Page 73 of Unruly

“I am fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Rhett says. “You’re acting like a fucking child. You’ve been spiraling and you’re taking it out on everyone around you, including yourself. And now you’re trying to pretend like whatever happened with Halle didn’t matter so you can go back to being the same reckless asshole you were before.”

I feel my jaw tighten. “Don’t bring her into this.”

“I’m bringing her into this because she’s the reason you’re acting like this,” Rhett fires back. “You can lie to yourself all you want, but you’re not fooling anyone else. I’m so sick of your bullshit.”

Dawson stays quiet beside me, but he doesn’t disagree. Rhett exhales hard, then reaches into his jacket. He pulls out the envelope and holds it out to me.

“Grandpa left this for you,” he says. “Read it. Tonight. Tomorrow. I don’t care when, but read the damn thing. Maybe it’ll knock some sense into you.”

I take the envelope but don’t open it.

Rhett watches me for a second, then says, “Get your shit together, Cash. We’re all tired of watching you self-destruct.” He turns and heads inside without waiting for a response, the screen door slamming behind him.

Dawson pauses on the steps. He doesn’t say anything else, just puts a hand on my shoulder for a second before taking off to his barn loft apartment.

Then, it’s just me.

I sit down on the top step with the envelope in my hand and stare out at the dark fields.

I don’t open it.

Not yet.

I tell myself it’s because I’m still drunk.

That’s not really why.

CASH

Dawson’s barn smells like old leather, motor oil, and the faint trace of weed that never quite leaves no matter how many times we air it out. The string lights we hung up last summer are buzzing faintly overhead, and the old speakers in the corner are playing some twangy country song that none of us actually know the words to.

Makai lines up another throw, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth like he’s aiming for Olympic gold instead of just trying to beat me at darts for once. He lets it fly and it sticks just outside the triple twenty.

“Goddamn it.”

I laugh and lean back against the old pool table we dragged in here a couple years ago. “You throw like you text your girlfriend—all hope, no results.”

Makai flips me off and goes to pull his darts out of the board. “At least I have someone to text.”

“Yeah, and it’s clearly going great for you,” I say, grabbing my beer off the edge of the table. “She’s been ignoring you for what … six hours now? That’s gotta be some kind of record.”

He checks his phone again, jaw tight. “She said she’d text when she got back to the hotel from the show …”

I take a long pull from my bottle and shrug. “Maybe she’s busy, or maybe she finally realized dating you is a full-time job and she needed a night off.”

Makai doesn’t laugh, he just keeps staring at his phone like if he glares at it hard enough, Maggie might magically text him back. Then he tries calling Dawson again.

I roll my eyes and line up my own throw. The dart hits clean in the bullseye, but I don’t even celebrate it. I just walk over and yank the darts out like it’s nothing.

This is what I’ve been doing the last few days. Dawson is out of town, and Rhett would rather me be on house arrest. So I’ve just been shooting the shit with Makai, trying to forget that the letter Rhett shoved at me on the porch is still sitting in my jacket pocket like a loaded gun.

Because I already know what it probably says. Some wise, old-man bullshit about love and family and not being a fucking idiot. And right now, I’m not in the mood to be told I’m a fucking idiot by a dead guy who used to slip me whiskey when my parents weren’t looking.

Sorry, Grandpa; I love you, but I don’t need your wisdom.

Makai’s call to Maggie goes to voicemail again. He curses under his breath and tries Dawson one more time, pacing across the concrete floor like a caged animal.