Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jasper
Sometimes I think the worst part of losing my dad wasn’t the death itself. It was how normal the day had been leading up to it.
I remember like it was yesterday. We’d argued over fence posts that morning.
It was a stupid fight, just like all the others we had when it came to business.
I remember rolling my eyes when he told me I’d never learn patience if I kept rushing every job.
Then he laughed and threw his hat at me when I told him he was old and stubborn.
And it’s true. Thomas Smith was old and stubborn.
He was controlling, and a perfectionist, and so goddamn set in his ways.
Trying to get him to evolve on the ranch was like pulling teeth.
Whenever I found a new, more efficient way of doing things, he’d grumble under his breath about “back in my day,” and tell me I needed to learn some more patience.
But he was also hardworking, passionate, driven, and one of the greatest men I’ve ever known.
I’ve run Wind River with him for most of my life.
As soon as I was old enough to move a bale of hay, I was out there every weekend, doing what needed to be done.
By high school, it was damn near a full-time job.
There was never a plan for my future that didn’t involve the ranch.
That didn’t involve him. That ranch is my whole world, just like it was his before he died.
I remember calling 9-1-1 that afternoon. The panic in my chest. How quickly the paramedics arrived. The ambulance ride that felt like it took forever. The doctor shaking his head before I could even make it through the emergency room doors.
My dad was dead. He was gone…forever. And I never got to say goodbye.
Never got to tell him I loved him one last time.
Never got a chance to apologize for being impatient that morning.
For months afterward, I kept replaying our last conversations, trying to find something profound hidden inside the words.
There wasn’t. It was just an ordinary Tuesday between a father and his son. And somehow, that hurt most of all.
I used to think I would’ve felt better had I known it was coming.
Like maybe I could’ve prepared myself, could’ve said my goodbyes.
Like I could’ve, in some way, made peace with it.
But sitting around the kitchen table with Chesney and Truett right now, I realize that knowing it’s coming is no better.
They knew their father was dying. They got to say their goodbyes and make arrangements while he was still alive so they didn’t have to guess after his death.
They got to do everything I wished I was able to, but at a significant cost. Because they also watched him wither away.
They watched the man they grew up with become someone they no longer recognized.
They spent every day for months, anxious, wondering if that day would be the day.
As it turns out, there’s no easy way to lose someone you love. No amount of planning will ever be enough because the cold, empty finality of death is something nobody can prepare for.
Half-empty pizza boxes sit stacked in the center of the table, not a plate in sight.
Nobody had the energy to cook or wash dishes.
Truett cracked open a bottle of bourbon when he got home from picking up the food, and the three of us have slowly been making a dent in it as conversation comes in waves.
Stories. Memories. And even the occasional silence.
Truett smiles faintly around a bite of pizza. “Dad would’ve complained about this crust.”
Chesney laughs. “He complained about every crust. For a man so against wasting food, he sure as shit wasted a lot of pizza crust over my lifetime.”
“Pizza was a weekly staple in my house,” I say with a chuckle. “Every Friday night, like clockwork. But I think it was only because my mom was so sick and tired of cooking for everybody by the end of the week.”
“Sounds about right.” Truett snorts before taking a pull from the bottle.
That’s all that’s said for a few minutes. The energy around the table isn’t necessarily heavy, but thoughtful. I know as well as they do what’s ahead for them. The days immediately following death are stressful and overwhelming, to say the least.
When my mother died, I helped my dad plan everything. I took a lot off his plate because I knew he wasn’t well enough mentally to deal with it all. Then, when he died, I expected to handle it a lot better, thought everything would come easier to me and I’d get less overwhelmed. I was wrong.
After a minute, Truett glances toward me. “So, the letters.”
I bark out a laugh. “Oh, you mean the secret, spicy correspondence that’s responsible for all my nightmares? Yeah. Good times.”
Truett’s face twists up. “I don’t wanna know.”
Shaking his head, Chesney breathes out a small chuckle. “I still can’t believe that’s what started all this.”
“Imagine ruining generations because you couldn’t keep your love letters in a safer place,” I drawl before swiping the bottle off the table.
“Do you think they knew?” Truett asks. “Our parents?”
Chesney and I share a look, then both laugh.
“Maybe?” I say. “But honestly, who knows. I know, if it were me, and I found out the reason for this great big divide was because of an affair that happened decades ago, I would’ve squashed the drama immediately.
It just feels so…silly, keeping something like that going for years and years. ”
“Guess we’ll never know now,” Chesney says.
“Oh, damn,” Truett says a moment later before he stands. “Didn’t realize how late it was. I’m done for the night.”
I glance at the clock on the stove. It is late, a little after midnight. It doesn’t feel like that much time has passed.
Truett squeezes his brother’s shoulder as he passes by. “Shoot me if I’m awake before noon.”
“I’ll consider it,” he teases.
Smiling tiredly, Truett heads upstairs, and the house grows quiet again.
Chesney chuckles, then scratches the top of his head. “Fuck, it feels weird to laugh after the day I’ve had.” He meets my gaze across the table. My heart aches for him.
“My mom always said grief didn’t erase all the good parts,” I say.
“I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but you’re allowed to let your life keep moving.
It’s okay to laugh. It’s okay to allow yourself a little time when you’re not consumed in the sadness or anger.
It’s okay to feel exactly how you feel, no matter the emotion. Grief isn’t a one size fits all.”
Chesney nods, leaning back and draping his arm over the chair.
“This feels…different. I remember how frantic I was when Lyle died. How all-consuming the agony was. It felt like someone had literally stabbed a stake through my chest. When I found him…” He clears his throat.
The far-off look in his eyes tells me he’s right back in that pasture again.
“I threw up. And I couldn’t stop. I spent the entire night either dry-heaving or curled up in a ball, sobbing on the bathroom floor.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t function.
It was four days before I even took a shower.
“My whole world ended that day. At least that’s how it felt. Like I died too. Then, with my mom, I guess I compartmentalized her death and my feelings around it. Fuck, that sounds awful to say.”
I shake my head. “No, it doesn’t.”
“I almost didn’t come back for her funeral,” he admits, shame burning hot in his eyes.
“It would’ve been one of the most selfish things I ever did, and it kills me knowing I even considered it.
I was hammered at the funeral and left first thing in the morning.
But with my dad”—Chesney’s eyes flick over to mine.
He swallows roughly before continuing—“I’m sad, and I hate that he’s gone, especially since we finally worked through our shit.
But also, I feel an odd sense of peace knowing he’s at peace.
Knowing he’s not in pain, not suffering anymore.
I feel, I don’t know…guilty, I guess. For not feeling such an overpowering sense of devastation. ”
“You can’t do that to yourself,” I murmur, wanting to reach over and touch his hand.
“The situations are totally different. Lyle was so young. He had so much life ahead of him. What happened to him was a tragedy. Not only that, but you were sixteen and carried an immense amount of blame for what happened. Cancer is a mean bitch and took your dad too soon, but it also took him slowly. You saw how much it took from him. But also, you’re older now, Chesney.
You understand life better. And you said it yourself: he’s not hurting anymore.
It makes sense that you’d feel different now.
You’re not the same person you were before.
And remember, grief isn’t one size fits all. ”
Chesney holds my gaze, but doesn’t say anything. I don’t expect him to. Eventually, he folds the pizza boxes closed, taking them and the bourbon into the kitchen.
“I’ll get out of your hair,” I say, standing from the chair. “It’s late. You should get some sleep.” I get as far as the dining room entryway before Chesney calls out my name.
When I turn toward him, he’s rushing over to me. “Don’t go,” he says. “I—” His voice cracks. “I don’t want to be alone tonight. Please.”
The admission takes my breath away. I swallow hard, the room silent for a single heartbeat before I close the distance between us and take his hand. “I’ll stay.”
“Thank you,” he says softly.
My heart thrashes as I follow Chesney up the stairs.
He walks a few steps ahead of me down the hallway, his shoulder slumped beneath the weight of the day.
My thumb brushes absentmindedly across the back of his hand, and he squeezes my fingers a little tighter, like he’s making sure I’m still here.
Like if he lets go, he’ll lose one more thing tonight.