Page 85 of Sunrise & Serenity

“It was that I stopped trusting myself. Way before I found out, honestly. All the signs were there, but it was easier to believe what he told me than to try to figure out what parts of our relationship were real and what parts were lies.”

“Sounds like he wanted you to trust him instead of yourself.”

Sage goes still against me, then nods once. “Yeah, he did.”

My back knots as her quiet confirmation stokes the anger inside me.

“I kept thinking that if I worked harder, if I achieved more, I’d finally feel certain I was doing things right.”

“No.” The word leaves me harsher than I intend.

She shifts, glancing over her shoulder at me.

I exhale, forcing some of the edge from my voice. “You knew what was right for you. He just convinced you that you didn’t.”

The breath she lets out is as soft as her smile. “I’m starting to realize that.”

She turns away from me again, and as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, she presses our intertwined hands to the center of her chest.

For a minute, neither of us says anything, the only sound the rain rattling against the roof overhead, the storm settling into a heavier rhythm outside the barn walls.

This time when Sage speaks, her words vibrate through the fingers she keeps pressed to her chest. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

I can’t see her expression, but her tone tells me she’s smiling again. “Most of the time you act like you figured this kind of stuff out forever ago. Like you’ve never doubted yourself.”

A humorless huff leaves me.

Her fingers tighten around mine. “What?”

I stare up at the now-dark square of the window. “It’s easier when you know where you fit. When you know what your place is supposed to be.”

“And you don’t?”

“I used to.”

She turns her head slightly, enough that I can feel her eyes on me.

“When you were on the circuit?”

I prop my head on my hand so I can look down at her. “Yes. And no.”

Her attention is fixed on me, her expression soft—listening without pushing. It makes the next words easier to say. “I told you my mom died when I was sixteen. The guy had a heart attack and crossed the center line.”

I swallow, my throat closing up like it always does when I think about that day. “After that, things just… changed.”

Her lips part in a silent exhale. “In what way?”

My gaze traces over her features. “I don’t know.” The answer comes out rougher than I mean it to. “The ranch wasn’t the same anymore.”

Not just the ranch. The house. My family. I wasn’t the same.

“So I left. Started riding bigger circuits as soon as I could. Stayed gone longer every year. It was easier being the guy who rode bulls than coming home and feeling like⁠—”

Like the reminder.

Like the reason she was on that road at all.