Page 130 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

Harleigh crossed her arms and leaned one hip against the doorframe. “You really gonna stand here, all busted up on her porch, demanding answers she doesn’t owe you?”

“I almost died,” I snapped. “She didn’t show up. I just want to know why.”

“Yeah, and maybe she almost broke in ways you didn’t see,” she said, tone sharp as glass. “You think you’re the only one that got hurt?”

“I didn’t say that. But I sure as hell thought she gave enough of a damn to at least text.”

“News flash,” Harleigh huffed, rolling her eyes. “Not everything is about you, rodeo boy.”

I clenched my jaw. “Is she okay?”

She hesitated, and in that tiny pause, I knew the answer was more complicated than she wanted to admit.

“She’s not well,” Harleigh said finally. “No, I’m not telling you why. She can.”

I took a step forward, ignoring the dull throb in my skull. “She was my business. Or was that just something we said when it was convenient?”

Harleigh’s mouth twitched into a humorless smile. “God, you’re stubborn.”

“She loved me,” I murmured. “I know she did.”

Harleigh sighed, eyes darting past me like she was checking to see if anyone else was watching. Then her voice dropped, low and tired. “Sad.”

“What?”

She shook her head. “She’s struggling . . . she’s . . . sad.”

I stared at her, breath stuck somewhere in my lungs.

“She can’t see you,” Harleigh repeated gently. “Not because she doesn’t care. Because she does. Too much. So, please—for her—leave. Don’t call. Don’t text. When she’s ready, she’ll come to you.”

I stood there, silent, her words sinking like stones.

And for a second, yeah, I felt that same aching loyalty I always did with her. That pull to be patient. To be kind. To wait like she’d waited with me. I told myself I’d sit on this porch as long as it took, even if she never opened that damn door, but then something twisted.

God, this was almost exactly what happened with my dad. When shit got hard—really hard—he bailed. He shut down, disappeared into himself, stopped showing up for me, and called it “grief.” Left me to take care of everything else while he drowned in silence. She was doing the same damn thing.

When I got hurt, she vanished. When I needed someone, she looked away. Yeah, maybe she wasn’t okay. Maybe her world had cracked open and no one saw it but her. But you know what? So did mine. I was the one in the hospital. I was the one who woke up wondering if I mattered to her at all.

I wanted to comfort her—I still did—but fuck, was it so much to ask that someone comfort me back?

That someone saw me when I was broken too?

I was human. I bled, I ached, I spiraled just like the rest of them. I wanted to be the strong one, the steady one, the guy who waited in silence, but part of me . . . part of me just wanted to be held. Just for a minute.

She couldn’t even face me.

I closed my eyes, jaw tight, the heat in my eyes sharp and sudden. I shook my head, the bitterness catching in my throat.

“Whatever,” I muttered.

I turned my back on that door. On the noise behind it. On the girl who once looked at me like I was hers.

I walked away.

Not because I stopped loving her, but because sometimes, loving someone wasn’t enough when they left you standing out in the cold.

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