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Chapter Three

Sarah

He’s so definitive that I know he’s not joking. Not that he would joke about this anyway.

Not the Dallas I knew back then, anyway. I realize I’m assuming a lot, but I have to believe our soul connection-or whatever the hell it is–matters even now. With all the time and distance, I have to believe it matters.

“I feel pathetic,” I say. “But I don’t know what else to do, I don’t know where else to turn…”

“You don’t need another option,” he says. “You have me. You can turn to me. You did the right thing.”

I feel warm. Like I’ve been scratched behind the ears, which is the most bizarre comparison I can ever come up with, but I feel it.

And I just feel happy in the weirdest way. Like I might be able to take a full breath. Like I might be safe.

“Do you need any more to eat?”

“No. We don’t need to order anything else. ”

“Have you been eating?”

I’m undone by that question. It’s been so long since anyone has looked after my well-being.

Years .

I do have people in my life, but I don’t let them in.

They don’t really know me. They don’t know about this, about how much I’m struggling.

About how I’m losing sleep, about how I can’t eat.

He’s the one person I felt like I could trust with this information.

He’s the one person that I felt safe with.

“Not really. But I will. After this. Now, at least I don’t feel like there’s a giant rock sitting in the bottom of my stomach.”

“Tell me everything. From the beginning.”

“Okay. You know the story of what happened. How he was arrested and put in prison for what he did to me.”

“I remember.”

“Well, my mom got custody again while he was in jail. And she changed my name. Our names. To outrun one of her ex-boyfriends. Another abusive asshole. To her , not to me, of course. But there was always a thing with Chris to her that was just…it didn’t matter what he did to me.

She just couldn’t let them go. She never could.

So when he got out of prison… She contacted him. ”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No. And at that point, he had her contact info, and for all I know she just gave him mine. I don’t know what he wants from me. But I can tell you that he’s never wanted anything from me that I wanted to give him.”

He looks wild then, like he’s ready to commit a murder or turn the tables over, or both.

He reaches across the table and puts his hand over mine.

His palm is rough, his fingertips callused.

The heat it generates when he touches me is a shock.

Usually, touch freaks me out. Usually, I can’t stand it. But right now, I need it.

There’s a shift in his demeanor, his eyes going dark, the blue harsh like a flame. “That motherfucker better never touch you.”

His voice is low, much lower than it was when I last saw him, the words echoing inside me, filling all those hollow, aching places that have been so pronounced for all these years.

His words are what I’ve needed this whole time. What I haven’t gotten– not from anyone. He’s on my side.

“I can’t get any protection,” I say. “I’ve tried, but the police won’t help. He hasn’t done anything. That’s the problem.”

He scowls. “Menacing? Harassing? Stalking?”

“I agree. But I don’t have sufficient evidence of any of that. It’s my word against his.”

“Your word against a pedophile’s word.”

“You know that nobody cares,” I say. “You know that, as well as I do. We know it better than anyone. There aren’t any real saviors coming for kids like us.

We don’t matter. It’s amazing, rare and…

” I take a sharp breath. He and I both know that the way the world should work has nothing to do with reality.

“That he was imprisoned at all is a minor miracle. I guess I can’t expect any more than that. ”

“You should be able to. You should be able to expect all the protection in the world.”

“That would be nice. But…” My throat aches, and suddenly, I don’t want any more of the French fries. “When can we go home?”

I don’t know what home is for him, I realize.

Gold Valley. The announcer said it before he rode tonight, but I’m not totally sure where that is. Somewhere west, toward the coast, I think.

“I have another event tomorrow night. But I swear to you, right afterward, will drive out.”

The idea of going back home to my apartment tonight makes my stomach hurt. And he already said that I was going home with him tonight…

“You’re going to come to my motel room.”

“I am?”

“Yes.”

His tone is blunt and uncompromising. It’s not a suggestion, it’s a command. I don’t remember Dallas being quite this bossy. But I don’t remember his voice being this deep, or his hands being this rough.

A lot has changed for me. And clearly, a lot has changed for him.

“Is this insane? Because you don’t really know me anymore.” I feel compelled to point this out. I’m not trying to talk him out of taking me with him – I want to go with him. But it feels like someone has to be rational.

I don’t think it’s insane, but the problem with being a traumatized kid who has turned into an adult with few support systems is that sometimes I don’t know when I’m being weird.

There’s nothing quite like having a light conversation with your friends and making a joke about the parental neglect you’ve experienced, which makes you laugh, only to realize they’re all staring at you in abject horror.

Story of my life.

“I know you,” he says, those blue eyes looking into me. “I’ve always known you.”

Again, I’m fighting back tears, and I’m not a crier.

Life hasn’t given me that luxury. It’s hard, and I’ve had to be harder.

I had to put walls up around myself, around my body, around my heart.

The only person who’s ever gotten close to getting around them is Dallas.

Because he’s always been a taller wall, a stronger wall, all around me.

These last few years without him have felt hard. Rough. Like I’m constantly in danger of being dashed against the rocks.

Being back with him now is like the sweetest gift.

“I think I’m ready to go,” I say.

“I’m parked over at the Expo.”

“Would it be okay if we just leave my car there? That way…”

“He won’t drive by the motel and see your car in the parking lot?”

“I just don’t know where he is. I feel like he’s everywhere.

I know that isn’t true. He’s not a criminal mastermind.

He’s actually a dumbass.” Anger spikes in my veins, sharp and hot.

“I hate that more than anything. That he’s such a dumbass, and he’s managing to make me afraid again.

I’m not a little girl anymore. He shouldn’t be able to scare me. ”

“Hey,” Dallas says. “Everything’s hard enough without you being hard on yourself, okay? He knows you’re scared of him because he made you that way, and it’s not weakness for you to be afraid of someone who victimized you, who hurt you. But just so we’re clear, I’m not scared of him. And I’m armed.”

Dallas stands up, walks over to the register, and pays our bill.

I take a deep breath and join him a moment later, walking with him out the door.

It’s warm outside, the air dry and crisp.

Crushed glass stars glitter in a deep velvet sky, and for a moment, I let myself bask in the miracle of it all.

I found him. He knows who I am. He cares about who I am. He wants to protect me.

Someday, I’m going to have to make it up to him for all of this.

But right now, I’m just too broken, and I hate that more than I can say, but I’m a fighter.

That’s the truth. I’ve been fighting ever since I was a little girl, and I’m smart enough to know when the fight has gotten away from me.

If there’s a life preserver out there in the middle of the ocean, you just grab onto it.

You can’t worry about whether or not you’re sharing an equal load with your rescuer.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, and I followed him across the street, back toward the Expo.

The parking lot is almost entirely empty now, and my car stands out like a sore thumb.

We walk past it, headed back around the big arena to where there are stalls, stables, and trucks with horse trailers.

It seems like this is where a lot of the cowboys choose to stay, but apparently not Dallas.

“You don’t sleep here?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No. I don’t have a horse with me.”

Right. Because, of course, the ropers, the barrel racers, they have their own animals with them.

Whereas a bull rider like Dallas draws his animal before the event.

At least I’m pretty sure that’s how it works.

I’m not a rodeo expert, but I did a little bit of cursory reading on it when I found out that’s what he did.

A little online stalking to feel closer to him felt benign. Again, I’m not great with how normal people connect.

“I like a comfortable bed.”

I can’t help but wonder if there’s more to it than that. If what he really likes is to have a place to take a woman back to. I can’t explain the feeling that gives me. A strange sort of hot sensation that burns in the pit of my stomach.

It makes me want to growl like a bothered animal .

He belongs to me, at least that’s how it’s always felt.

When I knew him, he was young, and none of that stood between us.

But now I’m acutely aware of the fact that he’s a man, and an attractive one.

Normal women were probably chomping at the bit to climb all over him. To beg for the cowboy to ride them.

I just want to grab onto him, sink my nails into him so he has to stay with me forever.

That isn’t normal. That’s batshit crazy, and if he had any idea how intense I’m feeling inside he’d probably have regrets about letting me go with him. A lot like finding a baby raccoon on the side of the road and discovering later it’s rabid.

I’m rabid. But maybe I can keep that part of myself hidden, at least for a while.