23. Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
Wes
Nobody prepares you for the pain of watching someone you love struggle.
And while I knew Cass’s history—her childhood experiences—I didn’t fully understand the heaviness of what she carried.
When she walked into the barn in April, yellow boots and all, I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Cassidy Summers felt like a breath of fresh air—like long-awaited good news in the middle of my monotonous routine.
She shook me from the sleep that was my life before, and to watch her navigate her brother’s sickness—watch her be there for her mother despite all that woman’s horrible behavior? I’m in awe of her.
“You’re staring,” Cass says from her spot on the living room floor. She works the yarn with a hook, the blanket slowly forming with every stitch. Since we left the hospital two days ago, she’s been working as normal, and even learned to give one of the mares a progesterone shot.
“Hard not to,” I say, striding closer. “That looks so tedious.”
With Gus home today, things have eased. Megan called Cassidy earlier, explaining how badly he wanted his own bed—his own space. There’s a long road ahead and so many medications. Megan was a bit taken aback, but everyone took a collective deep breath.
They let him come home, and things began to settle.
“It’s relaxing,” she comments as I sit next to her, my muscles easing after a long day’s work. Roe went to stay with a friend for the night, leaving the house to us. “Is that why you’re staring?” she chuckles. “Because you’re mesmerized by a crochet hook?”
“I’m mesmerized by you,” I whisper, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
Cass leans into it, pausing her crafting and setting it aside. “You’ve seen my hobby,” she says. “And I still have not seen this swing dancing you speak of.”
I groan, tipping back until I’m lying on the carpet. It gives Mud the perfect opportunity to trot over and lick my face. Swatting him away, my ball cap falls off my head. “Disgusting,” I mutter.
Cas stands, placing her work in the small basket next to the couch. When she offers me her hand, I stare at it.
“I’m not a great dancer,” she confesses.
“Alright.”
She sighs. “So, teach me, then!”
I chuckle, grab her hand, and stand. I pull my phone out of my pocket, pulling up the playlist I use for the Country Christmas celebration.
It’s really the only time I pull out this particular skill.
It’s not like I walk around the farm looking for swing dance partners in between all the times I’m shoveling shit.
It is, however, something I enjoy—a nice change in pace.
I’d learned sometime in middle school when my mom thought I needed to try something new. I’m pretty sure the only reason she did it was because Rosemary wanted to start dance classes, and swing dancing was the only class left with spots open.
“Alright,” I start, taking both of her hands as seriously as one can. “We can start with a basic move. Feet first.”
I show her a few steps, over exaggerating the pain when she steps on my right foot.
“Oh come on,” she teases. “It’s not like you’ve never had a horse step on your foot. You’re fine!”
“It’s broken, for sure.” I make a show of gripping my socked foot, relishing in the way worry creeps onto her face.
“Nuh, uh,” she says, stepping closer in time for me to wrap my arm around her waist. I spin her as she laughs, holding her tight.
The song changes, something recommended but not on the playlist. I’m not sure why it’s a recommendation considering the change in mood.
With slow music playing, I pull Cass close, placing my hands on her waist. She leans into me, her head on my chest as she wraps her arms around my neck.
We sway like that for a time, my chest tight with the fullness.
I love you, I think, but I don’t dare say a word.
“Did I do okay?” she asks, her voice vibrating against my chest when she speaks. “Except for the foot thing.”
Planting a kiss in her hair, I think the words again.
I love you. I love you. I’m in love with you.
I hold it in, anyway.
“You did just fine,” I say. “By the time Christmas rolls around, you’ll be teaching the lessons with me.”
Cass huffs a laugh and continues to sway.
I hold her in my arms, rocking in the dim light from the lamp.
Out the back of the house, the pond rests quietly, willow swaying in the warm night air. I can’t help but think I’d want to do this forever.
The farm, the girl. Even the cat lying on the corner of the couch is asleep and purring.
I love you, I think one last time, and hope she feels the same.
“Wes.”
I open my eyes. The nighttime is thick outside our window. The moon hovers above the fields, shadowed by lacey clouds.
Cass touches my arm, and I turn to get a good look at her. She’s sitting up, her face pale—void of color—void of life.
I rub sleep from my eyes, propping myself up on my elbows. My brow creases when her expression doesn’t change. Her breaths come out slow, but with weight.
“Are you okay?” I ask. Mud sleeps peacefully at my feet, taking up far more room than we have to give. I spot Rory on Cass’s side.
She clutches her phone to her chest, and worry snakes its way through my chest. I sit up more, touching her frozen face. “What is it?” I ask.
Her next words are breathed. If the night hadn’t been so silent around us, I would have missed them.
“Gus is gone.”
Three heartbeats punctuate the silence before the ache wedges its way into my chest. It’s a deep bruise—painful to the touch. “He left?” I ask, but the pit in my stomach knows before she says it.
“He… died.” When she pulls her phone away from her chest, her hands shaking as she stares at the screen.
One o’clock reads on the screen over the picture of the sunset over the barn.
“Megan woke up in the middle of the night to check on him,” she continues.
She looks like the shell of herself—hollow. “He was just—”
She doesn’t finish the sentence.
I don’t have much experience with grief. I’ve watched horses pass, buried childhood dogs beneath the willow in our yard, but I’ve never been this close to death before.
It’s not what I thought it would be. In the movies, sound ceases to exist as people crumple. Tears wrack their bodies the moment grief sets in.
This is not what happens to Cassidy. She stares ahead as if in shock. I’m not sure what to do, so I reach out, pulling her stiff form to my chest as she takes a shuddering breath. There’s not a tear to be found.
“What do you need?” I whisper into her hair.
All I can picture is Gus in the hospital. We just saw him. He was just here.
Cass doesn’t say anything for a while as I hold her, and even though she doesn’t melt into me, I don’t let go.
“Can we leave?” she asks, and I’m nodding before she says another word. “My parents are at the apartment. So is Megan and her family.”
There is nothing else to be discussed. Anything she needs, I’ll provide. And if I can’t, I’ll find someone who can. “Let me grab my keys.”
The car ride is silent—nothing but the stretch of road dotted with flickering streetlights.
My hand tightens on the wheel of my truck until my knuckles turn white.
Cass is curled up in the seat next to me, her sweater pulled up over her hands as she rests her head against the windshield, watching the trees blur by.
Death exists.
I heard once that children often start realizing this around the age of five.
I didn’t think much about death beyond that, but the concept lurked in the background.
One year, when I was fourteen, a mare dropped a foal that hadn’t survived.
I remember looking to my dad, desperate to emulate his behavior.
He’d set the standard then, even if he didn’t realize it.
He was always so unflappable—so capable when it came to the challenges this farm threw at him. I wanted to be just like that.
I did as he did and put my head down, wore my gloves, and dragged the body to the back of the property.
“It’s natural,” my dad had said with a shovel in the ground. “Even the seasons cycle through death and rebirth.”
I wiped my brow, hollow as I followed direction after direction.
I remember the walk back to the barn. There had been a heavy silence until my dad finally stopped and turned to me. “I said death is natural,” he said. “But it doesn’t make it any less hard.”
We didn’t speak about it again after that.
Ellis and Griffin are set to have their wedding in three weeks, and as I stare at Cassidy, my chest begins to ache again. She is so caring—so hellbent on being there for others, I can’t imagine the thoughts that must be racing through her mind.
Or maybe she’s not thinking of the wedding at all.
I don’t push as we drive—letting her grief be hers until she needs me.
I’ll be there.
The trek up to the apartment is as silent as the ride, and when we finally get to the door, Cassidy taps on the wood.
Megan answers, her face puffy and red. “Cassidy,” she says, her voice breaking on the ending.
When Megan grips her tightly, I see the two people I’ve only met through photos. Cassidy’s dad paces the galley kitchen, a phone pressed to his ear as he scrubs his face with his hand.
On the couch, who I assume to be Megan’s parents, sit together, holding hands as they watch their daughter.
Cass’s mom comes from the back bedroom, sobbing until her ex-husband wraps her in his embrace.
I place a hand on Cassidy’s back, following her to sit on the floor in the center of the room. She doesn’t speak.
“They already came and got him,” Megan’s dad says.
Megan sits on the floor in front of her parents, her mom rubbing circles into her back. “He’s talking to the funeral home,” she says. “I’m so sorry. I should have—”
“No,” Cass’s voice cracks on the word. “No,” she whispers. There’s a slight delay, and then the dam breaks.
The strangled sob tears me in two as I watch her crumple, pulling her close as if I could stop her shaking. In a moment, Cassidy releases memories, unspoken words, and grief into my chest until my shirt is damp with her grief. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m so, so sorry.”
I blink, my own tears gathering at the corners of my eyes as I stroke her hair. “Don’t be,” I whisper, closing my eyes against the pain.
She gathers herself, sucking in a breath until the shaking ceases.
“Well,” her father says, coming out of the kitchen with his phone in his pocket. “There’s a lot to do.” He heaves a sigh. “But nothing can be done right now.”
“Megan cannot stay in this apartment.” Her mom still sits behind her. “You’ll stay with us,” she says, and Megan nods.
When we finally leave, after handshakes and introductions to Cass’s parents, I drape my jacket around her shoulders. “You don’t have to work tomorrow,” I say. “Obviously. If you want to, that’s fine, but I want you to know it’s all up to you.”
She sighs. “I think I want to be alone for a while.”
“Anything,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Anything you need.”
On the drive home, Cass curls up in the passenger seat again, but this time, she sleeps.