‘You even need to ask?’ he says, with obvious surprise. ‘Meeting Beth. I mean, it didn’t change my mind, it opened my heart.’ He pulls another goofy smile and shakes his head, like he’s embarrassed to admit that to me. But he sobers, glances back at her. ‘I fell in love when I least expected to. And I did whatever I could to keep her in my life.’
‘Which meant?’
‘Admitting how I felt—to myself, and Beth.’
I glance to my left, to the walls of the corridor with bright posters advertising upcoming events, refusing to think about Cole, and me, our similarities and differences.
The thing is, we were both messed up by what happened to us as kids. Losing Mom how we did, so out of the blue, was traumatic and awful, the kind of thing that scrapes you right out, and you never quite get over. At least, I didn’t. I’ve felt her absence every day of my life. I cover it by acting like nothing fazes me, but the truth is I don’t let anyone in deep enough to get under my skin. That’s how I cope.
Losing Dad a few years back just cemented that. Knowing our parents are both dead, way too young, it hurts like a motherfucker. More than enough hurt for one lifetime, anyway.
Cole and I became masters of pushing people away, but for him, he did it by being all gruff and moody, acting like the only thing he had time for was the property. For me, it’s by being all fun and lighthearted, like I don’t give a shit about anything or anyone.
Out of nowhere, Bailey pops into my mind, her tear-stained face, her broad smile, the way she seemed to turn into a livewire as she watched last night’s ballet, and something buzzes inside of me, making my pulse heavy, making me feel like a weight of cement is pressing down hard on my chest. Making me feel like a goddamn liar.
Bailey.
Bailey is trouble with a capital T, I realise. A problem I recognised early on, when I first met her, but am only just now fully accepting the scale of. Because somehow, over the past three weeks, she’s woven herself into my soul, making it hard to know where she ends and I begin. She’s become a living,breathing part of me, threatening everything I know about life and survival. Threatening everything I’ve used to keep myself safe from any more hurt. I’ve started to care for her, and I always swore I wouldn’t let that happen.
Ash is probably the closest I’ve come, but that was easy to compartmentalise. First and foremost, we were friends, and anything I felt for her was easily squared away into that column. Sleeping together was just a sort of extension of that friendship. It wasn’t romantic and it wasn’t love. Sure, I’d be devastated if something were to happen to her, but not in the ‘cut me off at the knees’ way I would be if I let things go further with Bailey and then lost her.
My mouth is dry suddenly, panic spreading through me at the cul-de-sac I’ve found my way into.
‘Bailey!’ Beth’s voice comes from behind me. I glance up, and there she is. Bailey James, strutting toward us in a way I can’t stop staring at, hair wavy around her face, cheeks flushing when she glances at me and then beyond to my family.
‘Reckon you’ll meet your own Beth one day.’ Cole’s voice is low, almost like he knows I wouldn’t want anyone to hear him.
‘I doubt it,’ I say, silently praying that I haven’t already.
Bailey
‘I love your family, Beau, but I seriously thought we’d never get rid of them.’ I laugh much later that night, naked in his bed, surrounded by the clothes we tossed all over the place in our haste to come together.
‘You and me both, Bay Jay.’
His fingers run softly down my spine. ‘How’s your article coming?’
I tilt my head to his, surprised by the serious tone in his voice. Other than making the occasional off-handed remark about writing something flattering or a joke about not destroying his reputation, Beau doesn’t really ask about the piece, and I’m glad.
Because the truth is I’m struggling to write it. Struggling like I’ve never struggled before. Usually I find the story angle early on and settle in on it, plaiting a narrative through my interviews and observations so it hangs together on its own.
But with Beau, there’s just too much I want to include and show, too many angles to build one solid, coherent piece. And in the back of my mind is the beating metronome of worry. I have to walk a tightrope of being honest and real, of covering the sport and Beau’s place in it with authenticity, but I’m way too close to him to be able to have a clear perspective. I want to write about his bravery and courage, his intelligence and honour, and the way he cares for all the riders on the circuit. I want to write about the boy he was, who dreamed of doing this, who’s put one foot in front of the other his whole life, chasing down this dream. I know what will happen if I do though.
I’ll show my hand.
I can’t write what I want to write without revealing what Beau’s come to mean to me, how well I’ve gotten to know him, and I’m terrified of what that will mean.
‘That good, huh?’ he teases, laughing, apparently with no idea of the mental turmoil I’m negotiating. Or maybe he does perceive it, and is just doing that Beau thing of downplaying anything that’s too real, focusing on the joke instead.
It’s just who he is, but it bothers me now.
‘I still need to get the angle right.’
‘And you’re finding that challenging?’
I bite into my lower lip. ‘Kind of.’
‘I’m not a hard guy to write about. I love bull riding—that’s it. The beginning and end of your article.’
