Spoiler: it isn’t.
Because it wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t just Faith. It was the second I let myself picture her at this table again. Lila’s giggle, Faith’s cookie-dough hands, something like a life, and then she was gone before the sun was all the way up.
That kind of hope doesn’t fade. It detonates.
The house is quiet when I step into the kitchen. Too quiet. Lila’s already at school. Boone took her and Ellie in early so thatI could sleep, which is funny, because sleep is the one thing I haven’t managed since Faith walked out my front door.
Rusty thumps his tail once from his bed and gives me a look that says he knows I’m lying to myself about everything. I ignore him and pour coffee into a travel mug.
My phone sits face down on the counter where I dropped it after staring at her name on the screen for too long and writing exactly zero texts that didn’t have the sound of a man begging.
I don’t touch it.
Instead, I grab my keys and step out into the sharp January cold.
The sky’s that pale winter blue that might shatter if you stare at it too hard. Frost sparkles on the fence rails. My breath fogs out in big white clouds as I cross the yard toward the barn.
Work. Just work.
By the time the clock over the tack room says nine, I’ve already loaded out hay, broken ice in two troughs, checked the hot wire along the north pasture, and had one argument with a gate latch that ended with me swearing under my breath.
“Easy there, Romeo,” Nash drawls from the doorway, leaning against the jamb with his hands in his pockets. “That gate’s just trying to live its life.”
I grunt and give the latch one last hard twist. It clicks into place with a smug little snap.
“Problem solved,” I say.
“Sure.” He tilts his head, sizing me up as if I’m one of the colts he’s trying to figure out if he can make a few bucks on. “You know, most people punch things after the midlife crisis.”
“Seriously?”
“Like I said.” He wanders into the tack room, toe nudging a coil of rope. “You’ve been stomping around since sunup. Scared off two ranch hands and a rooster.”
“Rooster had it coming.”
Nash snorts. “He crowed. That’s his job.”
“Then he’s overachieving at it.”
He leans his hip against the counter, arms folded. “You wanna tell me why you look like someone stole your dog?”
“Rusty’s fine.”
“Yeah, you, on the other hand…”
I busy myself with rearranging a stack of feed invoices that do not need rearranging. “Got a lot on my mind. That okay with you, or do I need a permission slip?”
“Whoa.” He lifts his eyebrows. “Feisty before noon. Definitely heart problems.”
“Drop it, Nash.”
The warning in my voice makes him pause. Really pause. His posture shifts just a hair, all the easy joking smoothing out.
“Is this about Faith?”
Her name hits me center mass.
I keep my eyes on the papers. “When is anything not about Faith these days, according to you?”
