That’s what she did, in the end.
She checked out of her room first thing the next morning, caught a cab to the airport and flew back to Houston. I tried to call; she didn’t answer. I’ve texted; nothing.
She’s showing me it’s over, not just telling me. I have to respect that.
But hell, if it doesn’t leave a taste in my mouth I almost can’t bear to live with.
We both knew it was going to end, but it shouldn’t have been in that way—with some huge, stupid fight over a misunderstanding. It makes it hard to think about the good times we had, and there weresomany good times. The best times. Some of the best of my life. When I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, it’s easy to imagine she’s there with me; I can practically feel the weight of her head against my chest, the trail of her fingers over my skin. When I sleep, I dream of her.
But bitterness is there too. Anger that she wouldn’t hear me out, that she’s shutting me off from her life, like she can flick a switch and be done with this—me. Like I don’t matter enough to listento, much less fight for. But that’s not what we are—not what we were ever meant to be.
On my third day home, I do what I should have done a long time ago, and go see Ash. No matter what’s going on with Bailey and me, Ash and I have a history, and, I hope, a future as friends. Close friends.
Walking into the Callahans’ is like walking into my own home. I’ve been here so many times over the years. As a kid with scraped knees, Cindy, their mom, would patch me up, or as a teenager, listening to music with Ash’s brother Hank, then chasing after Ash. I smile as I see her sketchpad on the table, and resist the urge to take a peek. That girl’s been drawing since she was a teenager, a talent too good to be wasted on a hobby, if you ask me.
I find her out back, sitting in the morning sunlight, cup of tea in one hand, phone in the other. A familiar warmth spreads through me at the sight of her. ‘Hey.’
She startles, angles her face toward mine, smiles slowly but warily. ‘Hey, yourself.’ She stands up, walks my way. ‘How you doing?’
We didn’t see each other again after the accident the other night. I avoided her, if I’m honest. I couldn’t deal with everything in that moment. Bailey was all I had room for, and it’s taken me days to get to the point where I can at least have this conversation. Because it’s the right thing to do. Because no matter what Bailey clearly thinks, I’m not an asshole. I’m a decent guy, and I care about the women I’ve been with.
‘How’s your wrist?’
‘Fine,’ I say, moving back to sit beside her on the bench. Ash and I usually talk a mile a minute; this strained, polite conversation makes me want to rip my hair out.
‘You won the next night.’
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway.
‘The crowd loved it. I saw on TV.’
‘Yeah.’ I lift my shoulders. ‘So did the sponsors.’
She smiles at me. ‘And the ranch’s followers.’ She waves her phone toward me, and I see she’s got Instagram loaded up. A video of me riding is right there. I grimace, look away.
‘I don’t check that shit.’
‘I know.’ Her smile is wistful. ‘You’re way too modest.’
‘Are you mocking me?’
She shakes her head. ‘No. I mean it. I know you’re not in it for the adoring public.’
I let out a long, slow breath. Bailey’s made me defensive. It hurt. It really hurt. Having someone like her, who I’d let see right inside me, who understood who I am, look at me like she did. To say the things she did. As though I’m some dipshit that goes around breaking women’s hearts for the sake of it.
‘You’re off to Vegas next?’
I nod once, my chest stitching at Ash’s knowledge of my schedule. ‘Getting to the business end of the season. Can’t miss an event now if I can help it.’
Silence fills the morning air. I stare across the courtyard, force myself to man up and do what I came here for. ‘Listen, Ash, I think we need to talk.’
Her eyes sweep closed, her cheeks a pale pink. ‘Yeah?’ She turns to face me. ‘About what?’
I look into her eyes and feel the world shift. I could ignore this. I think that’s probably what she wants me to do. But something’s pushing me to have this conversation, some other force. It takes me a second to realise there are two things at play here: talking to Ash and being real about what we are is the right thing for Ash. She deserves proper closure. But it’s also the right thing for Bailey. Being honest with Ash is the only way I can prove to myself, and Bailey, that Bailey’s not the other woman in anything.
‘You’re one of my best friends,’ I say, hating that Ash’s lower lip trembles. ‘You always have been, and I hope always will be. I can’t think of my childhood without seeing you there.’ Memories draw a smile across my face.
She nods slowly, eyes scanning my features.
