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We eat our roasted chicken in the media room with a screenso enormous, it makes the players look life-size. My dad doesn’t ask about my day and I don’t ask about his, but we sit in the same room without fighting, and he doesn’t force any bullshit life advice about “sucking it up,” so I count that a win. He does ask about Winnie, with a twinkle in his eye I’ve only seen one other time—the last time she came up between us. He still likes to give me shit, and somehowthatfeels so normal, I don’t even mind.
I realized something last night, sprawled on the ground, my heart pounding out of my body and my life flashing before my eyes. I told myself I didn’t want to live by Walker’s list anymore, but I also don’t want to live by my dad’s expectations. I don’t want to care about failing to meet his manly standards. I don’t care if he thinks my grief is a failing. Or that I should drink coffee black and drown myself in the good whiskey when I’m feeling too much. I don’t even care if he calls me a murse. So what. I’m alive, you know? And as long as I’m breathing, I’m going to live the way I want.
After the game is over and my dad goes to bed, I set out through my dark house, to the back porch. There’s something I need to take care of.
I walk over to the firepit and turn on the propane, igniting the flame and lighting up the night. The rest of the ranch is a heavy blanket of navy and pinprick stars, impossible to make out beyond the reach of the flickering blue fire.
I stand in front of the flames, feeling the heat press against my legs, and reach for the folded paper I’ve tucked away in my pocket.
The list.
Ghost Walker stands across from me. I know he’s not real, but he’s so vivid at this moment, in the firelight, he could be.He sighs, tucking his hands into his pockets. He gives me a nod. The kind of nod he might’ve given me from across the arena after a rough ride. The kind that says, “Sometimes shit just doesn’t go your way.”
“Let me start by saying, I still miss the fuck out of you.”
I suck in a deep breath, releasing it past trembling lips, willing myself to keep it together. “And that list was mostly a fucking disaster. I could have died at least three times. I’m not sure what the lesson was supposed to be.” I laugh, shaking my head. “Actually. That’s not right. I do know what the lesson was supposed to be. It’s to not put so much stock in ideas that came from a dying almost-eighteen-year-old, even if he’s the best friend you ever had.”
Ghost Walker smirks, and I stand there watching him a long time. Memorizing the way he looks: young, healthy, full of shit. For the rest of my life, this is the way I want to see him, not sickly thin, gasping for breath. When I go to college, get married, start a career, have kids, whatever happens,thisis who I want to see.
“I should let you go,” I say, swallowing thickly. “Ineedto let you go.”
I hold the worn piece of paper covered in his handwriting over the flame, letting it catch, watching the embers chase through the crossed-off tasks one by one, turning them to ash. A soft breeze spurs the flame faster, and a heartbeat later, it’s gone.
And so is Walker.
I apply to nursing school a week later without telling anyone except Kerry and Pax. Kerry for obvious reasons, and Pax because I’ve been compulsively checking my phone ever sincehitting Submit on the application and he thought I was texting Winnie.
He’d started giving me even more grief about my friendship with Winnie than usual, so I caved in a backward attempt at self-preservation, which, I’ll admit, did not have the desired effect. Now, every time he’s in the vicinity when my phone vibrates, he’s instantly alert and ready to give a smirk (Winnie) or curiously raised brows (college).
I used to think Walker was the most obvious human on the planet. I was wrong.
But it’s not so bad. Better than waiting for the application results alone, and anyway, Pax isn’t completely off base about Winnie. I can fully admit to having a massive crush on her, even as she’s becoming one of my best friends. She’s fun, cute, and talented. Smart as fuck and tough. I admire her. She holds it together in a way I’m not sure I could. The other weekend, I fully expected to find her sobbing in her car in the parking lot of the VFW. Instead, she was dry-eyed and chucking rocks at her dad’s tailgate. I’ve no doubt she was devastated. I could hear it in her voice on the phone, and Camilla said she cried herself to sleep on the ride back from Fort Worth. But by the time I saw her, she’d put herself back together again.
Do I wish she didn’t have to?
Well, sure.
But just because I wish life would go easier on the Sutton kids doesn’t invalidate how impressive they are for handling it as it is.
And anyway, Winnie doesn’t want me to make things easier. She’s been abundantly clear on that front. My new tactic is to go along for the bumpy ride.
WINNIE
Qu’est-ce que l’ouragan a dit au cocotier?
I glance up from my phone at the arena, where Winnie is currently on one of her backup stallions, Risky Business. How on earth did she manage to text? I watch her, puzzled, until she catches my gaze and smirks before dropping into a perfect canter, leading her steed closer and closer to the barrels.
“Yo! Case!”
I drop my gaze, giving my attention to where Pax is spotting Brody as he’s bench-pressing.
“Sorry, what?”
Brody grunts with effort, and Pax gestures at him. “Switch places with me. I can’t spot Brody. I can barely spot you.”
I swap positions as my phone buzzes again. My fingers twitch to check my phone, but I train my focus on Brody lifting beneath me. My phone vibrates again. Pax snorts.
I narrow my eyes at him. “What did the hurricane say to the coconut tree?”
