Two Years Later
TRIGGER
"Who are we missin'?" my father asks as Dallas and I walk into the kitchen after returning from the auction house in Lexington.
"No one," I answer, disbelief still overpowering my annoyance.
"No one?" He sets his coffee cup on the counter and gives me his full attention. "Now, how in the world is that possible?"
This is the first time my father has ever let go of the reins.
He let us go alone to the auction house, and we came home without one sale.
I've been attending auctions with him since I was seven.
Dallas might be new to the game, but I'm not.
I know how they work. I knew exactly what to expect because I'd grown up watching the game played, and I still failed today.
"Warrick was there," Dallas answers for me as I lean onto the large granite island to keep myself upright.
"What's that got to do with anythin'? He's the competition. He's always there," he argues pointedly.
"He undersold us on everything," I say defeatedly.
"As you expected he would—" my father starts.
"No, this wasn't normal. There's no way we could have matched him," Dallas interjects.
"Nor would we want to. Dropping your prices that low calls our elite breeder status into question. I'm not even sure how he's making a profit," I point out.
"Hmm," is all my father says before he turns his face toward the barn that can be seen out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the kitchen.
Dallas and I share a questionable glance before I press my father.
"‘Hmm.’ That's it? I could have made a sale if you'd let me expand our breeding operation. There's money to be made breeding bulls."
He raises his hand. "A well-bred horse gets more."
"Our operating costs are higher. It's cheaper to breed bulls, and the market is bigger—"
"No," he says firmly.
But something's different this time. In all the times I've brought up this conversation—and there have been many—I'd say this response has gone the best. And that's saying something.
I expected anger. Annoyance. A whole lot more berating for coming home with this kind of failure.
My father has been a great dad since he found out about me at age five, after my adoptive parents knocked on his door as a last resort, desperate to save my life, asking him for a kidney.
From that day on, he stepped up in ways that changed everything.
But here's the thing about him: he's not a coddler.
He doesn't blow smoke up your ass or hand out participation trophies.
When you succeed, he's proud. When you fail, he'll point out every single mistake without hesitation.
He'll tell you exactly where you went wrong and what you need to do better.
That's just who he is. It's how he's always been. So, what the hell is this?
I study him, trying to understand why. Then it hits me: he's barely listening. His mind is somewhere else. On someone else.
"Maybe Warrick wasn't trying to make a profit today," Dallas says, unknowingly bringing the topic full circle, back to the crux or, better yet, the person at the center of my father’s distraction.
"What other reason could he possibly have for underselling us like that?" I ask, believing my father suspects something he's not telling us.
"I guess he's lightenin' the barn," he says as he rubs the backs of his fingers against his beard.
There's more. I can tell there's more. There has to be. We just lost roughly a million dollars in revenue, and all he has to say is, ‘Hmm,’ and ‘I guess he's lightening the barn.’
"What’s your deal with Warrick Fairfield?"
"Deal?" He snaps his head toward me.
"Yes, this generational feud. Why did it start? I've never understood why you hated him so much. He's not the only competition. I've seen you be cordial and even share meals with other sellers, so why not him? Is it just because we're neighbors?"
"Son, when did I ever say I hated Warrick Fairfield?"
My brow furrows as I consider his question and try to recall an instance where he's said as much, but I come up empty, because he hasn't. I cross my arms and look him square in the eye. Regardless of what words he's used, he knows what I'm asking. Maybe he didn't say hate, but there is bad blood.
"The feud was never generational. It started when Maya married Warrick.
Before then, there was nothin' but flowers and peace.
" My mind instantly starts searching for some small piece to latch onto, a clue or hint, anything that could help pinpoint a cause, because surely his answer supplied one.
He must see the wheels in my mind spinning.
"There's no point in diggin' up history, son.
" He heads to the back door. "I'll be attendin' the next auction.
In case you've forgotten, we're in the business of sellin' horses," he adds, walking out the door without another word.
There it is, the jab I was waiting for—deserved, I suppose—since I didn't make a sale, but he's wrong about digging up history. I have to know what happened so I can get the girl.
"If you ask me, that was progress," Dallas says, blowing out a breath. "Want to come with me to the Holiday Classic tonight?"
"Are you meeting up with the vaulter girl afterward?"
"She's in the show," he neither confirms nor denies his plans.
It's been two years since Dallas moved in, and every girl in town wants to get in his bed, but he has no interest. The only one he's ever talked to is Madison, and I think the draw is that she's not from town.
She's here for a few days, and then she's gone, always on the road.
I get it. I'm the same way. I don't care to lead someone on, and spending more than one night with someone gets messy.
"A few of the girls want to go out on the Bourbon Trail after the show." His voice trails off with innuendo. Basically, if I go, it's a sure thing my night will have a happy ending.
The problem is, my night is already fucked.
There's no way I'll enjoy a second of going out.
Not after seeing Warrick Fairfield today, and especially not after my father's cryptic responses.
If anything, the girl I try to forget as much as I hold onto is fresh in my mind.
Except, this time, I'm not going to sit here and stew on it.
"Nah, I got somewhere I got to be. Maybe next time," I say, swiping my keys off the counter. Time to go dig up another memory.
Of all the cruel jokes the universe could play, ours has to be the worst. Loving someone who hates you.
I used to lie awake, trying to figure out when it started.
Was it before the fighting or because of it?
Did I fall in the middle of one of our wars, or did I love her first and only learned to fight because it was the only way she’d look at me at all?
I know this infatuation I have borders on obsession.
I'd provoke her just to see that flash in her eyes, to have her full attention on me, even if it was rage. Better her anger than her indifference. Better to matter as her enemy than not matter at all, because that was always my goal. Ever since the day a fearless little girl stood up to two class clowns on the playground and proved that appearances didn’t matter, confidence mattered.
I knew I wanted her as a friend, and damn it, she offered me as much.
In a way, she started it all. She offered to be my friend even when doing so could get her in trouble.
Maybe it’s pathetic how much I’ve held on to that.
The milkshake she threw on me on the first day of freshman year probably should have been my sign to let it go, to let her go, but if anything, it might have been the exact moment I knew I was in trouble.
"I hope you hate strawberries." I was speechless, and for as much as I didn’t understand what had happened, what had changed to make her hate me so much during all those years we spent apart, all I could think was how beautiful she was.
How much I wanted to kiss her. How completely screwed I was.
What kind of person falls in love with someone in the middle of having a milkshake poured down their chest?
What does that say about me? That I'm so desperate, so broken, that I'll take whatever scraps of attention she throws my way and call it love?
How pathetic is it that I became a scholar of someone who couldn’t stand me?
I memorized her tells, her patterns, the way her jaw clenched before she delivered a killing blow.
I knew her through our wars better than most people knew their friends.
And I told myself it was a strategy, that I was just trying to win our battles.
But I was lying. I was studying her because I was desperate for any way to know her.
That's why I'm sitting outside her place now, still desperate, still waiting, as rain hammers against my windshield in sheets.
"Come on," I mutter to the sky, watching the rain. Just a break, just enough to cross the street without arriving at her door looking like a wet dog. I check my phone: 7:43 p.m. At least she should be home this time when I ring the doorbell.
The building door bursts open, catching my attention, and I sit straight up in my seat.
It's her. Reaching for the door handle, I'm out in the rain, ready to get soaked, when a black sedan appears from nowhere, pulling right in front of her.
I freeze halfway out of my car, one foot on the wet pavement.
The driver's door opens. A man steps out, tall in a tailored suit under a designer raincoat.
He walks around to Asha with the umbrella, holding it over her like she's something precious, as I blink drops of water off my eyelashes.
Then, opening the passenger door, he hugs her—and not like a friend, like someone who knows her intimately, like someone who's done it a thousand times before.
Asha laughs at something he says before ducking into the car. The sedan pulls away, and I stand in the street, rain plastering my shirt to my skin, watching until they disappear around the corner.
It's been hours, and the concrete steps are cold and unforgiving beneath me.
The rain stopped, but I'm still wet, still waiting, refusing to let another year go by where we don't talk.
However, she's not coming back—at least not tonight.
I pull myself up from the steps, legs stiff, clothes heavy with rain.
The street is empty now, just pools of water reflecting the streetlights.
I look one more time toward the corner where the sedan disappeared, and something in my chest finally unclenches.
Not relief. Not quite peace. Just...exhaustion.
The kind that comes from holding on too long to something that was never mine to hold.
I head toward my truck, each step feeling lighter than the last.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I stop walking as my hand hovers over it, caught between seeing who it is and letting it ring.
She doesn't know I'm here. She never asked me to wait, and for the first time in years, the ghost of hope that's had me in a chokehold for more years than I can count is gone.
It buzzes again, and I close my eyes, but I keep walking.
For now.