“That’s a bold claim,” I mutter.
He cracks a grin. “I said won’t. Not can’t.”
That’s the thing with my brothers. They’ll needle you to death, but the second it matters, they’ll plant themselves beside you.
It’s why I don’t enjoy needing them.
“Thanks,” I say, and it comes out rougher than I mean.
I finish the hinge, shove the wrench into my pocket, and walk away before I do something stupid. Such as talk about how Faith looked at me the other night as if I was someone she could trust, and how that scares the hell out of me.
I make it until lunchtime before the cracks start showing.
Not in any big, dramatic way. Nothing explodes. I don’t punch a wall or quit the ranch or drive into town. It’s quieter than that. Slower. The kind of unraveling you don’t notice until you’re standing still and realize your chest feels too tight and your thoughts won’t stay put.
I eat because Boone makes me.
He doesn’t ask questions. Just sets a sandwich down on the workbench beside me. Ham, mustard, bread that’s a little stale. Fuel.
“Don’t starve,” he says, already turning away.
I take a bite because it’s easier than arguing.
By midafternoon, I’ve run out of things that urgently need fixing. Which means there’s nothing left to hide behind.
That’s when I finally stop pretending I’m not going to call her.
I sit on the tailgate of the truck, phone heavy in my hand, staring at the screen, waiting for it to bite me.
I tell myself this is reasonable. We can’t keep orbiting each other in this way, pretending what happened didn’t matter while also letting it matter too damn much. She deserves clarity. Hell, so do I.
My thumb hovers.
I think about the last time I saw her. The way she smiled, but didn’t quite meet my eyes. The way she was holding herself together with willpower and coffee. The way she flinched when her phone buzzed.
Something is wrong.
And the thought that I might be adding to it twists my gut.
Still, I hit call.
It rings longer than I expect. Long enough that I start rehearsing an apology I haven’t earned yet.
“Hey,” she says finally, breathless.
“Hey, you okay?”
“Yeah,” she says too fast. Then, softer, “I mean. I’m fine.”
There it is again. That word.
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the cold metal of the truck. “You don’t sound fine.”
She lets out a shaky little laugh. “Wow. You always this good at interrogations?”
“Only when I’m worried.”
Another pause. I can hear movement on her end. Fabric shifting. A door opening or closing. Her world doing something mine isn’t part of.
