“I know.” He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice had changed. Softer, more uncertain. “My dad… after his accident, after the pills started. He used to say the same thing. That he didn't know how to just be hurt without fixing it. Without performing 'fine' for everyone.”
I turned to look at him. In all our sessions, all the hours we'd spent together, Dusty had kept the focus on me. This was the first time I'd heard real pain in his voice when he talked about his father.
“What happened to him?”
“He died when I was fourteen. Fell off a ladder at a job site.” Dusty picked at a splinter on the porch step. “But he was already gone by then, you know? The pills, the drinking… he was just trying to quiet everything down enough to keep working. Keep providing. Keep being the man everyone needed him to be.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Yeah. Me too.” He glanced at me, and there was something raw in his expression. “That's why I'm here. Not to save you or fix you or any of that savior complex bullshit you accused me of. I'm here because I watched my dad disappear into a pill bottle, and I couldn't do anything about it. I was just a kid.”
The confession hung between us. I understood what he was really saying, that this was personal for him too, that he was just as scared as I was but for different reasons.
“What if I can't do this?” I asked. “What if I'm not strong enough?”
“You are. You're doing it right now.” He bumped his shoulder against mine. “And you're not alone in it. That's the difference.”
Something in my chest loosened at that. Not alone. Such simple words, but they carried weight I hadn't realized I needed. I'd spent months feeling isolated—in my injury, in my coming out, in my fear about the future. Even at The Ranch, surrounded by people, I'd felt fundamentally alone.
But sitting here on these old porch steps, Dusty's shoulder warm against mine, his own fear and hope laid bare… I didn't feel alone anymore.
“I'm sorry I was an asshole on the trail,” I said. “The savior complex thing. That wasn't fair.”
“You're going through hell. You're allowed to be an asshole.” He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. “Besides, you're not entirely wrong. I do have this thing where I think I can help everyone. It's why I've been at The Ranch for seven years instead of opening my gallery. Always one more person who needs me, one more reason to put my own shit on hold.”
“Is that what this is? You putting your shit on hold for me?”
“No.” The answer came quick, certain. “This is different.”
“How?”
He met my eyes, and something passed between us that had nothing to do with therapy or healing or any of the roles we'd been playing. “I don't know yet. But it is.”
The air between us was charged, heavy with things neither of us were ready to name. My hands had stopped shaking. And for the first time since we'd arrived at this cabin, I felt like maybe I could actually do this, not because I was strong enough alone, but because I wasn't alone.
“Come on,” Dusty said, standing and holding out his hand. “Let me show you something.”
I let him pull me up, following him around the side of the cabin to where the land sloped down toward a narrow creek. The water was clear over limestone rocks, creating those small waterfalls that caught the light. Oak trees clustered along the banks, their branches creating pockets of shade.
“When I was a kid and things got too loud in my head, I'd go find water,” Dusty said, picking his way down the bank. “Rivers, lakes, whatever was closest. Something about moving water makes everything else quiet down.”
I followed him to a flat spot where the creek widened into a shallow pool. The sound of water flowing over rocks filled the space between us, drowning out the buzzing that had been in my head since I woke up.
“Sit,” Dusty said, dropping down on a sun-warmed rock.
I sat, careful with my shoulder. The stone was smooth under me, heated by the morning sun. Warm enough to seep through my jeans and into muscles that hadn't relaxed in days. Dusty pulled off his shoes and socks, rolled up his jeans, and stepped into the creek. The water came up to mid-calf, clear enough to see the rocky bottom.
“You should try this,” he said, turning to look at me. “Water's cold but it feels good.”
I pulled off my own shoes and socks, moving stiff because everything hurt in that bone-deep way that wasn't about my shoulder. When I stepped into the creek, the cold hit like a shock, sharp enough to cut through the fog in my head. My feet found purchase on smooth stones, and I stood there letting the current flow around my ankles.
“See?” Dusty moved deeper into the pool where the water came up to his knees. “Sometimes the best thing you can do is just stand in moving water and let it remind you that you're still here.”
I waded out to where he stood, the cold water numbing my feet and calves. The current wasn't strong, but it was constant, pulling at my legs just enough to make me focus on keeping my balance. Above us, oak leaves rustled in the breeze. A dragonfly hovered near the bank, its wings catching the light like stained glass.
“This is what you do when you can't handle things?” I asked. “Wade around in creeks?”
“Among other things.” He grinned, that easy smile that made my heart beat faster. “I also paint, do yoga, take long drivesthrough the desert. Whatever it takes to get out of my head for a while.”
