“But you’re out,” she says firmly. “You walked away. You’re here. That means something. And it doesn’t matter how much he tries to call me, or how often he speaks to your sister, we won’t let him know where you are. We’re on your side. Always.”
I nod, because that’s what she needs from me right now.
But I know him.
He doesn’t let things go. He doesn’t forgive humiliation. And he definitely doesn’t forgive disobedience.
I won’t be able to hide forever. Not from a man who built his entire life on control.
Soon, I’ll have to face him. Say the words I’ve never said out loud. Tell him no and mean it.
The thought makes my stomach knot.
Her fingers tap mine thoughtfully. “So… Buckhorn.” Her tone shifts, nervous yet hopeful. “I imagine you’ll want to stay here a while?”
The cocoa cools too fast.
My stomach twists.
She isn’t asking maliciously. She isn’t trying to force a plan. She’s just assuming I know what I want.
But I don’t.
“Mom,” I say softly. “I… I don’t know.”
She goes still. “You don’t know… about Buckhorn?”
“I don’t even know what I’m doing tomorrow,” I admit, trying again not to think about Dallas. “I don’t know what I want. Maybe just a shower.”
She smiles. “Nowthat, I can do.”
Later, after a long shower and a dinner of grilled cheese, the way she knows I like it, I drift down the hall toward my old bedroom.
It’s exactly as I left it.
Dustier. Colder. But the same.
The faded blue walls. The posters of barrel racers and vintage movie quotes. The corkboard cluttered with old ribbons and ticket stubs. The twin bed with the quilt Mom made when I turned thirteen. Yellow patches, blue patches, horses stitched into the corners because she knew I liked them.
Sheets washed. Lights dim. A ghost of who I used to be lingering in the air.
I flip on the lamp and see them immediately.
Pictures.
So many pictures.
Me and Dallas at the lake, soaked and laughing, covered in mud because he pushed me first, and I retaliated by tackling him into the shallows.
Me and Dallas at homecoming, my curls too frizzy, his tie crooked because he didn’t know how to tie one yet and refused help.
Me and Dallas leaning on the old McCoy fence, our shoulders touching, the sun setting behind us. I remember that day, he’d just gotten his permit. I’d written a stupid poem in my English notebook about boys who smelled of hay and hope.
There are pictures of me and Jet, too.
Jessie Alvarez.
My best friend before life got messy and distance pried us into different shapes. Jet with her big grin and bigger personality, sarcastic even at sixteen, fast talking, already dreaming of singing at the rodeo someday. She’s got her arm slung around my shoulders in the picture, her eyeliner smudged from laughing too hard, both of us holding milkshakes from Spurs Diner like we owned the world.
