Chapter Seven
Dusty
The cabin was smaller than I remembered.
Maybe it was Cord pacing the living room like a caged animal, all restless energy and coiled tension. Or maybe it was what I'd just done—taken a client off-property during a medical crisis, crossed every boundary I'd kept clean for seven years, put my job on the line for someone I barely knew.
My phone buzzed against my thigh. Text from Sam about the outdoor business finances. Signal bar showed one flickering dot, barely enough to get messages through, forget about calls.
"Someone trying to reach you?" Cord asked without stopping his circuit around the coffee table. His good hand kept flexing and unflexing. "Your bosses checking up?"
I pulled out the phone, scanned it. "Just family stuff. My brothers want to talk numbers for the business."
"Everything okay?"
"Jake's probably trying to convince Sam to buy a third raft before we've paid off the second one." I pocketed the phone. "He's got big ideas on a small budget."
Cord made a sound in his throat, still pacing. He'd done maybe twenty laps around the coffee table since we got here. The repetitive movement was getting to me too.
"When's the last time you ate?" I asked.
He stopped mid-pace, squinting like he was trying to pull up the memory. "Breakfast, maybe? I don't know. Everything's blurred together."
I headed for the kitchen, grateful for something concrete to do. The fridge had Vincent's handiwork all over it, with labeled containers from The Ranch kitchen, fresh ingredients, even a six-pack of that fancy mineral water he swore cured everything.
"Look at this." I pulled out the water. "Fifty dollars worth of Swiss mountain spring water. Vincent swears it has healing properties."
"Does it work?" Cord's voice was flat.
"It's water. From Switzerland. So... no." I grabbed bread and sandwich fixings. "But it tastes expensive, which apparently helps."
That didn't even register. Cord had moved to the window, staring out at the darkening hills like they might tell him something useful. His shoulders were locked up tight, and even from across the room I could feel the tension coming off him in waves.
I made two sandwiches without talking, hyper-aware of how quiet it was. No background music, no sounds of other people anywhere nearby. Just the ancient refrigerator humming and the occasional creak of old wood.
"Food's ready," I said, setting plates on the small wooden table.
Cord turned from the window but didn't move toward the table. "I'm not really hungry."
"You just said you haven't eaten since breakfast."
"I said maybe breakfast. I don't remember." He rubbed his face with his good hand. "My stomach feels off."
"That's probably the withdrawal kicking in," I said, keeping my voice level. "You need to eat something anyway. Keep your blood sugar steady."
He looked at me, weighing whether to fight about it. Finally, he crossed to the table and dropped into a chair. The table wobbled, and I grabbed a paper towel to shove under one leg.
"High-tech solution," Cord said.
"My dad would've carved a new leg from scratch, but I'm more of a 'whatever works' kind of guy."
Cord picked up his sandwich, tore off a small piece, then set it back down. "How long did you say this would take?"
"Depends on how much you were taking and for how long." I took a bite of my own sandwich even though I wasn't hungry anymore. "Could be a few days for the physical stuff. The mental part takes longer."
"Great." He picked at the bread, shredding it into small pieces without eating any. "So I get to feel like shit while also losing my mind. Perfect vacation."
The bitterness cut deep. I watched him destroy the sandwich piece by piece, his movements jerky and purposeless.
"You want to talk about what you're feeling?" I asked.
"No." Fast and sharp. Then he caught himself. "Sorry. I just... I don't want to talk right now."
"Okay." I finished my sandwich while Cord kept tearing his apart. After a few minutes, I tried again. "You should try to eat something, man. Even a few bites."
"I said I'm not hungry."
"I know, but—"
"Jesus, Dusty, just drop it." He stood fast, chair scraping against worn linoleum. "I don't need you hovering over me like I'm some kind of invalid."
That stung more than it should have. I told myself it was the anxiety talking, that he didn't mean it, but it still felt like getting slapped.
"I'm trying to help," I said.
"I know." He turned away, running his good hand through his hair. "I know. I'm sorry. I just feel like my skin doesn't fit right, and I can't sit still, and everything is..." He gestured at nothing. "I don't know. Wrong."
I stood and moved closer, but stopped a few feet away. Space seemed important. "That's normal for withdrawal. You’re not an addict, but your body got accustomed to the meds, and now it’s trying to recalibrate."
"How long does the 'feeling like crawling out of my own skin' part last?"
"Everyone's different. Maybe a day or two for the worst of it."
"Fuck." He leaned against the counter, head dropping forward. "I can't do two days of this."
"You can. You're already doing it."
He laughed, bitter and humorless. "Am I? Because from where I'm standing, I'm just making both of us miserable."
"You're not—"
"Don't." He held up his hand. "Don't do the whole supportive yoga instructor thing right now. I need you to just be honest with me."
"Okay." I crossed my arms, leaning against the opposite counter.
"Honestly? This is going to suck. You're going to feel worse before you feel better.
You're probably going to say shit you don't mean and hate me by tomorrow morning.
And I'm probably going to second-guess every decision that got us here. "
He looked up at that, something shifting in his face. "At least that's honest."
"You asked."
We stood there in the narrow kitchen, tension thick enough to cut. Outside, the sun had dropped all the way down, leaving the cabin dim. I should turn on more lights. Should suggest we move to the living room, do something to break this standoff.
Instead, I asked, "You want to tell me about the pills? How long you've been taking them?"
His jaw clenched. "Does it matter?"
"Might help me understand what we're dealing with."
He was quiet for a long stretch, and I thought he might tell me to fuck off. Then he sighed, shoulders dropping. "It's been almost four weeks since the injury now. Started with the prescribed dose. Then... I don't know. It stopped being about the pain and started being about not thinking."
"About what?"
"About everything." He pushed off the counter, agitation flooding back.
"About my career being over. About coming out destroying everything I worked for.
All the merch with my name on it, getting pulled from stores because no one was gonna buy their kid the jersey of a faggot.
" He swallowed hard. "Being that guy… the one who couldn't hack it when things got hard. "
The rawness in his voice made my chest tight. I wanted to say something comforting, something to take away even a fraction of that pain, but empty bullshit would just piss him off more.
"The pills made it quieter?" I asked.
"Yeah. Everything got... soft around the edges. Manageable." He started pacing again, this time in the small space between kitchen and living room. "Without them, it's just noise. Constant noise in my head about everything I've lost."
I watched him pace, cataloging the restless energy, the way he kept rolling his injured shoulder like he couldn't get comfortable. His pupils were bigger than they should be, and sweat covered his forehead even though it wasn't warm in here.
"We should probably figure out sleeping arrangements," I said, even though it was barely past eight. "You look exhausted."
"I'm not tired. I'm wired." He stopped pacing to look at me. "This is what I was trying to avoid, you know. Feeling everything all at once. It's too much."
"I know."
"Do you?" The challenge was clear. "Have you ever felt like your entire identity just... evaporated? Like you woke up one day and everything you thought you were was just gone?"
The question hit closer than he knew. I thought about my dad dying, about being the kid who couldn't read well, about seven years of helping other people figure out their lives while putting my own on hold.
"Not exactly the same way," I said carefully. "But yeah, I've felt lost before."
He studied my face, and for a second the agitation seemed to ease. "Sorry. I'm being an asshole."
"You're going through some shit. There's a difference."
"Is there?" He laughed without any humor in it. "Feels like just more proof that I can't handle my shit without chemical assistance."
"That's not—"
"I'm going to check out the bedroom," he cut me off, moving past me toward the narrow hallway. "See if I can at least lie down, even if I can't sleep."
I let him go, not sure if following would help or just piss him off more. I cleaned up the mostly uneaten sandwiches, put the food away, wiped down the counter with more attention than it needed.
My phone buzzed again. Another reminder text from my credit union about loan paperwork that needed signatures.
Great. Adulting.
I pocketed the phone and stared at the closed bedroom door. From inside, I could hear Cord moving around—the bed frame creaking, footsteps on old wood, something getting set down hard on the nightstand.
This had seemed straightforward back at The Ranch. Give Cord space to deal with his shit without the pressure of being around other people, help him through the worst of it. Simple.
Nothing about this felt simple now.
I gave him another ten minutes, then knocked softly on the bedroom door. "You okay in there?"
"Fine."
The flatness in his voice said otherwise. I opened the door slowly, found him sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The shoulder brace made his posture lopsided, one side higher than the other.
"Headache?" I guessed.