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There’s a little click inside after I return from the remainder of my childhood home. Since I got here, something was off. Now, it’s all in place in a finalizing way. I’m starting to think going back will not fix the future. Maybe it was letting her in, a bit, by going to see the house. Maybe it was Sabrina Maxwell and how she gives me something to think about that isn’t work or my problems.

It’s more than that. She’s got me suffering. I wake up and lie staring at my ceiling, body already damp in the morning heat. At some point, I woke during the night and smelled her on my pillow. Despite my head aching, all it takes on those nights is the memory of her to get me hard.

I wake up, sit against the headboard, and take my notebook out. The pages are empty, and the blankness stares accusingly back at me.

Maybe I’m not good at this songwriting thing.

Maybe I’ve written all my words, and I’ll never again feel that deep, gritty pull of the creative spark that was the genesis of my best work.

I could be over, done, for all I know. Does anyone in the outside world even remember me? I know my email inbox is packed full, my phone on silent all the time now, but in that self-imposed silence, I wonder if I’m fading into the past.

My hand moves, and I scribble out some titles on the back of the page. Not lyrics, just a list of titles.

Gone by September.

I said that to her, thinking about the story of my existence, a life born out of an empty space left behind.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I close the notebook. My brain is acting up today, and I need to start moving my body before I’m pacing this house like a caged animal. Tucking the notebook beneath the pillow, I get up and flip on the shower.

At first, it helps to lean back against the shower wall and close my eyes. Then, I start thinking about her legs wrapped around my head. How soft and tight her pussy was around my fingers, my dick. How she tasted, how her hips lifted and rubbed all over my mouth.

Fuck.

My hand wraps around my dick, and I give in instantly. What’s the point in fighting when I know I’ll cave in the end? Nobody will know what happens in the confines of my shower.

My eyes stay shut, and my brain runs away with the image of her naked underneath me. She curled her ankles around me while I was inside her. Her nails scraped across my skin. The faint scent of her shampoo. Or maybe it’s her lotion. I swear, I can taste her on the back of my tongue right now.

I come, one hand planting on the wall as the waves of pleasure roll through me. As it subsides, I’m left with something that takes me a second to identify.

Excitement?

She does that. My body is waking up.

I feel human, with all its weaknesses, but with all the good parts too. That, I’m not sure I’m ready for. So, I get dressed in my work clothes from yesterday and leave the house, heading to the barn to find anything that needs doing. If I can’t sink into my own work, I can always find something that needs doing.

One of the wranglers, Colin, appears, and we head up to the main barn. He’s a nice guy, if a little thoughtless. It doesn’t take very long for me to realize he’s sneaking around with Serena. That seems like a red flag to me, considering he works for her father and sister, but that’s not my business, so I keep my mouth shut. I’m good at shutting up and letting people do what they need to do. I learned a long time ago that opinions are just that, and some people are hands-on learners.

We ride to one of the furthermost pastures and bring in half the cattle of that herd to rotate the pasture. Colin says the water is low, even for this time of year. The grass is burning up fast. He drives the truck down with the enormous trailer behind. I take Samson and follow at a brisk trot to the pastures in the lower land. Then, we push through the hassle of unloading and securing the gates.

It’s late when we get in. I climb the short steps to my house and pause as something crinkles against the toe of my boot.

There’s a bagged lunch sitting on my stoop.

Smiling, I pick it up and go inside. Before her, nobody made me a bag lunch since my mom was alive. In the quiet of the house, sweat still drying on my neck, I unpack everything. A roast beef sandwich, a little container of potatoes and onions, and some crunchy garlic bread.

Something jerks in my stomach.

Without bothering to clean up, I sit down and eat everything, barely remembering to breathe. Later that night, I crash out across the bed and stare up at the ceiling. It doesn’t take long for the same fever to grip me again. This time, I don’t bother to get back in the shower. I just jerk off in the same place where I fucked her and go to bed, ready for another restless night.

The next day goes by in the same way.

Wake up. Feel horny. Get off in the shower, then work my ass off so I don’t have to think.

My body feels better, being on the ranch. A lot of my time in the last five or so years has been defined by being hunched over a keyboard or folded up like a jackknife in a bus seat. The pain and numbness in my right hand and lower back dissipates. That helps my head, not feeling like I need to stretch and pop my joints constantly or having to wonder how much Tylenol is too much in a twenty-four-hour period.

The wide open space is helping my head too—being on horseback, getting some sun, forgetting about my problems. It won’t fix me, but it’s sure as hell helping.

A few days later, I run into Sabrina in the early morning. She’s standing by the porch with a cup of coffee, blanket around her shoulders. Her hair is messy, piled on her head, the soft, short bits of her bangs curling around her wide eyes. She hears my step and turns, giving me a hesitant smile.