Chapter 8
Trey takes me to a cozy, well-loved Italian place in Sheridan, all brick walls, wine bottles, and flickering candlelight. The food’s amazing, the drinks flow easy, and we laugh more than I expected to.
He’s sweet and charming. He holds the door open and compliments my dress. He kisses me gently in the parking lot after dinner, his hand on my waist, lips warm against mine.
But there’s no spark. No static in the air. No ache in my chest.
By the time we pull up to my apartment, I know exactly how the night will end. And it won’t be with another kiss.
Trey parks and turns to me with that easy grin. “So—”
“I—” I blurt at the same time.
We both laugh, the tension breaking for a moment.
I gesture toward him. “You first.”
He nods, expression softening. “So, this was fun.”
“Why do I sense a but?”
“Because there’s one.” He smiles gently, the kind of smile that tells me he’s not upset. “But I don’t think we should see each other again.”
I blink. “Wow. That’s not what I was expecting.”
His brow lifts. “What were you going to say?”
I let out a slow breath. “Basically the same thing.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“I just…” I search for the words. “This was fun. You’re great. I just don’t feel that thing. You know?”
He nods. “Yeah. I do.”
There’s a beat of silence, not awkward, just real.
“Ouch,” he drawls, hand to his heart. “Let down by Phern Stone herself.”
I laugh, nudging him with my shoulder. “You’ll survive.”
“Maybe,” he teases. “But thanks for being honest. And for not ghosting me like a coward.”
“You too,” I say, and I mean it.
He walks me to my door, offers a quick hug, and then he’s gone.
And as I slip inside, I acknowledge the hurt deep inside of my chest. Not because I miss Trey. But because I’m still waiting for a spark that only one man ever seems to ignite. Even if he keeps putting it out.
I kick off my flats, drop my bag on the kitchen counter, and move through the apartment like muscle memory. I’m not sure what I expected to feel. Relief? Sadness? Closure? But all I feel is numb.
I light a candle. Wash my face. Tie my hair up.
Try to pretend the ache in my chest isn’t the shape of a man who won’t stay, but never really leaves either.
My phone buzzes from across the room. I don’t rush to it.
But I don’t ignore it either. I pick it up, expecting maybe a check-in from Tish.
A polite goodnight from Trey, even though we already said our goodbyes.
But it’s not either of them.
It’s him.
Will Flowers
Saw you come in. You look good in that dress.
My fingers tighten around the phone. There’s a pause. Three dots flash, then disappear. Then reappear.
Guess he got to see you in it first, huh?
A flush crawls up my neck. I don’t know if it’s anger or longing or some bitter blend of both. Another message comes through before I can reply.
Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything.
But he did. And I’m still standing here, holding on to every word like it means something.
Because it does. Even if he won’t admit it. Even if I don’t know what to do about it.
I don’t respond.
I stare at Will’s message for a long time, fingers hovering over the screen like maybe if I wanted it enough, the right words would appear on their own.
But they don’t.
So I turn the phone over and climb into bed.
I pull the blanket up to my chin and shut my eyes, forcing sleep to come. Will’s words linger behind my eyelids, threading through the dark like whispers I can't escape.
You looked good in that dress.
Guess he got to see you in it first.
Forget it.
I wish I could.
The next morning, I wake up feeling like I’m floating. Adrift in my own body, like nothing’s quite connected. My chest is tight, my throat sore, and there’s a familiar hollowness I haven’t felt in years.
Not since Brandon.
God, I haven’t thought about him in forever. But this ache? This sharp, quiet emptiness? It’s the same.
We met in my English Lit class sophomore year. He quoted Auden and wore cologne that smelled like old books and expensive ambition. He was everything I thought I wanted. Smart, sophisticated, the kind of guy who drank espresso and had strong opinions about film adaptations.
And for a while, I believed I was special. Until I found out all he really wanted was Sam. Not me. Not my stories. Not my smile. Just access. Turns out even a pretentious, know-it-all douchebag is still susceptible to wanting backstage passes to the Sam Stone.
And now, years later, it’s not Brandon I’m drowning in.
It’s Will.
Different man. Same ache.
Same feeling of being chosen, only to realize I was never really what they wanted in the first place.
I swallow.
I think that’s what hurts the most.
I’m nothing to Will. Just like I was nothing to Brandon. Just a placeholder. A warm body. A shortcut to someone else.
Eventually, I force myself out of bed, but everything feels heavy.
I should eat, but my stomach turns at the thought.
I should shower, but I can’t even bring myself to take off this nightshirt.
The one that still smells like old detergent and quiet disappointment.
So I sit. Staring at the wall. Wrapped in silence that clings too close.
That’s how Sam finds me when he shows up, keys jangling, boots loud against the stairs, the door creaking open like it already knows something’s wrong.
He steps inside, eyebrows pinched. “Are you sick?”
I let out a soft, joyless laugh. “No.”
He studies me, really looks at me. “Something’s wrong. I haven’t seen you like this since—”
Since Brandon.
I look away. “Just didn’t sleep well. It’s still weird being in town.”
That makes him pause. His jaw works, the guilt creeping in like it always does.
“I feel like it’s my fault you left.”
“It’s not. Promise.” I force a smile, even though it cracks around the edges. “How are Charlie and Sam Jr.?”
“They’re good,” he says, eyes still on me, like he’s waiting for me to break. “Charlie wants you over for dinner soon. And Junior’s trying to roll over, so that’s been exciting.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “He’s going to be hell on wheels.”
Sam’s smile is soft, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Takes after his aunt.”
That almost makes me laugh.
He walks into the kitchen, grabs a glass, and fills it with water like he’s trying to do something to fix whatever’s unraveling.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, quieter this time.
I want to say yes. I want to say it’s nothing. But the truth is sitting heavy in my chest, hot behind my eyes.
I nod once.
“I’m working on it.”
And somehow, that’s the most honest thing I’ve said all day. Sam doesn’t push after that. Just nods like he hears everything I didn’t say out loud. He glances around the apartment, eyes landing on the flat-packed furniture still leaning against the wall, unopened and half-forgotten.
“I have a drill in the truck. Want me to help you finish these?”
Relief blooms in my chest because it means I won’t need to ask Will.
“That would be great.”
He grabs his keys without another word, and while he’s gone, I change into leggings and a soft tee, pulling my hair back and splashing cold water on my face. Nothing fancy. Nothing brave. But it’s a start.
By the time Sam returns, carrying his worn canvas tool bag, the apartment already feels a little brighter.
We fall into an easy rhythm. Me reading instructions, him assembling, both of us half-grumbling about confusing diagrams and missing screws.
The occasional curse word slips out when a shelf doesn’t line up or a bolt rolls under the couch, but for the first time in days, I feel steady. Not fixed. But grounded.
By the time the last leg is tightened and the final shelf clicks into place, I’m smiling.
Sam steps back, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Looks nice, Phern.”
I glance around the room. At the table we built, the bookshelf we filled, the space I’m trying to make my own. It’s starting to look like a real home. Like a life I could settle into, if I let myself.
“Thanks for helping,” I say quietly.
He nods, then nudges me with his elbow. “Next time you feel like hiding under a blanket, just call me. I’ll show up with a drill and a six-pack.”
I smile, and this time, it’s real.
“Deal.”
As soon as Sam leaves, the silence creeps back in. Thick. Heavy. Familiar in all the worst ways. I sit on the edge of the couch and sigh. The stillness feels bigger now, like the apartment is too wide and too quiet all at once.
This isn’t going to work.
I know myself. If I sit here too long, I’ll spiral. Not into tears. Into nothing. Into that gray, half-alive version of me I fought hard to crawl out of after Brandon.
I need to do something.
And just like that, the part of me that remembers who I am kicks back to life.
Love Lost Rodeo’s in a month. Then there’s Cheyenne Frontier Days. Then the Pbr Finals in Vegas. A full schedule of stories, riders, and adrenaline waiting to be captured in ink.
If I’m going to get this paper off the ground, I’ve got work to do.
I fire up my laptop, and dive into the interview I did with Trey. I clean up his quotes, organize my notes, and map out the structure for the piece. His comeback arc, his connection to the local circuit, the quiet charm that makes him easy to root for, even if he’s not my story.
After that, I draft a list of family questions and shoot them off to Sam, asking about Stonewater Ranch history, old rodeo stories, and which horses had reputations for being impossible. He’ll love that part.
Then, after a moment of hesitation, I reach out to Liam. I tell him I need a few sound bites about growing up on the circuit. No pressure, but if he doesn’t respond, I’m telling everyone he cried during The Notebook.
I grin at the screen. And for the first time in days, I don’t feel like I’m unraveling. I feel like I’m building something.