Chapter 41
Beau
I walked up to his porch and took a deep breath.
It was tradition—every year, this time of year, we’d get together and visit her grave.
Dad would tend to it, trimming the grass and brushing off the headstone, while I laid down fresh flowers.
We’d sit there in silence, neither of us very good at talking about our feelings.
This year would be no different.
The boards of the wooden porch groaned beneath my boots.
The paint on the railing was peeling, and a couple of the steps had seen better days.
Dad’s place wasn’t much—a small ranch sitting on a few acres of land closer to town.
No sprawling pastures or endless fence lines, enough space to house a couple of bulls, a small garden out back, and a barn that had been patched up more times than I could count.
The brown siding of the house had faded under the sun. Mom had picked out the white rocking chairs that sat on either side of the porch, though only one ever got used these days.
I paused at the door before raising my hand, knocking twice, and going inside. “You ready?”
Dad stood by the kitchen sink, back turned as he rummaged through a drawer. “Just getting the brush,” he muttered.
I stood there, fists clenched at my sides, wondering—did he ever feel it?
The guilt that gnawed at my gut every time I thought about her?
Did he wish he’d done things differently?
Spent more time with her? I used to pray every night when I was a kid, begging God to give her back to me. God didn’t listen.
“Great,” I grumbled, the bitterness scraping my throat raw. “I’ll be in the car.”
I turned and headed out the door, each step echoing the ache that settled deep in my chest. I hated this day. Hated how it dragged up everything I tried to bury. Hated how it always seemed to widen the distance between my dad and me, no matter how much time passed.
Thankfully Fable had work early this morning and Harleigh had picked her up from my, house because I wasn’t myself on my mom’s death anniversary. I was angry at the world and mostly upset with him.
Walking outside, he held up the worn wooden brush. “Got it.”
I nodded as we got into my car and headed to the cemetery.
We sat in heavy silence, the only sound was the soft scrape of Dad’s brush against the stone.
I placed a fresh bouquet of flowers at the base.
After a moment, I lowered myself onto the grass beside the grave, knees drawn up, as the quiet stretched between us—filled with everything we couldn’t say but probably should.
How had Mom done it? How had she loved a man who was never home, who chased bulls and rodeos more than moments with her? I couldn’t imagine it. Hell, being away from Fable for a weekend felt like a piece of me had gone missing. She was my stillness, my reason to come home.
She’d opened herself up to me. Every time she admitted her anxieties, it took a strength I couldn’t begin to understand.
All I had to do was wash my damn hands or let her take a moment when she needed it.
If she could fight through her fears for me, why the hell couldn’t I talk to Dad about my future?
About wanting more than the life he built.
Dad finished cleaning the stone and set the brush aside.
With a sigh, he lowered himself onto the grass beside me, knees bent, hands resting on his thighs.
I glanced over, and I don’t remember the last time I truly looked at him.
The lines etched deep around his eyes, the weathered skin from years under the sun, the exhaustion that clung to him like the dust from a thousand arenas.
A man who’d given his whole life to a sport that never gave back.
A man who’d loved and lost, and never quite figured out how to fill the hole she left behind.
I swallowed hard, my heart thudding against my ribs. “Hey, Dad?” My voice cracked slightly, but I didn’t care.
He turned his head. “Yeah, son?”
I took a breath, curling my fingers into the grass beneath me. “I want to talk to you about my future.”