Page 2 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

“Hi, bitch,” she said cheerfully after the first ring.

“Help.”

“Please tell me he didn’t need to go to the studio even though he promised you a ride.”

I collapsed onto the bed, arms splayed out, my phone on speaker as I stared up at the textured popcorn ceiling.

“I can’t tell you that because he actually had to go to rehearsal for the event tomorrow,” I explained, my voice flat.

“Of fucking course he did,” Harleigh muttered on the other end.

I shut my eyes, hating every minute of this. Shame crept through my body, and I wanted to run away. I wanted to escape this.

“You know I can’t take the train or the bus,” I whispered. “Can you please bring me?”

Without missing a beat, she responded, “Obviously. I still hate Mike.”

I hate Mike, too.

“I’m still marrying him.”

“And I still hate it,” Harleigh bit back unapologetically.

I sighed, sitting up. “Gotta get dressed. See you in ten?”

“See you then,” she replied and hung up.

I had to wonder if every single morning for the rest of my life was going to be like this. Was it going to be this hard to get out of bed and not worry about something most people never fret over—germs? Was Mike right and I was completely unlovable? He was the best I was going to have?

“It’s better to be alone with no one,” I muttered.

Mike had most of his stuff in the other bedroom since he had transformed it into a mini-recording area for him so I was grateful I had this space, though not much, but it was mine.

Hanging on the rack, taunting me, was my rodeo outfit. Truthfully, Harleigh and I had a blast picking it out at a nearby tiny Western boutique last weekend. I had been excited about it at the time, but when I sat and thought about it, the idea of being crammed into a stadium with thousands of people made my skin crawl.

The bull riding tour didn’t come to town often, and since Bucking Energy was a sponsor—and I was the project marketing manager for the entire event—it was my job to show up. That meant taking a VIP tour backstage, shaking hands with the cowboy riding people we sponsored, and pretending I was perfectly fine with it all.

I didn’t want to shake anyone’s hand. I didn’t want to stand in a stadium filled with dirt and sand, kicked up into the air, surrounded by animals that could carry who-knows-what diseases. On top of my work sponsoring it, my up-and-coming country singer fiancé was the evening’s entertainment, which meant I had no choice but to go twice over.

I put on a pair of wide-legged khaki pants with a white sweater and headed to the bathroom to put on my makeup before Harleigh came.

I leaned over the sink, reaching for my makeup bag. As I caught my reflection in the mirror, I froze. The person staring back hardly looked like me. My jawline was too sharp and hollow. My shoulders were frail, the bones more prominent than I wanted to admit.

Before the . . . accident . . . I’d been a completely different person. Vibrant. Full of life. In the mirror, my once-thick blonde hair was noticeably thinner. My green eyes had dulled, weighed down by exhaustion.

I sighed, closing my eyes.

Get it together.

Taking a deep breath, I whispered, “Nothing a little concealer can’t fix.”

I worked fast, layering foundation, brushing color onto my cheeks, and dabbing concealer under my tired eyes. By the time I finished, I looked passable enough; maybe Mike would approve of this version of myself.

I grabbed my bag and headed downstairs. Halfway down, a thought flickered in my mind.

Did I turn the stove off?

I groaned and turned back, rushing up the stairs and into the apartment. My heart raced as I double-checked and confirmed what I already knew. It was off. It had been off all along. I hadn’t even turned it on.