Page 205 of That Rush

“Did Paige stop liking Fridays?”

I press the knife into the cutting board harder than I need to. “No, baby.”

“Then why isn’t she here?”

I set the knife down. Josie deserves an answer she can understand, and Paige deserves to stay out of a conversation she is not here to shape.

“Paige and I had a disagreement. The adults are working through it,” I tell her.

The answer would feel less hollow if Paige and I had spoken since Saturday. I ended our relationship, watched her leave, and have spent the week waiting for her to prove it hurt.

Josie considers this while dropping cheese onto one half of the tortilla. “I miss her.”

“I know.”

She raises her face to mine. I could tell her I miss Paige too. The words lodge behind my teeth because saying them will not bring her through the back door with coffee in one hand and a paperback in the other.

“Can Sprinkle have some cheese?” Josie asks.

I look at the stuffed horse propped in the chair beside her. “Sprinkle doesn’t have a digestive system.”

“She still gets hungry.”

“She can have pretend cheese.”

Josie pinches air from the bowl and feeds it to Sprinkle, satisfied, then returns to her quesadilla.

We eat at the table with the third chair empty. Josie tells me Sprinkle has decided to open a restaurant where horses are allowed inside, then reads two pages of her book after I remind her twice that dinner is for eating.

I still glance at her empty seat when she mispronounces a word. Paige usually waits to see if Josie can correct herself. I answer too quickly, and Josie gives me the same disappointed look Paige would.

After we clean the kitchen, Josie curls into the corner of the couch with Sprinkle. I reach for the paperback on the end table before remembering it belongs to Paige.

She left it here last Friday. Her toothbrush is upstairs. Clothes hang beside my shirts, and romance novels fill half the dresser drawer I cleared because she claimed one book could not support every possible mood. I ended the relationship in one sentence.

Her absence is a shape that has taken over my house.

By eight Saturday morning, the east gatepost is set better than any post on this ranch. I drive the tamping bar down again, the impact jolting up my arms. And again. The gravel shifts, settles, refuses to move farther.

Axel keeps both gloved hands on the brace, his knuckles tight.

“Hit it any harder,” he says, “and we’re going to find groundwater.”

“Hold it straight.”

“I am. You’re the one leaning.”

I step back and check the level. The bubble sits a fraction left of center.

“It’s crooked.”

“It’s a fence, Aiden. The cows aren’t measuring it.”

“They’ll push against the gate.”

“They’ll push against it because they’re cows. Your personal crisis isn’t improving their standards.”

I set the level on the tailgate and grab another shovelful of gravel. The rhythm of physical work is supposed to quiet my head. This morning, every strike lands with Paige’s voice beneath it.