8. Lo #2
“Does it? Because when he talks about the future, he doesn’t talk about cows. He talks about stages. Studios. Tours. The places he’s going, not the place he’s leaving behind.” She’s enjoying this. I can see it in the set of her mouth.
“He’s not leaving anything behind.”
“He’s leaving you behind. He just doesn’t know how to say it yet.”
“You don’t know what he’s thinking.”
“I know what he tells me. I know the things he shares when you’re not around to hear them.” I dig my nails into the counter to keep my hands where they are.
“Like my anniversary? Like private conversations I had with my husband in confidence?”
“Like everything. His fears, his dreams, his doubts about whether this life is really what he wants.”
“He wants this life. He chose this life.”
“He chose it when he was twenty-eight and didn’t know any better. He’s thirty-three now. People change.” She says people like it’s a category she’s already counted me out of.
“Not that much. Not fundamentally.”
“You’d be surprised what people change when they realize what they’re missing.”
“And what exactly is he missing?”
“Ambition. Drive. Someone who understands where he’s going, not just where he’s been.” She ticks each one off on a finger.
“I understand him better than you ever could.” I mean it. It’s the one thing this morning I’m sure of.
“Do you? Do you understand what it’s like to stand on a stage in front of ten thousand people? Do you understand the pressure of radio interviews and label meetings and critics who want to tear you apart?”
“I understand what it costs. I see it every time he comes home exhausted.”
“You see the aftermath. I see the work. I’m there when he’s nervous before a show. I’m there when a review cuts him down. I’m there in the van at midnight going over the next day’s schedule.” Her voice never rises. That’s the worst part, how calm she stays.
“Being there for logistics isn’t the same as being there for him.”
“And being here for cattle isn’t the same as being there at all.”
“I’m here because someone has to be. I’m here because this ranch doesn’t run itself. I’m here because we made a plan - he’d tour, I’d hold down the home, and we’d meet in the middle.”
“The middle keeps moving. Have you noticed? Every leg of the tour gets longer. Every break at home gets shorter.” She watches it land.
“That’s temporary.”
“That’s trajectory. That’s the direction his life is heading. And you’re not heading with him.”
“I’m his wife.”
“You’re his past. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be.” She says it gently, which is somehow worse.
“There’s nothing to accept. We’re married. We have a life together.”
“You have a legal document and shared property. That’s not the same as a life.”
“It’s more than you have.”
“For now. But I’m patient. I can wait.” She smiles like she’s already won.
“Then you’ll be waiting a long time. The only problem in this marriage is standing in my kitchen telling me lies about it.” My voice finally cracks the flat of it.
“Lies don’t come with this much detail, Lo. When he’s two thousand miles from home and can’t sleep, it’s my door he knocks on. I’m the one in the next room.” She spreads her hands, reasonable, like she’s doing me a kindness.
“You’re on his payroll.”
“I’m the one he calls at midnight. His confidante. His-”
“His nothing. You’re his employee with delusions.”
“I’m his future. You’re just too proud to see it.” Her chin lifts.
“I see plenty. I see a woman who wants what she can’t have. I see manipulation and lies and-”
“And what? What do you see that makes any of this better? What do you see that proves I’m wrong?”
“I see five years of marriage. I see the life we’ve built. I see the man who comes home to me, not to you.”
“He comes home less and less. Have you noticed that?” She lets the question sit.
“He comes home when he can.”
“He comes home when there’s nothing better to do. When the tour breaks. When the studio’s closed. When I’m not around to-”
“To what? To poison him against me? To fill his head with garbage about how I’m holding him back?”
“You are holding him back. That’s not garbage. That’s observation.” Cool and certain, filed under fact.
“Observation from someone who’s known him eighteen months. I’ve known him nine years. I was there before anyone was clapping.”
“You knew him. Past tense. The man you married doesn’t exist anymore. He’s been replaced by someone bigger, someone more important, someone who needs-”
“He needs me.”
“He needs success. He needs freedom. He needs someone who won’t chain him to a dying ranch in the middle of nowhere.” She delivers it like a verdict.
“This ranch isn’t dying.”
“This marriage is.”
The words hang in the air between us. She’s smiling. That satisfied, predatory smile that makes me want to break something.
“Get out,” I say.
“I’m just trying to help you see-”
“I see fine. I see a woman who’s so desperate for my husband that she’ll say anything to get between us.”
“Desperate women rush. I’ve got all the time in the world.” She hasn’t moved an inch toward the door.
“Call it whatever you want. You want what you can’t have, and you’re willing to destroy everything to get it.”
“I don’t have to destroy anything. You’re doing that yourself. Every day you stay here instead of going with him, you’re destroying it. Every day you choose this ranch over his career, you’re pushing him away.”
“I’m not pushing him anywhere.” My hands are fists now. I let them be.
“You’re not pulling him back either. And I am. Every day. Every show. Every night you’re asleep by nine and I’m the one still awake with him.”
She lets that sit, then shrugs one shoulder. “And what he doesn’t tell me, I see anyway. I have access to his work phone, you know. For scheduling, travel, label communications. It’s all synced - calendar, messages, everything. Standard arrangement for management.”
The work phone. I remember him mentioning it, how Sloane handled his professional communications so he could focus on performing. I never thought about what else might sync.
“You’ve been reading his messages.”
“I’ve been doing my job.” Her smile doesn’t waver. “If private things happen to come through on a work device, that’s hardly my fault.”
“Get out.” I point at the door.
“I’m just trying to help you, Lo. I know this is hard to hear. But you deserve the truth.”
“The truth is you’re a liar.”
“The truth is you were fine for a boy who roped calves. You were perfect for that version of him. But he’s not that boy anymore. He’s becoming a name on a marquee. And a name on a marquee needs more than a ranch wife waiting at home.” Every word is aimed to leave a mark.
“Get out of my house.”
“You’re not built for who he’s turning into. That’s not an insult. It’s just a fact. Some women are meant for small lives. Quiet lives. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“I said get out.”
“He doesn’t even know yet.” She’s almost laughing now, quiet and pleased with herself. “That’s the sweet part. He thinks he can have both. The wife and the career. The ranch and the road. But he can’t. Nobody can. And when he figures that out-”
“GET OUT.”
“I’ll be there when he does. I’ll be exactly where I’ve always been. Right beside him. Where you should have been, if you’d had the sense to follow.” She says it to the doorframe, unhurried.
“If you’re not off my porch in ten seconds, I’m calling the sheriff.”
“I’m going. I just wanted you to know where things stand. Woman to woman. Like I said.”
She walks to the door. Opens it. Turns back.
“Think about what I said, Lo. Really think about it. Ask yourself - if he loved you the way you think he does, would any of this be happening?”
She leaves.
I stand in my kitchen and shake.
She’s lying. She has to be lying. The handwriting could be forged. The information could have come from anywhere. She’s manipulating me.
But I told him about Sloane. I told him she wanted him. And he laughed.
I go to the porch. Check the mailbox. There’s a letter with no stamp. My name in block letters.
I open it.
HE’S MINE, COWGIRL. I KNOW WHICH WINDOW IS YOURS.
Blue truck. Bedroom on the left. East fence line every morning at six. I see everything.
The details are right. My truck is blue. Our bedroom is on the left side of the house. I ride the east fence line at six every morning, have for years.
Someone is watching me.
I fold the letter. Put it in my jacket pocket.
I should tell Jesse.
The thought comes automatically, the instinct of a wife who’s supposed to share her problems with her husband.
But I think about Sloane in my kitchen, admitting she has access to Jesse’s work phone, quoting things that might have synced through without his knowledge.
I think about Jesse laughing when I told him I was uncomfortable.
I think about all the times I’ve tried to warn him, tried to tell him something was wrong, and he’s dismissed me as tired or paranoid or seeing things.
He’ll say it’s a prank. He’ll say it’s probably a fan who got too invested. He’ll say I’m overreacting, the way he says I’m overreacting about everything else.
I check the locks on all the doors, something I haven’t done since we moved in. I close the curtains in the bedroom. I stand at the window and look out at the land, at the east fence line I ride every morning, and I think about someone out there watching me.
I should be scared. I am scared. But underneath the fear is something else, a cold, hard anger that’s been building for months. At Jesse, for not believing me. At Sloane, for being exactly what I knew she was. At myself, for staying so long, for hoping so hard, for letting love make me stupid.
Tomorrow is the send-off. He leaves that night.
I’ll tell him about the baby then. I’m not going to be the one who kept a secret.