19. Ace
ACE
Sweat clings like guilt, trailing paths of surrender across my skin.
I drive each nail into rotting timber with the precision of penance, knowing the fence might hold even if I can’t.
Heat wavers in the distance. I’m crouched by a weathered stack of wood, wrestling with splintered boards and the threat of my own inadequacy, when Gavin’s pickup rattles up the dirt road.
I don’t bother looking up. I grip the hammer tighter, swinging hard and fast. The fence shudders but stays intact, at least for now. Gavin’s boots crunch as he approaches, but I keep working, muscles burning, lungs aching for more than just air.
“You’re pushing it, Ace.” Gavin’s voice cuts through the noise. He stands there with his arms crossed, shadows pooling under his brow, waiting for me to acknowledge him.
I hit another nail, feel it bite and bend in protest. “I’m fine,” I manage between clenched teeth, though I know the lie is as crooked as the timber in my hands.
Gavin moves closer, eyeing the pile of wood, the precarious lean of the fence, the sweat and dust caked on me like a second skin. He sees too much, knows too much. “This isn’t you,” he says, softer now, but no less firm.
I finally stop, letting the hammer dangle from my fingers. The silence is heavy, and I hate it almost as much as I need it. “Got to get it done,” I say, the words a weak defense, like an old dog that can’t bite anymore.
Gavin steps over a loose board, reaches to steady a wobbling beam. His presence, solid and unwelcome, makes everything feel more real and more desperate. “You’re working yourself to death out here,” he insists. “For what, Ace?”
I swallow hard, my throat raw from more than just the dust. The words are lodged there, heavy and sharp. I think of Olivia, of the way she looks at me, of the way I can’t look at myself. “Maybe I’m not enough for her,” I say, my voice a fragile thing, almost lost to the wide, empty land.
Gavin’s silence is its own kind of answer. I pick up another plank, try to ignore the way my hands shake, the way my chest tightens.
“Olivia doesn’t need this,” Gavin says finally, motioning to the mess around us, to the mess I am. “She needs you.”
The hammer slips from my grip, clattering to the ground like a final confession. I want to tell him he’s wrong, that she needs more than I can give, more than some broke-down cowboy with a broke-down dream. But I can’t find the words, can’t even find the courage to meet his eyes.
Gavin picks up the hammer, holds it out to me like an offer of something I don’t know how to take. “Talk to her,” he urges, and there’s something like kindness in his voice, like hope.
I hesitate, the weight of everything bearing down, the old ranch creaking under the strain. Then I reach for the hammer, for the chance he dangles just out of reach. “I don’t know how,” I admit, and it feels like the truest thing I’ve said all day.
Gavin claps a hand on my shoulder, the pressure more reassuring than the words he’s spoken. “Figure it out.”
He turns to leave, and I watch him go, watch the dust swallow his truck until I’m alone again, alone with the fence and the sun and the fear that nothing I build will ever last. But Gavin’s words linger, and I know I’ll have to choose soon, between risking too much and not enough.