“Nothing,” I say, and it’s the truth. I don’t want anything from him. I just… don’t want to be alone with this feeling. “Just needed to get some hay.”
We sit there for what feels like an eternity, the words a mess of barbed wire in my throat. This is a huge deal. It’s the first time I’ve ever even considered saying this out loud, and the thought of it makes my palms sweat.
I look at his bruised hand, then at his stony face, and I know I have to.
Not for him, but for me. This secret has been festering inside me for years, poisoning my own admiration for my brother, and I can’t carry it alone anymore.
“Look, Billy…” I start, then stop, my voice cracking. I clear my throat, run a hand through my hair, my heart pounding like a drum solo. This is harder than riding a bull, harder than anything I’ve ever done. “I have to tell you something. It’s… it’s about Sedona.”
He finally turns his head, his eyes meeting mine. They’re not angry anymore. They’re not empty, either. They’re just… old. Weary. Like he’s aged a decade in the last twenty-four hours. “What?”
The words come out in a rush, a jumbled, embarrassing torrent of truth.
“I kind of have a thing for her. I have for a long time. And I know it’s fucked up. I know she’s your… she was your… and I would never, ever act on it. Not in a million years. You have to know that. But… I do. I see the way she talks, the way her mind works, and I just… I do.”
I brace myself for the explosion. For him to lunge at me, to finish what we started yesterday, to finally give me the beating I probably deserve.
But he doesn’t. He just watches me, his eyes searching my face.
I have to keep going. I have to make him understand the depth of my own pathetic betrayal.
“And that’s nothing. It’s just some stupid, pathetic crush from a distance. I’ve never even had anything with her, and it still feels like the worst pain. Like my chest is cracked open and there’s a cold wind blowing straight through. I can’t even begin to imagine how you survived it. How you survived her jilting you. If this is what I feel, and I have nothing… no memories, no promises, no real loss… what you must have felt… I can’t even imagine, Billy. I don’t know how you’re still standing. I don’t know how you didn’t just… break.”
He looks away, back out the window, his jaw tight, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He’s quiet for so long I think he’s not going to answer, that I’ve just destroyed whatever fragile truce we had.
Then he speaks, barely audible over the buzzing fly. “You should punch me again.”
I let out a short, humorless laugh, the sound harsh and ugly in the quiet loft. “I know.”
The words hang in the air between us, a strange, twisted confession. An acknowledgment of all the pain, all the guilt, allthe fucked-up feelings that have been poisoning this family for years.
He’s not telling me to actually hit him. He’s telling me he understands. He’s telling me my pain is real, and he’s sorry for it.
It’s the most profound apology he’s ever given me.
I stand up, the spell broken, the weight on my chest feeling just a little bit lighter.
“Come on,” I say, my voice gruff with emotion I can’t show. “Help me with these bales.”
He nods, setting his empty beer bottle on the floor with a soft thud. We work together in silence, our movements efficient and practiced.
We’ve been doing this our whole lives. We don’t need to speak.
I lift a bale, feeling the scratchy twine against my palms, the surprising weight of it, and he’s there to take it from me, his movements strong and sure.
We stack them near the loft opening, our bodies moving in a familiar, well-worn dance. The anger is gone. The tension is gone.
All that’s left is the quiet, somber reality of two brothers, bound by blood and a shared, devastating love for the same woman.
We work until the last bale is stacked, the setting sun bathing us in a warm, forgiving light. And in the quiet, I think we both understand each other a little better.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sedona
I’m in a bed,but it’s not my bed. The sheets are soft, but they’re wrapped around my limbs like ropes.
Hands are on me, but they’re not one person’s hands. One moment, they’re Billy’s—rough, possessive, his grip on my hip a claim that makes my breath catch. The next, they’re Tex’s—playful, teasing, his fingers tracing patterns on my stomach that make me squirm.
