
This isn't me giving up.
It's me stepping back before there's nothing left of me to save.
I tell myself I made the right choice.
I almost believe it.
