14. BECKETT
BECKETT
The leather seat creaks under my grip, the material groaning in protest. I am seething—it’s a wonder steam isn’t coming out of my ears. How dare they?! All I wanted was to grab lunch with Quinn; instead, we received hate and scorn.
I can’t stop replaying their faces in my head—the hostess’s judgment, the waitress’s sneer, patrons whispering as if I couldn’t hear. That incident has jolted me back to reality from the bubble I’ve been in the past couple of days. The one where I thought things were finally starting to change.
Ten-plus years, and all anyone sees is that screwed-up kid everyone warns their children about.
Why the hell am I even trying? Why waste time smiling at kids, running with old ladies, hauling myself into situations that are scraping me raw, just so people can remind me that I’ll never measure up? A man makes one mistake, and they tattoo it on his forehead for life.
The trees blur together as Quinn drives us home. My chest is tight, bitter and hot. I want to punch something—maybe if I drive my fist into the dashboard, it will take some of the pressure off. But who am I kidding? I’ll just hurt myself.
I’m spiraling, and I know it, but that doesn’t mean I can stop.
“Beck,” Quinn says softly, almost as if she’s addressing a skittish cat.
I don’t answer. I keep my eyes locked on the road, jaw clamped so tight it aches.
She tries again. “You know today doesn’t erase everything else, right? The kids at the hospital—you were incredible with them. That’s what people are going to remember in the long run. One bad afternoon doesn’t define you.”
Her words rub me the wrong way. Easy for her to say. She didn’t grow up being the town’s favorite cautionary tale. She doesn’t know what it’s like to walk into a room and feel the whole damn air shift because of her presence.
I laugh under my breath, but there’s no humor in it. “You don’t get it, Quinn. They’ll never forget. It doesn’t matter what I do.”
“You’re wrong,” she insists, firmer now. “This is just the beginning. We knew it wouldn’t be easy—people don’t change their minds overnight. But if you keep showing up, keep putting in the work—“
“Enough.” My hand smacks the dashboard, sharp and sudden.
She flinches, and instantly I hate myself for it, but I can’t stop. The anger is boiling over. “You really think this is about just putting in the work? I could cure cancer tomorrow, and they’d still look at me like trash. That’s what you don’t understand.”
The silence thickens between us, and she glances at me, lips pressed tight. She wants to argue but retreats just as fast. And I can’t stop myself from pushing her away, even as guilt needles in.
I go quiet, shutting her out the only way I know how—by walling up.
The truck crunches over gravel as we drive up to the house.
Quinn kills the engine, and the silence that follows is heavy, only the faint tick of cooling metal filling the space.
She wants to say more but changes her mind since she knows it will only be met with animosity from me, and she’s not wrong.
I shove the door open and slam it behind me, the sound echoing sharp in the quiet environment. I don’t wait for her as my boots hit the ground hard, each step a stomp. Maybe if I walk fast enough, I can outrun this whole damn day.
“Beck.”
Jace’s voice comes from the porch, steady, questioning. He’s leaning against the post like he’s been waiting for us. The setting sun’s rays paint him in a soft glow, eyes sharp with concern.
“What happened?” he asks.
I don’t answer—I can’t. If I open my mouth right now, it’ll all spill out in a way I’ll regret. My fists curl, nails biting into my palms, and I shoulder past him without a word. His hand twitches—he’s tempted to stop me—but he doesn’t. He knows better.
“Beck—“ Quinn starts, but I’m already walking away, needing distance and space before I combust.
Behind me, I hear Jace’s low murmur as he turns to Quinn. “What the hell happened?”
Her sigh carries to me. She’ll tell him.
I don’t stop to listen; instead, I keep moving, because if I stop, I’ll fall apart. I stalk past the house and barn until I’m standing at the fence line, hands braced against the wood. The horses shift in the paddock, ears twitching, soft snorts carrying on the breeze.
They recognize me even though I’ve been scarce the past couple of days. Too scarce. Guilt twists in my gut when one of the geldings strolls closer, nudging at the rail like he’s asking why I’ve been gone.
“Yeah, I know,” I mutter, voice rough. “I’ve been a shitty trainer.”
I reach out, running a hand down his neck.
The familiar feel of warm hide under my palm should calm me, but today it only sharpens the ache.
This is where I belong. Horses don’t judge, don’t whisper behind my back.
They don’t care about the mistakes stamped onto my name.
They only care if I show up, if I’m steady.
And I haven’t been steady, not for them.
My chest loosens a fraction, but not enough. The noise in my head keeps circling: what’s the point? No matter what I do, it’s never going to be enough.
“Damn it!” I whisper, my throat tight.
The air hangs cool and heavy, thick with hay and dust and the kind of silence that seeps under your skin.
I lean against the rail, one boot braced on the bottom plank, fingers absently stroking down the gelding’s neck.
He’s patient with me, always has been. Just stands there, breathing deep and steady, trying to loan me some of his calm demeanor.
“You don’t care, do you?” I mutter, scratching under his jaw. “I could burn the whole damn world down, and you’d still just want a handful of oats.”
A soft laugh drifts from behind me, light and unexpected. I freeze.
“That’s ’cause horses are smarter than people.”
I turn, shoulders tense, and find Daisy standing a few feet away. She’s got her arms wrapped around herself, oversized hoodie swallowing her frame, but her eyes are steady on me—bright, curious, and far too perceptive for a kid her age.
“Shouldn’t you be inside?” My voice comes out gruffer than I mean.
She shrugs. “I saw you come out here and wanted to see what you’re up to.”
I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”
She grins, small but mischievous. “I didn’t mean to. You just looked sad. Are you okay, Uncle Beck?”
The gelding nudges me again, and I use the excuse to look away, running my hand along his mane. “I’m fine.”
Daisy steps closer to the fence, slipping her small fingers through the rails. The mare on the other side noses toward her, and she laughs, soft and easy.
“You always say that,” she murmurs. “But you don’t look fine.”
Something in my chest squeezes. I don’t want to do this with her. She’s a kid—she should be dreaming about being a pop star like her Aunt Ava, as she’s always proclaiming, not reading her screwed-up uncle like a book.
“I want to be like you when I’m older,” she says simply.
My head jerks toward her. She’s looking at me without flinching, eyes fierce in the dim light.
“I want to ride bareback and train horses too.”
I blink at her, stunned, my mouth opening then shutting again. “I thought you wanted to—“
She cuts me off with a roll of her eyes. “It’s not the ’80s, Uncle Beck. Girls can have it all.”
The laugh rips out of me before I can stop it, sudden and rough but real. For the first time since the restaurant, the knot in my chest loosens.
“Damn,” I mutter, shaking my head. “You’re something else, kid.”
She beams at me—she knows she’s won.
And just like that, I feel the ground under me again. If she’s looking up to me, if she really sees me as someone worth emulating, then quitting isn’t an option. Not for her. Not for the horses. Not for me.
I reach through the rail and squeeze her hand, my rough palm swallowing her small one. “I’ll do better,” I promise, voice low but steady. “I’ll make sure I’m someone worth looking up to.”
She just smiles, wide and certain.
When she finally pads back inside, I stay leaning against the rail, the evening pressing in around me. The horses shift and snort, their calmness seeping into me.
I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to do it—change the way people see me, undo a mistake that’s older than Daisy herself. Maybe I never will. Maybe they’ll always look at me and see nothing but the mess I was.
But when she looked at me, she didn’t see that. She saw more. And Quinn—stubborn, infuriating Quinn—she keeps betting on me too, no matter how many times I give her reason not to.
I don’t have the answers. But I’ve got people worth proving myself to and a life I’m not ready to let slip through my fingers.
So no, I won’t give up.
I push off the fence, casting one last glance at the horses moving lazily, settling in for the night ahead. Tomorrow, I’ll start again. Hell, maybe I’ll even get it right.
When I turn back toward the house, the porch light reveals Quinn in the doorway, arms folded, like she’s been standing guard. She doesn’t say a word, just tips her head in that quiet way of hers, as if to remind me I’m not carrying this alone.
The weight in my chest eases, just a little. The darkness doesn’t feel like it’s closing in anymore. It feels like the start of something I might actually be strong enough to see through.