Page 58 of For Cowgirls and Kings (The Trauma Bonded #2)

FORTY-FOUR

ADALENE

The scent of fresh shavings and horse sweat tingles against my nostrils, and I allow it to permeate my very being. The sounds of nickering horses and munching grain filters to my ears as I enter the enormous stalls, and I pause still struck by the absolute grandeur of the stable.

Mateo’s horse stables are big enough to be my entire house, and probably cost five times as much. Not to mention the horses, the tack—it’s all over the top and showy, and as I’ve spent time with Mateo these last months, I’m beginning to realize he doesn’t care for such things.

So why does he continue to keep up appearances?

Pausing, I reach out a hand to run it over the soft white stripe of the gelding Mateo took me riding on—Childers, his head slung over the gate, eyes large as saucers as he watches me.

He stops mid chew, flecks of grain stuck to his soft nose as if he’s afraid to spook me, which is just a complete oxymoron.

Horses are the most easily spooked creatures on the planet, and yet this guy is acting like I’m the one that’s going to balk.

It’s not his fault—everyone sees me that way.

Which couldn’t be farther from how I feel on the inside.

I want everyone to treat me as they did before.

I feel strong and sturdy—more so than I’ve ever felt.

Yes, I endured horrible trauma, but I genuinely think I’m better for it.

My time in the darkness allowed me to realize how strong I was, and what I wanted from this life.

And I’m sure as fuck not going to get it hiding in Mateo’s castle.

The truth is, I haven’t seen much of Mateo this last month—he’s been busy working, gone several nights in a row.

Which hasn’t been all bad. It’s allowed me the space to see things in a less rosy pink light, snuggle Tut until he screams, and get drunk during the day with Faith on wine I still can’t pronounce the name of.

It’s been fun.

But it’s also been fake. I’m not really healing—moving on—because I’m stuck in fairytale land, a fairytale princess who’s biggest grievance is running out of snacks, with a fairytale love story that just can’t work out.

Mateo and I might be dancing on that line between loving each other like friends, and loving each other as more , but it’ll never work. No matter how we feel. Not the way things are.

I need to return to my life, find out where I belong in the world again, stake my claim and fight for what I want. And even though I want Mateo, I can’t have him. He’s a crutch, a safety blanket, a wall between me and the real world.

I’ve wanted a good relationship with my mother every day of my life, and I still don’t have that. That should be lesson enough—things don’t work out simply because we want them to. Sometimes the stars really do have to align. And there’s no universe where a king ends up with a school teacher.

Even if we do love each other.

The horse nickers, his fuzzy lip rubbing against my palm and I refocus my attention on him, instead of the constant thread of insecurities— and certainties —circulating in my brain.

“You’re a handsome fella aren’t you?”

His ears flick back and forth, eyes dark but warm as they stare straight into me. I scratch beneath his forelock, right over a small white swirl and he leans forward, his approval evident.

“Oh to be a spoiled horse living in a stable like this. Never having to worry about what’s next, or where your next meal will come from.” I lean forward, whispering, “Don’t have to worry about fickle things like feelings.”

He doesn’t move or blink, as if trying to telepathically tell me everything will be alright. But how can that be? I either have to give up myself, or the man I’ve come to love. What kind of choice is that?

“Things just aren’t fair,” I continue, running my hand to the tip of his nose before dropping it. Before I have a chance to step away, he bobs his head, his nose bumping against my chin—I can almost hear him saying “cheer up,” and I shoot him a small smile.

Life’s full of unfair choices, and even though I’ve endured things no person should have to even dream about, I know the hardest one I’ll ever have to make looms before me.

Sometimes you have to choose yourself, even if it breaks your own heart.

May 24th, 2014

“I want to go to school here.” I straighten my back, my mother’ s scrutinizing glare marking each of my flaws.

I’ve worked for nearly four months, practicing daily in the mirror, to say those seven words.

If my friend Stetson can uproot her entire life—run away in an effort to better her circumstances even as the people who are supposed to “love her” would want different things, then I can at least do myself the favor and speak my truth.

I don’t want to be a disappointment—God knows she’s the one person in this world I want to please. But I have to say this, and pray that she’ll hear me. Her face is perfectly impassive though as I wait—not a single tell-tale emotion evident anywhere.

Until it isn’t.

Her lips rip back, eyes flashing angrily a second before her palm connects with my cheek, a resounding smack filling our humble kitchen. I freeze, too dumb-founded to do much else.

She hit me. My mother has never been the kind to lose control, and yet, she hit me.

My hand clutches the stinging flesh, water rushing my eyelids, more from the assault to my heart than my face. She loves me, and yet she would rather see me wither and die, than flourish the way I know I’m meant to.

“How dare you?” she hisses, her voice deathly quiet. I barely hear it over the ringing in my ears. Does she love me? Has she ever?

“You hit me,” I whisper, still lost for words. My mind swims, and I can barely see the surface. This isn’t how this conversation was supposed to go. I knew it would be hard, and she’d be resistant, but this? This isn’t that.

“I’ll do worse if you speak to me that way again.”

I blink, straightening, hand still holding my face. “Like what? Like an adult, stating what she wants?”

“You ungrateful?— ”

“I’m almost eighteen, and I’ve always done everything you wanted. I’ve been the perfect daughter. But I cannot move with you to Merida. My life is here.”

“If you were the perfect daughter, you wouldn’t constantly disappoint me. Your responsibility is to this family, not yourself, you selfish brat.”

Selfish brat?

“Mama, please. I didn’t have to ask for your permission, but it’s your opinion I respect the most and I wanted it. I will stay here.” My heart is a drum in my throat, and bile threatens to crawl up. I’ve never spoken to Mama in this way, and doing so breaks my heart.

But if I don’t say this now, I’ll die.

“You want my opinion?” She takes a menacing step toward me—an even five foot three to my own, she still seems to tower over me, and my skin crawls with the overwhelming need to cower.

“Common women like us can only hope to be important to our families. That’s your purpose—the only value you will bring to this world.

You’ll never amount to anything, here or there, unless someone is willing to choose you as a wife, and make a mother of you.

That is what we’re good for. That is all. ”

Her words are not new, although more hurtful than usual, because I hear them for what they are: my prison sentence .

I don’t even want to be a mother—I don’t ever want to love someone so painfully that I’m as miserable as the one who raised me. I don’t want to be married, or even find love, if it means losing myself the way my parents have so completely lost themselves.

I don’t want any part of this life. I want something different—something for me. I just don’t know what that is yet.

“I don’t believe you.” My voice shakes, but my stance does not.

“You are nothing, no one. And you’ll never be, no matter where you are.”

I back up a step, her presence almost too much to bear. The lump in my throat swells, bordering on suffocating, her words cutting far too close to the insecurities that plague me.

There’s no winning, not with her. Will I go to Merida, and die? If I do, will she notice?

Before I can turn and run like I’m preparing to do, my father walks into the room, his normally sunny demeanor dimmer than usual, his face stoic.

His eyes ping from me to my mother and back to the hand still pressed to my cheek.

I drop it, half afraid he’ll get mad at her and make it worse, but my father has never once defended me.

And I’m a fool for thinking this time will be any different.

“What’s the matter, Maria?” His eyes remain fixed on hers and like a switch, her expression melts into cool indifference once more.

“Your daughter thinks she’ll be staying here when we move.”

“Oh surely it’s not all that. She wouldn’t leave her family. And do what?”

Do they not notice I’m standing right here? It’s like I’m not even in the room, a child they’re making plans for, my opinion irrelevant because I’m incapable of having one. It’s enough to make me want to scream.

This is my life, right?

“I’m staying,” I state once more, crossing my arms. My father’s shoulders stiffen but he doesn’t turn his expression to me.

“You are the most?—”

“What if she stayed with me through the summer, while I work to sell the house. And then I’ll bring her in the fall.”

I can see my future slipping through my hands like grains of sand—I'm helpless and can do nothing but watch it disappear. Tears burn my lash line once more, the thought of ever going to Merida enough to make me want to jump from a building.

I’d rather die on my own accord than be smothered to death under my mother’s thumb.

“I don’t think that would be acceptable,” my mother grumbles, her eyes still fixed on my face.

“I think it would do her some good to miss her family. I know she’ll come around.” There’s a long pause, my life hanging in the balance and I have no voice in it. I won’t go, but if I can stay for the summer, maybe I can figure out a plan. A plan to get away.