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The same one that called mebuddywhen I offered to give her a ride into the city for her mom’s surgery. That nickname made me want to pull my hair out.
By the time the first sliver of sunlight peeks over the horizon, we’re saddled up and pushing cows back toward the ranch. I think I finally drifted off just before dawn, getting less than an hour of shut-eye thanks to my borderline obsessive scrolling of my collection of Blythe pictures. I bring my fist to my mouth to cover another yawn when a horse comes up next to mine.
“You good man?”
Tripp doesn’t miss a thing.
“Yeah. Just tired,” I reply. I drop some slack in the reins and rest the heel of my palm on the horn of the saddle while we ride alongside the herd of cattle.
“How’s things going with your side chick?”
My horse whips his head back and forth a few times and huffs dust out of his nose like he knows I’m not about to answer that question. Tripp knows too, but he pushes my buttons anyway. He’s the type of guy that loves having conversations like this. I’ve learned to indulge him enough to satisfy his fishing for information, but never give him enough to encourage him to keep asking about it.
“Side chicks are girls that you have an affair with. I would never do that.”
“Well she’s a secret, so she qualifies as a side chick,” he smirks.
I almost lean over and punch him in the face for referring to Blythe that way. She’s a lot of things, a secret being one of them. But not a side chick. That would indicate that I don’t care about her. But I’m beginning to realize that I do. Very much.
I can’t exactly expose who she is, but he’s obviously noticed that it’s been an ongoing thing and not just a one-night stand. He lives across the hall for fuck’s sake.
It might be a relief to confide in Tripp about my current situation. I know I could trust him to keep it from Warren for now, but I couldn’t guarantee that Blythe wouldn’t be angry at me for telling him. Not because he knew about us. But because as soon as she found out that I had blabbed to him about it, it’d be obvious that I have feelings for her. And I don’t mean the friends-with-benefits kind.
There’s a war of back and forth happening in my brain, and I’m not doing a very good job of hiding that.
“I’m giving you shit, man. Just wanted to see your reaction,” he bellows out a laugh. “I know it’s Blythe.”
My head whips in his direction and I pull back on the reins. Dust flies up around my horse’s feet as he skids to a stop and I turn to face Tripp.
“Jesus you’re dramatic as hell. I just mentioned her name and you freak out,” he laughs. His casual personality is usually a welcomed break from the seriousness of Heston and Warren, but I could throw him on his ass right now for being such shit head. He thinks this is funny.
“What the fuck man? How?”
He shrugs and grins like he can’t think of anything more satisfying than figuring me out. This might be the first time one of my secrets has been thrown right in my face and I can’t even begin to describe how uncomfortable that makes me. I wasn’t careful enough.
“I went to put back your Stetson that I stole, and her pink boots were sticking out from under your bed. I put two and two together pretty quick.” His horse circles around, watching the herd go on ahead of us and acting concerned that we’ve fallen behind.
“So that’s where my hat went,” I huff.
“I needed it. Mine got bent up in a bar fight a few weeks ago and nothing drops panties like a perfectly shaped black felt.”
Can’t argue with that.
I look around and take a second to gather my thoughts. I’m good at keeping secrets, but I became a little careless in covering this one up apparently. Maybe subconsciously I wanted someone to find out. I don’t hate the idea as much as I thought I would when we agreed to keep it to ourselves.
Blythe isn’t the type of woman that you should hide away. She’s the type that you show off. Claim. Beat your barbaric fists against your chest and scream from the rooftops that you’re the lucky bastard whose arms she’s been sleeping in.
I’ve imagined being able to hold her hand in front of everyone. Or rub her feet while we’re lying on the couch instead of locked up in my room. I could so easily brush the hair off of her neck and kiss her neck while she typed away on her computer at the dining room table.
But that’s all it is. My imagination. Deep down, I know better than to think that would ever actually happen. I wouldn’t put her in danger like that. And I’d never be able to be open with her enough for her to trust me in a relationship. That’s what she deserves. I just can’t give it to her.
“It’s not that big of a deal, man. Don’t look so torn up about it. I won’t spill the beans.”
I look him straight in the eye, no doubt revealing my mix of disappointment and seriousness. He’s reading my thoughts as they spill out of my sunken expression.
It is a big deal. Because I’m realizing just now that I don’t give a fuck if you spill the beans. She’s more than an inside joke between us or a dirty little secret to me.
“Oh shit. You’re in love with her,” he deadpans. His jaw about hits the brush-covered ground.
