Page 17 of Colt (The Bull Riders #2)

“I don’t really need an assembly line. I’m perfectly capable of doing the dishes. You’re the one who insisted that you help.”

“Yeah. I’m insisting.”

She rolls her eyes, and begins filling the sink with water.

We have a dishwasher. It’s just one of those things.

My mom will put pots and baking dishes and things like that in, but she doesn’t want to run it for dinner dishes.

And so we’ve always done hand washing at the end of a meal.

It’s possible that she was doing it back then so that we could build relationships.

And also quite possible that she still does it now so that she doesn’t have to admit that.

That seems like it would be pretty on brand for my mom.

I smile and grab my dish towel.

“What?”

“Oh. I was just thinking about the possibility that my mom makes us hand-wash to force us all to get along.”

“I never thought of that.”

“Did you do dishes like this before Jim and Mom got married?”

“I think Dad usually did them. I don’t know. Your mom is the one who made us start doing some chores. I think my dad felt so… I don’t know. I don’t think he ever thought he could make us do things.”

She doesn’t have to say it. I get it. He felt guilty. Gentry and Allison lost their mom.

“But then, my dad did a lot of the housework. While my mom was sick. They used to do it together. But mostly it was him doing it.” I noticed that her eyes were glistening.

I imagine all this brings lost like that closer to the surface.

Not that I think I matter in the way that her mom does.

I just think that it’s probably hard to be in hospitals, looking at somebody that you know being sick, injured, and not think about other times that’s happened to you.

I totally get why she’s going into nursing.

I totally get why it’s a tribute to her mom.

But I also wonder why she’s putting herself through something traumatizing like that on purpose.

“Isn’t going to be hard for you? Being in the hospital all the time?”

She looks at me. “I never forget that she’s gone.

It’s just sort of part of my life. She was so great.

I wish that you had known her a little bit better.

But she made sure that we sat together, had tea parties.

In the summer, when she would go get her infusions, I would go with her.

I would sit there in the cancer center, and I would watch her knit.

I didn’t start knitting until recently. It made me wish that she could see it.

It made me wish that I had known how to do it then, so we could’ve done it together.

I guess my childhood could be full of bad memories.

But she was sick off and on for nine years.

It was almost my entire life. I barely knew my mom without cancer.

And so, the times that I spent with her in hospitals have to be part of my good memories too.

I have good memories of her when she was sick.

Because it was just part of all the time that I got to have with her.

I hate that she was sick. I hate the illness, don’t get me wrong.

But I don’t want to let any precious moment of time that I had with my mother become something that I push away because it’s too difficult. ”

She sticks her hand into the sink and tests the temperature of the water. And then she puts the dishes down into the soapy liquid. “Maybe that’s why I gravitated toward taking work at the hospital. Not just so I can make a difference to people who are sick, but because… It’s just part of my life.”

“You’re pretty fucking amazing,” I say, looking at her with a sense of all filling me. “Do you know that?”

She looks up at me, shock on her beautiful face.

Like she’s surprised I’m complimenting her. Or maybe surprised that I am in light of the whole rest of today, which was kind of a shit show.

“I don’t become amazing. I’m just shaped by the things that I went through.”

“I feel traumatized by the hospital, and I was only there for a few weeks.”

She snorts. “Well, if you had asked my mom how she felt about the hospital she might’ve had a different answer for you.

I think it’s different when you’re the one who's sick. I think it’s different for a lot of people.

We all handle the things that life throws at us in different ways.

This is how I handled it. It’s not better.

Or stronger. It’s just my way of coping. ”

“My way of coping is to try to do things that I’m not supposed to do,” I say.

Her expression goes flat. “That’s not going to fly with me.”

I smile. She starts scrubbing the dishes, then passes them over to me to rinse and dry.

We create a seamless assembly line, and I don’t even react when her fingertips brush mine.

I don’t need to react. It’s casual. It’s the same kind of stuff we’ve always done.

It’s part of this very normal evening that we spent at our parents’ house.

“Did your mom always make you wash dishes before our parents got married?”

“Right. You never came over to our house, did you?”

“No. I only ever saw you when you came over here.”

“Yeah. Of course. That never occurred to me. Yes. My mom was really strict. I had to do chores even when Gentry came over to visit.”

“I can’t even imagine that. Your mom has never been all that strict as long as I’ve known her.”

“Yeah. We’ve talked about it since. She was just really afraid. Me growing up without a dad. Plus, my dad…” Oh God dammit. I didn’t mean to get into this territory. I never talk about him. There's really no reason to, because he’s not around.

“What about your dad?”

“Because he’s irresponsible. And so I think my mom really felt like she had to overcompensate. Not just because I didn’t have a male role model in my life, but because the man that I’m related to is not the best.”

“That makes sense. Kind of. It’s not your fault, though. It’s not like you chose your dad.”

“Well. No. But in fairness, he didn’t choose me either. Something he made very clear over the years.”

“Have you met him?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah. I’ve met him. He sort of came to one of my birthday parties one time. And I went to see him ride in the rodeo.”

“Is that why you became a bull rider?”

“Yes and no,” I say slowly. “I wanted to do it, because I liked it. But there was part of me that thought… This is the only thing you care about, and I can do it too . You don’t think I’m special, but I can do the thing that you think makes you special, and I’ll be better at it.

Of course, the problem with narcissists is that they don’t really notice when you mount campaigns like that.

Because it would require them to pay the tiniest bit of attention to someone who isn’t them. And that doesn’t happen.”

She slows her movements, hands buried in the sink. “Wow. That is so… Deeply unsatisfying.”

“You’re telling me. I was expecting to show up to the rodeo and be like: Hey, Dad, look at me.

” I shake my head. “He didn’t even look twice at me.

All the times we passed each other at events – he wasn’t riding anymore then but he used to make appearances and shit, and he just looked through me half the time.

Or worse, would say hi casually like I was a fan.

He just doesn’t care. That’s the thing. He doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care about anybody but himself, and he never has.

I’ve accepted it now. It doesn’t add anything to my life to think about him.

Not ever. So I just don’t.” I don’t consider my thinking about him when I was hopped up on pain pills to be me breaking that practice. It doesn’t count.

“At least my mom didn’t choose to leave.”

“I guess. But honestly, that’s one of the things that makes me even matter. Your mom was great. She should still be here. My dad sucks. He should’ve had my accident. But no. He’s walking around on two good legs with absolutely no good scruples.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You think you have half-siblings?”

“I can’t imagine that I don’t. I’m sure if I uploaded my DNA to one of those websites it would go crazy.”

“Sarah says that she won’t do that for that reason.”

I nod. “I mean, I haven’t done it for a reason. I can’t say that I especially want to meet a whole bunch of other people who are related to my dad. Not given everything I know about him.”

“But maybe they’re like you.”

“Maybe. Maybe my dad had really good taste in women. And all of them made us into better people than he is. I’d like to think that’s true.”

Then I think about my behavior earlier, and I realize that Allison might think the idea that I’m a good person is sort of up for debate at this point. “I mean, I’m marginally better than my dad,” I add.

“You’re better than your dad,” she says, handing me the last plate. “Don’t… Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“You’ve been doing this whole guilt and sorrow thing, and I don’t like it. I’d rather you just be yourself. You’re annoying, you’re cocky, you’re a pain in the butt, but at least it’s normal. I don’t…”

She takes her hands out of the sink water and brushes them against her jeans, and then she turns away from me. Quickly.

I reach out and grab her by the arm, turning her toward me, and too late, I realize my mistake.

I was focused on my guilt, not how I needed to watch myself around her.

And now here we are, squaring off again, facing each other.

And my heart is pounding hard. Just like it did out in the yard earlier.

“Allison,” I say. “What if… What if this is normal for me now? What if there’s no more of that guy that I used to be.”

She swallows hard, I can see it. “I don’t think that’s true. I’m sure that you’ll be back to normal.”