Chapter 26
The ranch breathes differently at night, settling into itself in a way that feels almost sacred.
It isn’t like Nashville, with the distant hum of traffic.
Somewhere out in the corral, the cattle shift, the dull thud of their hooves carrying across the open land.
The wind moves through the cottonwoods by the creek, and they whisper, their leaves brushing like hands against fabric.
It carries the clean smell of dry hay, open air, and cooling earth.
I sit on the bunkhouse porch with my chair tipped back against the wall, boots hooked over the railing, with Rosie’s journal still open in my lap, and the pen resting between my fingers.
The single porch light casts a weak yellow halo that barely pushes out the dark, leaving the rest of the yard to the moon and the scatter of stars overhead.
The wood groans softly beneath me when I shift my weight.
Knox’s taillights carved through the yard hours ago, gravel crunching beneath the tires as he and Teagan headed into town.
The stirred-up dust lingered after the truck disappeared down the road.
They’d invited me. She had, anyway. I declined with what I hoped passed for an easy smile and a polite shake of my head. It wasn’t a hard no. Not exactly.
The Dew Drop. Even the name carries the faint suggestion of condensation on a cold bottle, the promise of music and noise, and the relief of not having to think too hard.
I can picture it without setting foot inside: neon signs buzzing against wood-paneled walls, laughter rising above the twang of a country band, boots scuffing across a worn dance floor.
I know places like that. I buried myself in them for almost a year until I hit rock bottom.
Eighty-seven days sober.
There is no finish line with sobriety. Every digit I add is a reminder of how far I have come and how far I still have to go.
The thought of alcohol isn’t sharp or urgent any longer.
It doesn’t claw at my throat or twist in my gut the way it once did.
It’s subtler now, a quiet suggestion that slips into the corners of my thoughts.
You could go. You could sit at the edge of it and not fall in.
No one here knows you. No one would question it.
That last part is the most dangerous. Not the drink itself, but the anonymity.
The illusion that I could disappear into the noise without consequence.
I stare at the words on the paper, in part, trying to convince myself they’re true.
Dear Rosie,
I didn’t go with them tonight.
I don’t belong anywhere that serves alcohol.
That part of my life is over. Or it has to be.
87 days. Eighty-seven days sober.
While it feels like an accomplishment, it also feels like, if I loosen my grip for even a second, I’ll be sitting back at zero.
The words look steadier than I feel. I’ve been sitting in the cold for hours, trying to find the courage to tell Rosie what is actually on my mind. I press the pen against the paper, harder than I mean to. I swallow and force myself to keep writing.
She looked different tonight.
I stop immediately, staring at the words before scribbling through them. I shouldn’t be writing about her. This journal is for Rosie and the future we lost. Still, the image pushes forward, whether I want it to or not.
Teagan’s hair hung loose tonight, instead of the tight braid she wears for work, the golden locks falling in soft waves down her back and catching the porch light when she turned her head.
Soft red lipstick made her lips look softer and poutier, less like the sharp line she wears when she’s shouting orders across the corral.
The white dress clung to her frame, a slit running through the ruffles of her skirt that flashed her long, toned leg when she walked.
The kind of beautiful that doesn’t ask for attention but gets it, anyway.
Noticing doesn’t mean anything. I lie to myself, dragging a hand down my face with a grumble. It doesn’t mean I’m ready for anything, or that I want to betray what Rosie and I had. It’s just the body looking for something to fill the void.
Eighty-seven days without a drop of alcohol to numb the emptiness…
Of course my brain is scrambling for a replacement. That’s what addicts do. We trade one crutch for another and convince ourselves it’s different this time. I’m just reaching for a distraction in another form, seeking another way to forget that Rosie’s gone.
I press the pen to the page again.
The grief isn’t as sharp as it once was, but it hasn’t dulled into something manageable either. It’s changed shape. It surfaces in unexpected moments, like when the sky turns a certain color at sunset or when the air carries a scent that triggers a memory I had long forgotten.
Some days, missing you feels like a bruise that’s finally begun to fade. Others it’s as if I’ve pressed directly on it without meaning to.
Tonight, it feels like I’m grinding against it.
I’m learning not to numb that feeling. I’m trying to sit with it instead. It’s harder than I expected, which Dr. Patel reminds me is normal during our weekly call.
The distant hum of an engine and the crunch of gravel cut through the night.
Knox and Teagan. I let the chair drop onto all four legs and stand, stretching out the stiffness in my back.
The night air is cool as I step inside the bunkhouse and close the door behind me.
After setting the journal on the desk, I run my palm over the worn leather.
On the edge of the bed, I remove my boots, tugging them free one at a time as the truck comes to a stop.
Outside, doors shut, and their voices fade as they make their way toward the main house.
I peel off my shirt and toss it onto the empty bed beside mine.
Once I’ve removed my pants, I lie down on the thin mattress, fold my hands over my chest, and stare at the ceiling.
I roll onto my side to face the small nightstand and adjust my pillow so I can see Rosie. My throat tightens, and I whisper into the dark, “I love you, dreamer.” The words feel both full and—for the first time—insufficient. “I’m still here. Still yours.”
And I’m trying… God, I’m trying… not to let living make me forget you.