I take another step back, satisfied with what I see. Her chest heaving, her cheeks pink, eyes still out of focus.
“Good day, Miss Rose.” I tip my head in farewell and walk past her out of the barn.
Every instinct screams at me to look back, search her face, watch her reaction.
But I don’t.
I keep walking, boots scraping on the dirt, the sun hitting my eyes as I step into the open air.
Behind me, the barn is silent.
And in a few hours, I’ll find out if she chooses me.
If she chooses us.
22
FAYE
The low sun paints the sky in orange and pink, descending behind the trees in a slow burn that should be restful. But I’m the opposite of calm.
What do I wear to meet Ryder without announcing my new motto has become save a horse, ride a cowboy?
My room looks like a clothing store exploded on my bed. Discarded options are piled three deep, casualties of my spiraling indecision.
I fling another sweater onto the mountain of rejected clothes—too formal. Then a sundress—trying too hard. A pair of skinny jeans and a blouse—still too uptight.
Panic rises at the back of my throat. I’ve spent twenty minutes tearing through outfits and hating every single one of them.
I press the heels of my palms to my eyes.
This is ridiculous. It doesn’t matter what I wear. Either he wants me or he doesn’t. A skirt or pants won’t change his mind. I might as well go as myself. This isn’t a casual summer fling that’ll be over by fall.
And I want it to be real. With Ryder, I want to be the me that eats nachos in bed and then has a fight with the crumbs. The version that doesn’t smooth the edges to be easier. Or that is guarded, poised, careful, proper. I’ve been that person in the past and ended up miserable.
I turn back to the bed, surveying the damage.
At the bottom of the pile, half-buried under a cardigan I bought two years ago and never wore, I spot my favorite oversized Super Mario T-shirt. Faded from a hundred washes and soft as butter.
Perfect. Nothing is more me than this.
I grab it, pull it on over my head, and pair it with light leggings and a baggy gray cardigan.
I catch my reflection in the mirror.
This is me: comfortable. A little quirky, definitely not trying too hard.
I lift my arm and sniff my armpit. Despite having just taken a shower, the closet overhaul hasn’t helped. Body odor is where I draw the chill line. I dart to the bathroom and snatch up the deodorant, swiping on a second layer for good measure. Then I study my hair. Do I leave it loose?
Ryder seems to like the high ponytail. And I want him to pull on it again.
I loop a scrunchy around my hair, securing it on top of my head in a tight hold.
Out the window, the light is fading fast. I need to go, now.
I don’t even take my keys; I bolt out the door without locking it behind me.
I hop down the path from my cottage to the lake as my mind spins in frantic circles. What will he say? What will I say? I hope I won’t word-vomit a novel’s worth of mortifying feelings and ruin everything before it starts.
