I grimace.
‘You’ve been like this since you got back from Phoenix.’
I grind my jaw.
‘Your whole life you’ve been the guy who laughs his way out of anything, jokes when he’s pissed off, shrugs as though he doesn’t have a care in the world.’
It’s like having something stripped off me, an important outer layer that hides who I am. I feel vulnerable and exposed; I don’t like it. I turn away, looking toward Mom’s rose garden. It’s beautiful, as always, and just seeing it lodges something inside of me. Loss. Grief. A perfect life, turned upside down.
‘It must be real bad if you can’t even try to do that now.’
‘It’s nothing,’ I lie. Bailey is in my mind with her furious face all pinched and pale.
‘Have it your way.’ He comes up behind me, puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘But I’m here if you need to talk. You know that, right? Just call, anytime.’
I ignore the thickening in my throat, the sense that I want to turn around and hug my brother and lose my shit, because I miss Bailey like I didn’t know it was possible to miss another person and I want to tell someone that. But I just straighten my spine and nod.
‘I’ll be back in a few weeks.’
There’s silence for a beat. ‘See you then.’
I drive off into the sunset, but not in that happily ever after kind of way. This is a heavy-hearted, gut-tightening, my-life-is-a-disaster feeling, and I hate it more than I can say.
Her feature piece gets published on the Sunday of the Vegas event. To be honest, I’d forgotten about it. The article was secondary to Bailey. She’s what’s filled my head, my every thought. Bailey James and her smile, her sassy answers to anything I said. Her laugh, her body, her hair, her bravery, sweetness and vulnerability, her courage. All the parts of her. The way she’d thanked me for taking her to the ballet, the way she’d cried as she’d let it back into her life.
So the article wasn’t really on my mind at all, until Beth texted it to the family WhatsApp chat after the event. I’ve had another couple of rough rides on rank-ass bulls, and my body is feeling it. Every muscle hurts, and my wrist throbs beneath the tape. Iignore that, though. The season’s almost at an end. That’s all I can focus on. Just get through each week, and go from there.
When the text comes in from Beth, my stomach drops. There’s that feeling again of being stripped raw, all my vulnerabilities out there in the open, so I can’t even click on the link at first. I stalk out of my hotel room, down to the bar. I choose a dark corner out of the way, and order some wings and a beer. Only once I’m settled, with my back to the room, do I man up and click into the damned thing. There’s a photo of me right at the top, I guess taken by an event photographer. I’m watching one of the younger guys ride, and my face is lined with concentration.
Beau Donovan has earned the nickname The Comeback King this season, but that’s not entirely accurate. After all, how can you come back from something that never knocked you down? It’s clear that Beau’s career-halting accident didn’t affect his love for the sport one bit. This man is cowboy, through and through. We’re all born with a need to breathe and eat, this man’s born with an insatiable ache to ride bulls, and effortlessly tame them.
Something sticks in my throat. That feeling of being seen. Understood. I think of the way Bailey talks about ballet, and it’s confirmation I don’t really need of how much she gets me.
I keep reading, ignoring the steady stream of WhatsApp notifications pinging at the top of my screen. It’s a long article, and as I take it all in, I hear Bailey’s voice, like she’s narrating it to me. The wings are brought over when I’m about halfway through. I distractedly murmur my thanks, without looking away from the screen.
To watch Beau ride is to see something special. Whether you are a fan of the sport or not, it’s easy to understand why people flock to watch him. His mastery of these animals—even the meanest—is unmatched.
The Donovan family made it clear to me that they’d have preferred Beau to pursue anything but bull riding after his accident. But once he made his decision, they lined up to support him, cheering for him, no matter what.
Riding with a badly sprained wrist is the perfect metaphor for who Beau Donovan is. No matter what life throws at him, he gets back on the bull and rides through the pain—courageous, determined, and probably a little bit foolhardy too. Then again, what’s the point of life if you don’t take a risk, from time to time?
I close the article and stare straight ahead, not sure what to make of it. Not sure what to make of anything.
My phone keeps buzzing. I take a drink of my beer, then go back to the chat.
Cole:She sure got your measure.
Beth:It’s like she knows you like we know you.
Nash:How much did you pay her to get a piece like this?
Austin:And what’s with the photos?
I’d barely noticed the photos. I click back into the article and scroll through it, something twisting in my gut as realisation dawns. I was wrong. These aren’t photographer snaps. They’re Beth’s. She’s taken these. I should have picked it from that oneon the top, where it shows my profile—it was clearly taken from where she was sitting that night.
Cole:What’s wrong with the photos?
Austin:They’re all a bit … flattering, aren’t they?
