"Deciding for her." He picked up his mug. "You just dressed it up differently."
I opened my mouth.
"You're not protecting the shoot," he said. "You're protecting yourself. Because if you don't say anything, nothing can go wrong. And if nothing goes wrong, you don't have to find out what happens if she says no." He looked at me steadily. "That's not noble, Sawyer. That's just scared."
The mockingbird started up again somewhere closer, three different songs in quick succession like it was making a point.
"She's been in this industry for years," Forrest said. "She knows what a set is. She knows what professional looks like. You really think she hasn't thought about this?" He set his mugdown. "You deciding she can't handle the consequences of her own choices—that's not love. That's underestimating her.”
I sighed. “When did you become such a hopeless romantic?”
“When I figured out there's no time not to be.”
I didn't say anything.
"She told me how she likes her eggs," he said.
I looked at him. "What?"
"That Sunday she helped Aunt Peg with the dishes. We talked for twenty minutes." The corner of his mouth moved. "Scrambled. Hot sauce from the cabinet above the stove. Said you make them better than she does and she's been trying to figure out what you do differently for three weeks.”
I stared at him.
He stood up. Looked down at me with that careful face, the one that had gotten so good at not showing too much—and underneath it, just barely, something that might have been the old Forrest.
"She's paying attention to you," he said. "Same way you're paying attention to her. You're both just standing on opposite sides of the same fence waiting for the other one to climb over." He picked up his empty mug. "Somebody's gotta go first, Sawyer. That's always been you."
He put his hand on my shoulder—just for a moment—then he walked back toward the cottage, hands in his pockets, the same way he'd come.
I sat there until the morning finished arriving. The mist gone, the light going gold, Redbird finally turning from the fence to mosey toward the water trough. Bishop still at his post by the trail, ears up, certain.
I pulled out my phone.
Sawyer
What time are you leaving Austin?
Her reply came fast—like she'd been waiting for someone to ask.
Daniela
Was thinking early. Miss my horse.
I looked at Bishop.
Sawyer
Just the horse?
Three dots…a pause long enough that I wondered if I fucked up.
Then:
Daniela
Don't push your luck, Holt.
I set the phone down on the table and for the first time in four days something in my chest came loose.
