Page 61 of Saving the Rain

Chapter 25

Today can go fuck itself.

Doctors and medical clinics and sitting around waiting for news that I don’t even know if I want to hear. Yeah, I’m struggling to sit still or focus on anything other than the pressure ratcheting up inside my lungs. My heart wants to burst out the front of my chest, to splatter a sweep of red across this waiting room as if it were a paintball gun going off.

They’re running late—of course the team here is behind. So I’ve had to sit here for an eternity, and my foot is about to wear a divot in the floor, seeing as I can’t stop my good leg from bouncing uncontrollably. Meanwhile, I’ve damn near chewed a hole in the side of my cheek, gnawing away at the frustration and stress of awaiting this scan result.

I’ve spent the better part of the afternoon in this room, and there’s no chance of being back to the ranch before late tonight. That much I knew long before leaving earlier. The horses and cattle just gotta put up and shut up with a change to their routine today, even if they all looked at me like I had three heads when I was rushing around to get everything done before midday.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, making my gut clench.

I hate that my first tiny balloon of hope is that it might behisname. I’m sick in the head for having even the tiniest hint of butterfly wings kicking up inside me, hoping that Raine’s contact will be there on the screen when I check the notification. He’s my stepbrother, for fuck’s sake, and loathes me. I’ve had enough years of his disgust and disinterest to know that’s never gonna happen. Unless we run into each other on the main street of Crimson Ridge, the odds are I won’t see him again.

I don’t want to acknowledge how itchy my skin feels at the prospect of never having a reason to cross paths in the future.

A lump forms in the back of my throat. I wish I could go back and fix my stupid, fumbling words. I wish I could’ve been more eloquent. More confident. To explain myself properly. To express things in a way that didn’t make it sound like I was a giant jerk—like I was ashamed of being gay, or bi, or demi, or what in the heck I am.

I’ve spent an awful lot of time living on the internet while wide awake in the middle of the night. Fortunately for my sake, there are hundreds of thousands of places where guys just like me have been willing to open up and share. Forums where people have generously talked about their moment of realizing everything they once thought about themselves was muddled. It helped make me feel like less of a screw-up, and not so alone.

Thinking back on my words—my clunky, god-awful fumbling over myself—I regret not being able to properly say what I meant to say.

But then, what did I mean? Was I supposed to leap into my stepbrother’s arms, giddy on the high of accepting I’m attracted to men? To ask him if he’d like to become more than just heated rivals in the arena and two guys who made it their business to get on each other’s nerves?

Jesus. I drag my fingers through my hair and swipe open my phone.

What awaits me is the worst possible outcome. A name, and slew of texts that immediately set my nerves on edge.

Mom:

Please, Kayce. Honey, if you can just help. This is the last time I’ll ask.

I promise I won’t do it again.

“Mr. Wilder, sorry to keep you waiting. If you could come this way.”

There’s numb hopelessness in the place where my blood should be. Instead of replying to the rest of my mother’s illogical demands, I stuff my phone back in my hoodie. With a heavy sigh, I follow the guy carrying my fate. My future tucked in one of those folders amongst a stack of other files and papers he’s carrying.

He ushers me to take a seat once we reach a tiny room at the end of the hallway, and closes the door.

Everything from that point is just static. White noise. A chainsaw buzzing. Whirring that slices through my brain. Medical terms and complex phrases rocket around the room, bouncing off every surface in a pinball effect.

The secondary scan results are presented to me as if they’re something I’m interested in hearing or seeing. My ass might be sitting in a chair, but it feels like being locked inside some sort of strobe lighting effect. A hallucination. Things move so rapidly, I only connect vague points, brief flashes in between blinks.

High-grade tear.Blink.Surgery.Blink. Occupational therapy.

The specialist chatters on, but I’m struggling to comprehend anything over the ringing in my ears.

Limited mobility. Loss of functionality.

The torturous throb settled in behind my eyes only intensifies, and it’s not until I find myself seated on the driver’s side of my truck, knuckles clenched around the steering wheel, that I feel it settle into my bones.

I’m never going to compete in rodeo again.

Sure, I’ll be able to get on a horse—all indications point to being able to live the life of a rancher without too much difficulty. But I can kiss my dreams of a championship, or to climb on the back of a bronc under spotlights, goodbye. There won’t be any more chances to go after a winning buckle in my lifetime.

Bile races up the back of my throat.

On top of that, I’ve got a mother who is in deep shit and begging for me to bail her out of another round of feeding her addiction.