He hesitates a moment, a muscle jerking low in his jaw. ‘No. Not this.’
‘Anything but this?’ I push, trying to get a handle on how much opposition he faced at home.
He places his burger down carefully, wipes his fingers on a napkin, taking his time while choosing his words. ‘My mother died a long time before I went pro. I was just a kid. Obsessed with bull riding, but I reckon she thought I’d outgrow it.’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘No.’
‘How old were you when you joined the tour?’
‘The first time? Twenty-one.’
I put the plate on the end of the bed then cross the room to my handbag, pulling out my notepad and bringing it back with me.I scribble down his age. I know I’ve got that in my notes, but somehow hearing this from him just makes it all land differently.
‘And what about your dad?’
He expels a breath then smiles, but it’s tight. Maybe a few days ago I would have bought the nonchalant act, but I see through it easily now. ‘The ranch was his life.’
It’s a partial answer. I tap the pen against my notepad. ‘And he wanted it to be your life too?’
There’s a tightness around his jaw that shows me I’m right; he’s holding something back. I keep my own expression relaxed.
‘I think he’d have liked that, yeah. Better than this, anyway.’ Another flippant grin that doesn’t make his eyes crinkle. ‘How about you, Bay Jay?’
I laugh. ‘Seriously? That’s not happening.’
Now his grin is more genuine.
‘What about me?’ I take a bite of my burger, then wipe my hands on a napkin.
‘Did you always want to be a journalist?’
It’s my turn to freeze, a forced smile plastered to my face. ‘Ugh, pass.’
‘Pass? Is that an option?’
I grimace. ‘For me, yes. Not so much you.’
‘Why is it so hard to answer?’
The detritus of my plans litters my mind. My hopes and effort, all my hard work. Reflexively, I shift my foot, thinking of theinjury that sidelined me from the first love of my life. ‘No,’ I say eventually. I don’t generally talk about the dreams I once held. Everyone just presumes that journalism was always my goal, given who my father is, but the truth is I ran pretty hard and fast away from this.
‘No?’ He shovels some fries into his mouth; his Adam’s apple shifts as he swallows. I stare at his throat, thinking that even that part of him seems somehowstrong.
‘I didn’t always want to be a journalist.’
He nods, serious now, serious in a way I suspect he isn’t often, then reaches for a handful of fries. I take one of mine, eat it slowly, thoughtfully.
‘Probably around the same age you fell in love with bull riding, I fell in love with dancing.’
His eyes narrow but I barely notice. In my mind, I’m back in my childhood living room, watching a performance ofThe Nutcracker Suiteon TV. ‘Actually, I think I might have been younger. My parents like to say that as soon as I could walk I could plié.’
He’s watching me intently, but I don’t mind. If anything, the heat of his gaze is focusing my thoughts, making it all feel more tangible. I don’t talk about this often, because the grief is something I live alongside. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over the life I had to walk away from. Maybe I don’t want to.
‘You’re a dancer?’
‘I was a dancer,’ I correct, the pang in my heart almost taking my breath away. ‘I started lessons at four. By thirteen, I was flying toNew York to train with world-class ballet productions.’ My smile is wistful. ‘My whole life was ballet, until it wasn’t.’
