Page 132 of We Drank the Dawn

But a question poked at my heart. Was Peter like my dad?

The obvious answer to that question was no, but I couldn’t deny the way the comparison surged anxiety through my veins. The mere idea terrified me.

But I rationalized it. And rationalized the way I managed it.

If Peter didn’t turn into my dad, I couldn’t turn into my mom. Plain and simple.

And maybe that was why I pushed him so hard.

If I gave up my hopes and dreams for the future, I’d be just like her, eating cheese quesadillas on Mother’s Day and watching sports I don’t like just to find purpose by his side.

But had all my cheerleading and urging us onward hurt him somehow?

I blinked up at the ceiling, willing the truth to flood me.

Then a memory surfaced in my heart—Peter’s head peeking out from under the comforter on our bed as I flipped through a book of baby names and talked to him about the ones I liked for our future children. Heat crept into my face as I recalled what Peter said, “You’re handing me a burden I’m not strong enough to carry right now, Sarah.”

And he was right. He wasn’t strong enough to carry it.

And I wasn’t strong enough to let it go.

Tears of shame stung my eyes as I looked back on the memory with fresh eyes. I could still see his pale face and the dark circles under his eyes and the way he clung to the sheets. When he was at his lowest point, I could only think about the death of my own dreams. I hardly even gave a thought to his.

No wonder he stopped talking to me.

No wonder he looked happier now.

Seeing an attorney was the right decision. We were better apart.

I didn’t know exactly what point our relationship headed south, or where we veered off the path, but I knew I’d spend my entire life regretting that we did. Regretting that the man I loved so much was thriving without me. Regretting that our love would ruin the rest of my life.

FORTY-FOUR

Peter

Isat at the kitchen table in Tag and Bea’s cabin with a spread of papers before me. When Tag had asked me to sit down and look at their finances, I immediately ordered a chunky calculator off Amazon. And I took time to familiarize myself with the button placement beforehand so I wouldn’t get bogged down mentally due to feeling awkward or inept.

As I listened to Tag summarize their most recent financial woes, I shifted to lean back in my chair, favoring the muscles that yanked tight at the movement. The last several days, Harlan had me do exercises on a suspended barrel that were surprisingly difficult on the abs and thighs. But he said I was almost there—almost ready for my first fall.

Tag said, “So, here’s the problem. We need more trucks on the road. I made a bad purchase a few years back and bought a rig that’s about to nickel and dime me to death. It needs a complete transmission rebuild which costs a lot, or I need to buy a new rig and replace it. We are dependent enough on these trucks that I can’t buy a beat up piece of shit like I did last time.”

I nodded. “You need something reliable.”

He hummed. “Yep. I wouldn’t hesitate to just pull the trigger and replace it, but, truth be told, we’ve contracted another driver because we really need a third rig. With these bigger rodeos, sometimes it seems like the entire ranch is goin’ to the same place.”

We talked trucks for a bit and weighed the pros and cons of buying new versus used. I’d helped Tag with his finances several times, and he was a sharp guy who knew his stuff. But he struggled in the money department, as many of my former clients did. Advising them had been my favorite part of working at Summit Financial.

“Okay, where is your profit and loss sheet?”

“Right here.” Bea slid a piece of paper in my direction. Because I didn’t have any of my accessible technology with me, Bea read each line aloud as I typed the totals into the calculator.

The first section was revenue. Contracting, subcontracting, stud leasing, winnings, training. They were making a lot more than they were three years ago, and they’d chiseled at their debt significantly. We looked at their business totals and whether Meadowbrook was finally paying its owner a fair wage. I was relieved to find, for my sister’s sake, that Tag made a decent living and they were even working on a little nest egg. When we got into the details of their personal income, I was speechless when Bea read a line that said, “Spotify…twenty-one thousand, six hundred and thirteen dollars and fifty-two cents.”

“Wait…” I stammered. “Is that from your music?”

“Just one song, actually.” I heard the smile in her voice.

“You’re kidding.”