17. Chapter 17 Ride ’Em Cowboy
Jenna: November
The room freezes, and my heart crashes further into my chest. Dylan’s face flickers in my mind. Then my girls. Then Jacob.
Is this it? The moment I destroy everything. The man who stood by me. The family we’ve created.
Jacob doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His jaw ticks with tension, fists curled at his sides. “Fuck.” His voice shakes, eyes glistening, but he won’t let his tears fall. He won’t break first. “Silence?” His breath shudders. “Is that my ans—”
He stops, and the pain in his face ruins me. I’m crushing him, I know it.
I collapse onto the bed, curling into a tight ball, sobs wracking through my body. The guilt. The fear. The confusion. It all presses down, paralyzing me.
He sits there, watching me break. Watching us fall apart.
“Answer me, Jenna.” His voice is softer now. But no less terrifying.
I clutch my chest. “I don’t know what I want anymore.” My breath stutters. “And I don’t want to hurt you or the girls. I love you… but sometimes love isn’t enough. Maybe we need help.”
His head tilts slightly. “You didn’t answer my question.” He shoves off the bed, pacing, raking a hand through his hair. “And help? Like seeing a shrink?” He lets out a bitter laugh. “I don’t need help. You do.”
His words sting like a slap. “There’s nothing to answer!” I snap, standing up.
“That’s not a fucking answer,” he snaps back.
“I already told you—nothing is going on. But thanks for making it clear you think I’m the broken one.” My voice wavers, but I don’t back down.
“Well, guess what? I’m not. I’m trying. Trying to figure things out. Trying to be better. And yeah, maybe I do need help! But we both do.” I take a shaky breath. “Healing doesn’t happen overnight. It’s slow. Messy. And something only I can do for myself… and only you can do for you.”
He sneers, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Jesus. You pull that line from one of your self-help books?” He shakes his head. “Fine. You want some professional to fix our marriage? Call someone right now. Why waste more of our time?”
My gut twists, thinking of the girls down the hall. What if they hear us?
“Our marriage is a waste of time? Sorry, will an hour of therapy cut into your golf schedule?” I lower my voice, but the edge is still there. “Things have changed. I think we both want to go back to what we had.”
A long moment passes. “I do,” he finally admits. “But I don’t think therapy is for me. If anyone needs to figure shit out, it’s you.”
His words bite, but I hold myself together. “Fine,” I say. “If you won’t go, I’ll go alone.”
He nods once. “You do that.” His voice is distant. Cold. Final.
He stops at the door and turns back, his expression softening. “And our marriage is not a waste of time. It matters more to me than you know.” He reaches for my hand. “I just… want us to be okay. I want you to look at me how you used to, like I’m still the only man for you.”
Before my brain has time to overthink, he pulls me in for a hug and buries his face in my neck. Every time he holds me like this, I wonder if it will be the last time. The last hug… the last kiss… the last time I’m with the only man who has ever really loved me.
Tears stream all the way down to my lips. “I do see you,” I whisper, kissing him, trying to hold on. To him. To us. To stop everything from falling apart. “I’m here. But I don’t think you see me anymore. You still see the girl you tried to save. But I’m not her. Not anymore.”
His grip tightens. His breath warm against my skin.
“And you?” I exhale, forcing the words out. “You keep me at a distance. Just close enough to give me hope, then you pull away. And I’m left clinging to crumbs, holding on until there’s almost nothing left.”
“But you married me this way,” he murmurs. “You knew I wasn’t great at opening up. That I need space. Time alone. How is that fair to me?”
“I’ve tried to tell you how I feel in other ways.” I wipe my cheek. “Maybe I haven’t been clear enough. But we’re stuck, Jacob. And I’m exhausted.”
“I’m tired too,” he says, releasing me. “Let’s talk tomorrow.” He walks out and shuts the door behind him.
And I’m left there, lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, lost in my thoughts. My heart hammers as I reread Dylan’s message.
Once you get a taste—once you wake up and finally know what you want—it’s dangerous.
Somehow, it feels heavier now, with Jacob’s voice echoing, A re you having an affair?
I hover over Dylan’s name, tempted to reply. Desperate for an escape, to distract myself from everything. But I lock my phone and toss it aside. I can’t keep running to him every time things get fucking hard.
Downtown Nashville is alive tonight. Music humming, tourists chattering, yet I feel detached. Alone in the crowd, and my thoughts. My life is… fine. The job, the girls, Jacob are all fine.
So why do I keep sabotaging it? Kissing someone else, stirring up chaos. It’s like I’ve become addicted to ruining everything. And Jacob? Things have been really tense the last few days since our fight.
Izzy grabs my hand, tugging me inside a packed country bar. She has that look in her eyes, the one that always got us into trouble. Her bright red lipstick as fierce and fearless as she is.
“Come on, Jinx!” Izzy calls out. “Our Friendiversary isn’t going to celebrate itself!”
We’ve been doing this every year since we met. She insisted, knowing I’d never stayed in one place long enough to have a best friend. And now, no matter how chaotic life gets, it's our tradition.
The smell of whiskey and BBQ hits as we step inside, the air alive with music and rowdy energy.
“Six tequila sunrises!” Izzy shouts to the bartender, then turns to me. “You know the anniversary rule—shots and bull riding.”
I laugh despite myself. “Why do I feel like I’m going to regret this?”
Izzy raises her shot glass. “Because you’re not sixteen and you can barely handle one glass of wine these days. But cheers to surviving another year with me!”
“To surviving being friends with you.” I clink my glass against hers. The tequila burns its way down, but it feels good to let loose. For one night, I’m determined to forget. No guilt. No responsibilities. No roles as mother and wife. Just fun.
Izzy wastes no time dragging me to the dance floor with our tight jeans and cowboy boots on. “You can’t come to a country bar and not line dance!”
I try to keep up, but my feet have other ideas. I stumble, bumping into people, but Izzy is right there beside me, twirling like she was born for this. Her joy is infectious, and my worries melt away.
Until I see him.
Dylan Wyatt Freaking Hayes. Leaning against the bar, eyes locked on mine like I’m the only one he sees. His worn jeans and fitted T-shirt make it impossible not to notice the muscles bulging beneath.
My heart skips. Trying to focus on the dance steps is impossible when my eyes keep sneaking glances at him. He looks completely relaxed, chatting away, like he hasn’t just turned my night upside down by simply existing.
Izzy catches me ogling him. “Oh, I see what you’re looking at,” she teases, not realizing I want to do a hell of a lot more than just look. “Let’s show Dylan and his pretty decent-looking friends our riding skills.”
My face turns bright red. “Bad idea. I’ll probably break something at this age.”
Izzy grins. “Stop overthinking. Tonight is about fun, remember?”
Before I can argue, she—or the tequila—convinces me that the mechanical bull’s a great idea. The crowd cheers each rider on, whether they last eight seconds or fall in two.
“I don’t know about this,” I say, nervously looking around at the bar. But she’s already chatting up the guy running it, laughing at whatever he says as she signs us up.
Next thing I know, the operator’s giving me a cheeky smile. “Hold onto your panties, sweetheart.”
I climb on, gripping the cool leather, acutely aware of every gaze in the bar.
The bull jerks forward. I sway left, then right, tequila-fueled confidence kicking in.
Yee-haw. It starts spinning faster, and suddenly I’m launched.
I end up flat on my back, sprawled across the padded mat, soaking in the adrenaline.
Dylan walks toward me, that damn smile impossible to ignore.
“So that’s what you look like riding… a bull,” he teases. “Not bad. Maybe if you were closer to my age, you could’ve lasted longer.”
I roll my eyes playfully as I push myself up, wobbling slightly. “Careful. I might be older, but I can still kick your ass.”
He laughs, offering his hand. The moment our fingers touch, jolts of electricity shoot through me. I pull back quickly. Damn it.
He steps back, eyes glistening. “I’d like to see you try. But first, let me show you exactly how it’s done.”
I fight the urge not to gawk at him as he strides toward the bull. “Fifteen seconds,” I say, my lips curving. “That’s all you need to beat.”
He throws me a cocky grin, hopping on. “Easy.”
And suddenly, I don’t care how tonight ends. It’s just me, tequila buzzing in my veins, and Dylan—owning the entire bar. He moves effortlessly, his hard, defined body in sync with each violent jerk and spin.
“Holy hot damn, I wish I was that bull right now,” Izzy groans, wide-eyed. “He really knows how to ride that thing.”
I swallow hard, unable to look away. I hate that she’s not wrong. My cheeks burn when he glances my way, smirking.
Fuck. Me.
With one final spin, the bull throws him off, but he lands smoothly, rolling onto his feet with ease.
Dylan strolls over, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt. “Not bad, right? I usually last a lot longer than twenty seconds, though.”
I roll my eyes. “We don’t need to know that.”
Dylan moves closer, his voice low enough for only me to hear. “But you want to know.”
The noise of the bar fades. And all I can focus on is the way he looks at me, like I’m the only woman in the room. I catch Izzy out of the corner of my eye watching. My stomach flips. How long before she starts asking questions or tells her brother about Dylan?