Page 77 of 11 Cowboys

I stand, knocking the chair back with a soft scrape, and step away from the table, swiping my water glass to deposit it on the counter and cross to the door, every movement smooth and casual.

The screen door groans as I slip outside as she rounds the corner into the kitchen.

“I’ll call you back,” she says into the phone, distracted. “Yeah. Yeah, I promise. I’m fine.”

I lean against the porch post outside, listening through the window as she settles back into her chair. The softclick-clickof keys resumes a moment later, slower now, thoughtful.

My stomach knots.

I want to know if she finds it. I want to watch her face when she reads it.

But I won’t.

McCartney Delaney doesn’t get caught up. I sketch, I carve, I let things pass through me like wind through the trees. I don’t hold on.

Except with Grace, I want to. Maybe, I already have.

26

GRACE

I have a balloon in my chest. It’s the only explanation for the way I feel. I left the kitchen for a phone call and came back to a poem about me, left by McCartney, who disappeared before I could read it.

There’s a lump in my throat, too, the size and texture of a sea urchin, his words touching me deeply. I rise from the table to grab a glass of water and gulp it down, swallowing my feelings with it.

Just don’t say goodbye.

I will, though. I have to. I have a life: work, deadlines, friends, and family waiting for me. I’ve clawed my way to the top and fought harder to outrun the chaos of my childhood. I was supposed to find peace, quiet, and control. I haven’t found love yet, but I keep telling myself it’s out there. It has to be.

Even as I think it, my stomach knots. I don’t believe it.

How many more dates with crypto-bros, podcasters, and guys who call themselves “serial entrepreneurs” do I have to survive before I find something real? I’ve kissed enoughfrogs to sink an entire damn fleet and all it’s earned me is emptiness and the sinking suspicion that I was never worthy of the fairy tale, anyway.

I shake it off and sink back into the chair, dragging my laptop closer. The glow of the screen steadies me, a tether to the part of me that still knows how to compartmentalize.

Time to be a professional again. Time to finish what I came here to do.

I find the start of the article that poured out of me and read it in a rush of rediscovery.

When I’m done, I stare at the final sentence. My finger hovers over the trackpad, ready to go back and smooth out the flaws, but I don’t. With only a single click to attach it to an email, it’ll be out there, permanent and unchangeable.

But I can’t do it. I’ve always been like this. The last-minute girl. Give me a deadline, and I’ll dance right on the razor’s edge, chasing the thrill of deciding under pressure. It’s safer that way. If I wait long enough, the choice of how the story is presented makes itself. Time will force me to decide what the right message is. This story feels like it’s still being written. It isn’t ready for a period, or a bluntThe End.

It stopped being just words the second I stepped out of my car to be greeted by eleven of the best men I’ve ever known.

I sit back, twisting the simple silver ring on my thumb. It’s a plain band, like a man’s wedding ring. I bought it for myself, wondering if I’d ever be given a similar ring for my fourth finger. The idea had felt so remote.

In front of me, the screen glows expectantly, patiently.

Nash and Cody told me they want me to stay. McCartney said the same in his poem. I think it was Dylan who left the beautiful pink cowboy boots outside my door last night, like he was inviting me to step into different shoes and become a part of their world. If I click my heels together, would it work? Would I be transformed? Would I belong?

When I was between Nash and Cody last night, all my anxieties slipped away. The memory of their strong hands,soft mouths, and the feeling of being pulled under and anchored at the same time rushes back. They didn’t touch me like I was a trophy or a conquest. They touched me like I mattered and kept me close all night, the way Jaxon did, the way I believe Levi would have if he wasn’t as messed up and broken as I am.

They treat me like I could belongwiththem, nottothem, and it’s unlike any connection I’ve had before.

It feels easy enough to believe it could be true.

My chest tightens. I’m supposed to write about them, not weave myself into the fabric of what they’re building. I’m supposed to study the ranch, not get tangled in its roots.