Page 17 of Kicking Up Dust

COLT

There’s something about being on the roof of a very tall building and not jumping off of it that’s sort of therapeutic.

Or, it was for a few months, anyway.

I’ve been finding a building I could gain access to the roof on every night for the past several weeks. In every city I’ve traveled to, I’ve Googled to find “the best view,” charmed my way behind locked doors to the staircase access, and climbed.

At the top, I’d sit as close as I could to the edge and look down, thinking about all the reasons to stay. Bailey, Mama, the rodeo… the list always stopped there.

Tonight, the list isn’t working, and unlike past nights, I don’t even feel like crying. It’s like my body can’t even muster that amount of give-a-damn either.

I think Mama’s already emotionally prepared herself for something to happen to me, so she’d be fine. Granted, she probably expects it to happen on the back of a bull, but… semantics.

The rodeo isn’t even bringing me the excitement it used to anymore. I’ve been making lots of sloppy mistakes, and my coach has been on my ass anyway. Even Jamie noticed and texted me about it. I always make some joke, and no one ever pushes further than that.

And Bailey… every day that passes has me convincing myself a little bit more that she’d eventually forgive me. That she’d understand.

All the reasons I’d been giving myself didn’t seem to be worth holding on to anymore, and none of my usual distractions were working. I’d tried girls, I’d tried guys, I’d tried coke and alcohol and parties. Nothing.

I’m on my fourth cigarette, scrolling aimlessly through Instagram, looking at how wonderful everyone else’s life seemed. There were five smokes left when I told myself it’d be stupid to die with a half-full pack. Guess my brain decided to eliminate that reason as well.

I wonder if there are people out there who scroll my profile and think my life is wonderful. Who see the carefully curated feed my team puts together and think damn he’s got it made.

A little number next to my message requests catches my eye as I watch it increase by one in real time. There’s always message requests and I’ve stopped even giving them the time of day, but I’ve never watched one come in live.

Bored, I stub out my cigarette and start on the last one in the pack, tapping the request.

Before I can even light it, the cigarette is falling over the edge of the building the way I’ve fantasized about every night for weeks, a smile taking over my face. “Well I’ll be damned.”

Blair Marshall would like to send you a message.

I accept it, of course, ’cause I might be a depressed sack of shit, but I’m not a stupid one.

@blairbear02

Hey, it’s Blair. From the rodeo in Los Angeles a few months ago. I had a really good time that night and I wanted to see if you’d be down to meet up again next time you’re nearby?

It doesn’t sound like my shy, rambling girl at all, but I take the bait anyway. That night was one of the best nights I’ve ever had with a woman, and it sucked when I woke up without her in my bed. My brain sparks with the first thing that’s been able to break through the apathy in weeks.

@thecoltwhit

That depends, Blair. You gonna leave my bed before the sun rises again?

@blairbear02

No, sorry. That was a crappy thing to do.

My brows furrow a bit. I figured she’d try to volley back and forth with me for a bit, not just apologize and shut it down.

@thecoltwhit

No stops planned in California for awhile, I’m afraid.

She reads the message, but the typing indicator doesn’t pop up. After a bit, I sigh. Guess I’m bored enough to get off the roof and go to bed now. God help me tomorrow if I’m still feeling this… numb.

My phone buzzes again.

@blairbear02