Hannah #2
“Shit,” I say when I pull my wallet out to pay.
Looking back out at my truck, I can vividly remember laying my card on my seat when I reached inside to grab my keys and lock up before walking into the store.
I glance up at the girl who mindlessly scrolls through her phone, oblivious to the fact that I’m debating walking the ten steps outside or grabbing my items and sneaking away.
Shaking my head at my internal struggle, I flip through my wallet to find a few folded bills.
“That’s odd,” I mutter to myself. As I slide the bills across to the attendant, I tap my fingers against the chipped linoleum counter, trying to remember when I tucked those bills in there.
They are folded in half, and I never fold my bills in half.
Before I can spiral too far, the girl shoves the receipt and my bag full of food into my hands.
While I eat, I scroll through social media, posting a video from last night on my page and responding to some messages.
Wrapping my lips around my straw, I take big gulps of my soda while typing Dean’s name to the search bar.
His account pops up on the top. I hesitate for a split second, like he’ll somehow know that I cyber stalked him.
I tap his profile and begin to scroll through hundreds of pictures and videos of him riding in rodeos all across the country.
Every single photo is of him at one event or another, no women—thankfully—and no family.
I read through some of the comments under his latest post, a picture of him grabbing his rope out of the dirt, his hat tipped down low so only his chin is visible.
Oh my GAWD. I’m down bad with this one.
????????????
He can ride me for eight seconds any night.
Tie me up, Daddy.
Laughing at the comments, I try to ignore the pang of jealousy that bounces around my chest. I enter his name in Google and read through an article posted last year.
I reread a line that mentions his father a few times, so I search for Brad Wilder, chewing on my thumb as articles and videos fill my feed.
A video with the title Career Ending Ride catches my attention, and I click on it.
I gasp when the man on the back of a bull is thrown in the air, landing with a sickening thud in the dirt.
Memories of my own crash run through my mind.
I watch as the bull circles, barreling towards Brad who struggles to get to his feet.
The bull charges straight for him, head ramming into his back, sending him flying forward into the chute gate.
I tuck my free hand under my leg to keep from chewing my nail clean off and watch as the video pans to an ambulance loading him up and flying out of the arena.
I spend the next few minutes reading about what Brad has been up to since that final ride broke his femur and put him into early retirement.
This article was written close to fifteen years ago, I would have been six at the time.
At the bottom of the piece is a blurry image.
I click on it, and it fills my screen. Brad stands with his arm thrown over the shoulders of a woman with bright, honey hair and bright, blue eyes.
She’s tucked against him like they were made to fit together.
On either side of them are two boys, one standing about six inches taller than the other.
Immediately, I know that is Dean, clearly much younger and leaner, but there is no doubt that this is him.
His eyes give him away, hair still unruly and long.
Everything is the same, except for the open mouth smile stretching wide across his face.
It seems so natural to him, something I have a feeling he hasn’t practiced in a long time.
I screenshot the image for no other reason than to have physical proof that he is capable of smiling.
When I click out of the picture, I read the caption under the photo.
Brad Wilder, his wife Jodie, and their two boys, Dean (16) and Owen (13).
He’s ten years older than me. No wonder he knows his way around my body, he's been perfecting his touch for years.
My body heats at the idea that a man so experienced would waste his time on me.
As I drive down the highway, I try to work out why I haven’t seen him travel with family.
They looked so happy in that photo. His dad even said how proud he was that Dean wanted to ride broncs, and that he loved traveling to watch him ride.
I didn’t see any articles about them passing, so that must mean they're still out there, somewhere. What could have happened to make Dean seem like an unapproachable asshole when clearly he used to be part of a loving and supportive family? The idea that anyone wouldn’t want to share their life with the people closest to them puts a sour taste in my mouth.
I’d give anything to have one more ride with my parents.
I roll my window down and let the hot summer air overpower the air conditioning from my truck, letting the music drown out my thoughts as my tires pull me closer to my next stop.