Page 64 of Cowboy

And the truth I don’t want to say out loud?

I feel like I’m failing.

“I can’t just disappear,” I murmur. “She needs me.”

He doesn’t blink. “You sure about that?”

I hesitate.

“If you stay,” he continues, “you’ll drag her down with you. You’re already in over your head. She’ll find out eventually. She’ll ask questions you can’t answer. And what then?”

I clench my jaw. “She’s all I have.”

“Then maybe it’s time to let her go.”

I want to punch him.

But I don’t.

Because some part of me, some awful, exhausted, selfish part, knows he’s right.

If I do this, I’m free. No more hiding. No more half-truths. No more lying to her face about where I’ve been or what I’ve done. No more being her everything.

She’ll think I’m dead. It will wreck her.

But maybe... maybe she’ll rebuild.

Maybe she’ll be better off.

And me? I don’t even know who I am anymore.

I look at him. “I want to see what it looks like.”

He nods once. Just once.

And I know what I’ve just agreed to.

A strange silence settles between us. Like something heavy has just… lifted. It’s not guilt. Not dread. Not fear.

It’s relief.

For the first time in months, maybe even since the crash, I’m not thinking about rent. Or Caoimhe’s school books. Or what I’m going to cook with twenty euro left in my account. I’m not thinking about lying to Aunt Trish, or pretending I’m okay, or shielding Caoimhe from the truth: that I’m barely holding together myself.

It’s gone.

The weight is gone.

And I hate that it feels good.

Like maybe I’ve just finally done the selfish thing I’ve always wanted to do but never had the guts for. Like maybe I was never cut out to be the one keeping everything standing.

I don’t say any of that out loud.

But the man seems to know anyway. He watches me, eyes unreadable, then gives the smallest smirk, like he’s seen this exact moment before in a hundred boys just like me.

“We’ll be in touch,” he says.

And then he turns and disappears into the estate, as if he was never here at all.