"If folks have already made up their minds about me, thirty seconds isn’t gonna change a damn thing."
"That’s not the point."
"Then what is?"
"To control the narrative."
He headed for the back door. Moose perked up and trotted after him, but Brock pointed a finger down. "Stay, Moose. Rio doesn’t need you spooking him this early."
Moose let out a loud huff and collapsed into a fluffy pile on the braided rug.
Brock grabbed his hat. "Horses need feeding. You’re welcome to keep talking, but I’m going outside."
He didn’t wait for a reply. The door banged shut behind him, and I stared at it for a second.
I closed my eyes, counted to five, then finished my coffee in a couple of swallows. I stepped over the sulking mountain of Moose and went after him.
The mudroom was a mess of boots and jackets. The screen door hung open, letting in the morning chill that hit me the second I stepped outside. The sky was just starting to lighten—a thin pink band glowing at the horizon under all that dark blue.
Brock was already halfway to the barn, his long strides eating up the ground. I hurried after him. Dew soaked straight through my sneakers.
He must’ve heard me coming. His shoulders tightened right before he shoved the barn doors open. He didn’t bother holding them, so I had to catch the edge before it swung back and smacked me.
Inside, it smelled like hay, leather, and horses. A pair of worn chaps hung over a stall door. Brock walked to a stack of hay bales, yanked one open, and started pulling off big flakes. He tossed them over the first stall door.
I followed, stepping carefully over loose straw.
"The statement isn’t an apology," I said.
That made him stop. He looked back at me.
"Then what is it?"
"Right now, all anyone’s seen is you punching someone without context. And people don’t fill in the blanks kindly. They’re calling you a hothead with a drinking problem."
His jaw tightened, that small twitch in his cheek like he was biting down on something. “I wasn’t drunk.”
He turned back to the stall and kept working, tossing thick chunks of hay over the door. The sweet, dusty smell filled the air as he moved down the aisle.
"The statement is only four sentences," I said. "You just acknowledge what happened and say you’re gonna do better. You could even say something like, that’s not who I am."
“That’s not who I am,” he repeated in a mocking drawl. He grabbed the next bale, snapped the twine with his bare hands, and broke it apart. "You don’t know who I am."
He moved to the next stall. I moved with him. My sneakers squeaked on the concrete, and he glanced down at them for half a second—the same look as yesterday.
"What happened at that bar?" I asked.
"You saw the video."
"I saw you hit a guy. I don’t know why."
He tossed another flake of hay into the stall. I waited. Nothing.
"Brock," I tried again, softer, "if I’m gonna help you, I need to know what happened."
"A guy ran his mouth about my family. I shut it for him. That’s the whole story."
I believed him. I just didn’t think that was everything, but I didn’t push.
