I observe my surroundings, the quiet patience of his presence, the sunlight filtering through the large windows, the day gently unfolding before us, and something in my heart flutters.
Hope is a fragile yet frightening thing, especially when it shows up where fear once lived.
I take another breath, steadying myself, and push open the bedroom door to get ready.
For once, I’m not performing for random people online, showcasing my curated, fake relationship and life.
I’m allowed to simply exist.
And that is a change I’m not sure how to handle.
The driveinto Opal Springs is nothing like the quiet, sprawling landscape we left behind.
As the buildings come into view, the open fields give way to stadium lights and large vinyl banners advertising the upcoming rodeo finals.
Music drifts from open restaurant patios, mingling with the layered noise of laughter, distant cheers, and conversations overlapping as tourists spill down the sidewalks, iced lemonades in hand and shopping bags swinging at their sides.
A large marquee outside an arena flashes red letters in scrolling text.
Opal Springs Ice Dome; Renegades’ Home Game Thursday
Street vendors line one side of the main street, selling handmade leather goods, sequined rodeo belts, and small jars of local honey.
He navigates through the slow traffic with practiced patience, his hand steady on the wheel while the other taps lightly against his knee in tune with a country song spilling from a truck beside us.
He pulls into a parking space along a row of lively storefronts. The shops are painted in cheerful colors—deep plum, sun-washed teal, old-fashioned brick facades with fresh signage.
A crowd gathers outside a souvenir store selling Opal Springs Rodeo merchandise, their voices rising with exciteddebate over which T-shirt design is best.
We step out of his truck, our footsteps in sync as we fall into stride side by side.
Reed guides me to a shop with a door painted in fresh sage-green. A hand-painted sign hangs above it.
The Wildflower Palatte.
I squeal with excitement, pulling out my camera to film. “Really?!”
A faint smile curves around the corner of his mouth. “Really, really.”
He opens the door for me, guiding me inside, the ghost of his hand on my lower back.
The shop smells faintly of linseed oil and fresh paper—a calming scent after the electric buzz outside. Shelves run along the walls, filled with tubes of paint that catch the light like tiny gems. Smooth canisters of brushes stand in perfect rows, with bristles fanned out like flower petals.
Reed stands a few steps behind me, watching my reaction instead of the shelves. His hands slip casually into his pockets, shoulders relaxed, voice quiet, in contrast to the liveliness outside.
“Pick whatever you want,” he says.
I stare at him, genuinely thrown. “Whatever I want? Reed, this stuff isn’t cheap.”
He shrugs calmly, his gaze steady. He doesn’t attempt to lighten the moment with humor or soothe me with excuses. He stands by what he says.
“Anything,” he repeats.
I turn toward the nearest aisle, filming the different shades of colors they have to offer. Acrylics in deep, earthy tones line the top shelf. Smaller tubes, vivid and punchy, colors that seem to pulse with life, filling the second row.
Running my fingertips along a shade of honey-yellow,my breath hitches as I remember the last time I honestly sat down and painted, doing something for myself. Wanting things for myself has become complicated.
I select a set of acrylics that remind me of Reed’s backyard—wild pine green, smoky horizon gray, and a muted rose like the reflection of sunset on a wild horse’s coat.
