Page 29 of Maverick (The Bull Riders #3)

“You’ve gotten pretty good at that,” he says.

“Well, thank you. Yes, there are a lot of things I don’t know how to do, but when I learn how to do something, I do it wholeheartedly, and then I get tired of it.

It’s really frustrating. The minute I get really good at something, is the minute that it starts to get…

lackluster. Cooking is fun, because I can always learn new dishes, especially now that I have all the different techniques, but then I have to clean it all up, and that is the really hard part. ”

“I’ll help you out tonight.”

“No, no, you don’t have to do that. I wanted to do something special for you. Because everything with Frank is amazing. And…”

I look down. I realize that this is maybe coming across as a declaration of feelings. It’s not that I don’t have feelings for him. I do. But I don’t want to scare him. I don’t want him to think that I’m about to make a declaration, or demand any in return.

“I’m just really grateful to be here. You’re getting me back in touch with some things that I thought were lost.”

He looks at me for a long moment and then takes a bite of the steak. “Amazing,” he says.

“Thank you.”

I think again about Sadie. About how he’s fallen in love before.

Had dinners made for him before. Told somebody all about his past before.

It’s all new for me. Not that I’m falling in love with him, I’m not that stupid.

But I’m experiencing this… Intimacy for the first time, and for him it’s something that’s passed.

Been there, done that. Something he doesn’t want to do again.

Something he’s not even really doing with me, if I’m honest. He’s great to me.

Wonderful. But he’s not in love. And there’s a very clear distinction between what’s happening with us and our relationship.

We’re friends, maybe. That makes me breathe a little bit easier.

Maybe it’s best if I think of it that way.

That we’re friends. Which means I can talk to him, which means that it isn’t a retread.

It’s its own sort of thing. I take a little bit of comfort in that.

“So what’s it like to grow up rich?” He’s looking at me with a twinkle in his eye. Humor. Yes. We’re friends. And that’s a great thing. Awesome. Amazing, even.

“I don’t really know, because I don’t know what the alternative is like.

I mean, I guess me knowing how to do all these things is kind of a byproduct of me growing up rich.

” I wrinkle my nose. “But then, my parents were also insane overachievers, so while I know a lot about growing up rich, I don’t know much of anything about growing up playing.

Or having free time. There’s a cost to the way my parents treated us.

And that cost is that I don’t know what it’s like to have friends that you just made in a classroom.

I was only ever friends with other horse girls.

Only ever allowed to do structured activities that contributed to all of that.

And then as I got older, I pushed against that a little bit.

Involved myself in other activities. But that’s really the only way I knew how to do anything.

Get involved in a team, a class, a club.

” I take a deep breath. “I didn’t get to have regular birthday parties.

Didn’t really get to go to them because we were always doing shows and clinics, lessons. ”

“It’s funny,” he says. “And I’m not being dismissive or flippant.

I promise. It’s funny that having a mom who is a drug addict affects you the same way as having rich, overachieving parents.

Except, instead of being in clinics and stuff, I was just sort of hanging out back, but I mean, I didn’t really get to go to birthday parties either. Or have them.”

I’m honored that he’s sharing that with me. I want him to share more.

“You didn’t have them?”

He shakes his head. “No. I can remember…” He stops talking.

I don’t know if I should push or not. I want to hear more.

I want to hear everything. “My thirteenth birthday, my mom was totally passed out. She had been on a bender that lasted for days. I made myself a can of SpaghettiOs and a pancake. That was my birthday dinner. It was great.” His gaze is distant.

I can tell that it’s not as simple as that meal being great. It’s not as simple as any of that.

“I don’t think our childhoods were really all that similar.”

“Maybe more similar than not,” he says. “Yes, neglect is rough. It’s hard not to have things. But it’s also hard to have parents who don’t see you. That care more about the shit that they’re into than they do about you.”

“But I had all my needs met.”

“Are you close with your sister?”

“Harmony? No.” It hurts me to say that. But he’s just been so glaringly honest with me that I don’t want to deny the moment.

“Not at all?”

“No. Because we were always played off of each other. Always. She’s eighteen months younger than I am.

And she’s perfect. She has an easy time with all of this.

Her room is always organized, she loves dressage.

And it’s the only thing she loves. Well, other than fooling around with older guys.

That was her other favorite thing to do.

But she’s marrying that guy, so no one cares now.

It’s not a scandal. I just always felt like they preferred her.

That made it really hard to be close to her.

That makes me angry too, because I feel like that’s on my parents, and it’s not even really Harmony’s fault.

But it’s not my fault for being who I am. I just… I don’t know. It’s difficult.”

“I get that. Sorry. I’m sure that I have half-siblings, but I don’t know any of them. I never had any sibling rivalry stuff. I didn’t have to compete for my mom’s attention with another person. Just with drugs. And I never won that one.”

“Where’s your mom now?”

“She still lives in town,” he says, shaking his head. “She has a trailer on the outskirts. Not in the park we used to live in, though.”

“So you grew up here.”

“Yeah. I did. And this is one of those places where a lot of people do all right, but a lot of people are struggling. Sinking under the weight of financial stress, addiction, because it’s rural, and it’s hard to make enough.

My mom is just one of those people who got lost in all that.

She’s still lost in it. I’m not angry at her. I just feel sorry for her.”

“Do you see her?”

He shakes his head. “No. She doesn’t really know who I am.

She’s got psychosis. Really bad. And it’s bad whether she’s using or not.

She’s just not always connected with reality.

It’s better if I stay away. I send her money sometimes, but she just thinks it comes from her son, who isn’t around.

I don’t think she has any concept of me being here. ”

“Or of you being a bull riding champion?”

“I’m not a champion yet.”

“You’re close enough to one. You’ve made it to the world championships so many times.”

“Almost doesn’t count,” he says.

There is a wealth of truth in those words.

It doesn’t count for him. He needs it. He needs it to be everything.

Or it might as well be nothing. And I think that’s incredibly sad.

Because from where I’m sitting, he’s a winner.

An incredibly accomplished man who has done so much and overcome a significant handicap to get where he is.

It’s amazing, in my opinion.

But I understand he doesn’t see himself that way. Maybe in much the same way I am with myself. Maybe he feels lost like I do, though it’s hard to imagine that. Because he’s Maverick, and he is older. Wiser. He’s been more places, done more things.

He scrapped his way up from nothing. I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, and he is right.

There are some similarities between us. There are things that we missed.

Things that neither of us got to experience because of the kinds of lives we were living.

But he’s made it so much farther than I have, based on where he started.

And it kills me that he doesn’t see that. Kills me that he isn’t proud.

“You’re amazing,” I say softly.

“You’re too easily impressed,” he says.

“But I’m not,” I say. “I’m really not. I’m just impressed with you.”

He chuckles. “That’s nice of you. I’ve gotta win this thing. And then maybe I’ll retire. God knows my body is telling me that it’s time.”

“So you’ll retire from the rodeo and then you’ll run the ranch?”

“Yeah. I might get some cows or something. I’ll expand. It won’t just be horse boarding.”

“Is that your dream?”

The expression he gives me is blank. “I don’t really have a dream. I just have to keep on going.” He looks at the wall. “If I’m really honest with you, Stella, I can’t imagine life after winning. There’s just nothing there. Nothing.”

For a moment, I’m completely gripped by that expression on his face. By his fear. I see that fear.

And I hate it. I hate it for him, and I want to do something to fix it, but I don’t know what that would be.

It’s another way that I relate to him. Deeply.

This feeling that you’re running towards something, but if you think too hard about it, you don’t know what that thing is actually going to get you.

When I won the barrel racing championship, I expected a sense of satisfaction that I simply didn’t get.

And then I was a fool, and I went back to the circuit, and I didn’t win.

And because I didn’t win, I was left with that same feeling of inadequacy.

It’s chasing me. I can’t seem to get rid of it.

Nothing feels like the thing. Nothing feels like the thing that’s going to make me good enough. That kills me.