Page 117 of 11 Cowboys

I don’t follow. I’m frozen with my hands fisted at my sides, trying to breathe through the ache in my chest and the sharp crack of guilt I know I’ll always carry. I believed I could be enough to make her better, and it’s an arrogance I’ll always feel ashamed of.

When I step back into the diner, it feels like walking into another world, the one I’ve been trying to build from the rubble of the past. Grace is still in the booth, tucked against the window, but now both girls are in her lap. Junie’s got her face buried in Grace’s neck. Eli is sitting stiffly, blinking hard, trying to hold back tears. Her jaw is tight, the same as mine, and her small hands are still clutching the table edge.

Grace’s eyes meet mine, warm and sorry for everything that’s happening to our family. I crouch beside the booth, laying a gentle hand on Eli’s back, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Hey,” I say softly, “it’s okay. Mom had a rough day.”

Eli looks at me, her big brown eyes searching mine for something I don’t know how to give. “Why is mommy always mad now?”

The question guts me.

I draw both girls into my arms, Grace letting them go without hesitation. My cheek rests against Junie’s hair, and my hand smooths down Eli’s back as I kiss her cheek. They smell like their momma, and it breaks my heart for them to be separated from the woman who grew them inside her, giving me the most important gift of my life.

“Because sometimes,” I say quietly, “people get sick onthe inside, too. Not the sick a doctor can fix, and it makes everything feel hard. But we’re gonna be okay. I promise. And one day, I hope Mommy will, too, okay?”

I glance up, meeting Grace’s eyes that are glossy. The sympathy in her expression threatens to undo me more than the moment already has because having her here with me and the kids makes Nora’s absence so much easier to bear. I’m not alone, and neither are the kids. Having her support means everything. I give her a small nod. It’s all I’ve got.

“Let’s finish our burgers,” I say, trying for lightness, “then I’m ordering us the biggest chocolate sundaes this place has ever seen.”

Grace raises an eyebrow, doing her part to play along. “With extra whipped cream?”

“Mountains of it,” I say.

“And chocolate sprinkles with extra fudge sauce?”

“Anything you want.”

“Banana,” Junie says softly. “I want banana.”

“What about you, Eli?” Grace asks, touching her scrunched hand tenderly.

She shrugs. “The same.”

The waitress returns as if she’s been watching from the kitchen for a moment so we can accept our order. The food’s hot and quick to eat, with fries and ketchup and greasy wrappers that somehow make everything feel a little more normal. The girls eat like they didn’t just have their hearts torn out. That’s the thing about kids. They break quickly, but they mend as fast if you give them something solid to come back to.

I tell them the old story about how Cody once tried to milk a bull because he “didn’t check under the hood,” and the corners of Eli’s mouth twitch. Then Junie giggles, loud and wild, making all of us laugh, and the booth feels warm again.

Grace watches it all happen, one hand still resting on Junie’s back, and it hits me how easily she fits here. Like she’s always been part of this picture, adding to it in a waythat makes space for everyone to breathe, including me.

Outside, the sun has dipped behind the diner’s roofline, and Eli yawns so hard her eyes water. Junie hums something soft under her breath, probably a nursery rhyme Grace taught her. I open the truck door and let them climb in. Grace leans over to buckle Junie in, brushing my little girl’s hair back and whispering something that makes her smile. It’s second nature to her now and watching her do it makes hope twist low in my chest.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get it right with their mom. I don’t know if the ache she left behind will ever stop feeling like failure. But maybe all I have to do is give my kids something steady and real.

I climb in, settle behind the wheel, and as I reach for the keys, my hand drifts toward Grace. She takes it without hesitation and slides her fingers into mine like they’ve done it a hundred times before.

I let myself believe, for one quiet, borrowed moment, that maybe this is the start of something that won’t break.

Maybe this is the beginning.

43

CONWAY

Grace is curled up against me on the couch, her head resting on my shoulder, the hem of her borrowed T-shirt brushing my forearm. McCartney’s in front of the fireplace doing some kind of bizarre chicken dance, arms flapping like a bird on fire, and none of us have a damn clue what movie he’s trying to mime.

“Is itFree Willy?” Cody guesses, which makes the kids scream with laughter because McCartney is clearly miming something other than a whale.

“Why wouldFree Willyflap its arms, you idiot?” Nash calls from where he’s got his arm around Hannah, who’s splayed across his chest like a warm blanket.

“I dunno, artistic interpretation?” Cody grins and shrugs like that somehow explains it.