Beau In which I become a （somewhat） functional human
BEAU
In which I become a (somewhat) functional human
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
"I am changing, trying every way I can. I am changing, I'll be better than I am."
-DreamGirls
***
I woke up at 5:25 AM.
On my own.
Without an alarm, a bucket of ice water, or a SWAT team intervention.
For a solid thirty seconds, I just lay there staring at the water-stained ceiling, wondering if this was the first symptom of a personality disorder.
Because the Beau Sterling who had arrived in Oklahoma eight days ago would rather have choked on his own designer tongue than wake up before dawn voluntarily.
That Beau Sterling considered noon "early" and 3 AM a reasonable bedtime.
This Beau Sterling—Ranch Beau, apparently—had just woken up five minutes before his alarm was set to go off, feeling... rested?
"What the fuck," I whispered to the empty room. "Who am I?"
My body ached, but it wasn't the screaming agony of the first few days. It was a dull, manageable throb. My hands were developing actual calluses—rough patches on my palms that looked like proof of life. My shoulders, which had felt like they’d been beaten with meat tenderizers last week, now just felt. .. solid.
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, squinting against the blue light, and opened my messages.
Z: [3 days ago]
Last message. Three days since Z had texted me.
I scrolled through the rest. A few cursory "You alive?" texts from Dallas acquaintances, but nothing recent. The group chat I’d been the king of—the one that buzzed incessantly with party plans and gossip—had 847 unread messages. I scrolled through a hundred of them.
My name wasn't mentioned once.
It was like I’d just... evaporated. And the ecosystem of Dallas high society had simply closed over the gap I left without a ripple.
I checked Instagram out of habit. My last post—a photo from two weeks ago at a rooftop party—had the usual thousands of likes. But my DMs? Empty, save for brand partnerships and bots trying to sell me crypto.
The silence from Z was the only thing that actually stung.
I set the phone down, a heavy, uncomfortable feeling settling in my chest. I wasn't sad, exactly. I was... aware. Aware that I was a prop. A mascot. The Sterling heir who made parties fun until he wasn't there, at which point he was immediately replaced by the next available trust fund baby.
My alarm blared—5:30 on the dot. I swiped it off, rolled out of bed, and started the day.
I had a routine now. Shower (hot water lasted exactly six minutes; I had timed it), throw on Wranglers and a pearl snap shirt (I had accepted my fate as a cowboy cosplayer), pull on work boots that were finally broken in enough not to chew my heels to shreds, and head downstairs.
"Mornin', son," Pops said when I walked into the kitchen. He was already fully dressed, reading the news on a tablet that looked incongruously modern in his hands. "Sleep alright?"
"Woke up before my alarm."
He looked up, bushy eyebrows raising. "That so?"
"Yeah. I don't know if I should be proud or seek medical attention."
"Proud. Means your body’s adjustin'. Circadian rhythms and all that." He poured me a mug of coffee that smelled like jet fuel. "Winnie’s already in the barn. Said somethin' about checkin' on a limp she saw yesterday."
Of course she was. Winnie had probably been up since 4 AM, solved world hunger, and broken a colt before I’d even opened my eyes.
I grabbed a biscuit from the container on the counter and headed out into the pre-dawn darkness. The air was cool, crisp in a way Dallas air never was, and the sky was bleeding from indigo to violet at the edges.
The barn was lit from within, glowing warm against the dark. When I walked in, Winnie was in Daisy’s stall, running her hands down the mare’s leg with the focus of a surgeon.
"Morning," I said.
She glanced up, and for a split second, she looked surprised to see me vertical. "You’re early."
"Woke up before the alarm. It was traumatic. I’m still processing."
"Welcome to bein' a functional adult."
"I hate it. Can I go back to being useless?"
"Nope. You’re stuck now." She straightened up, giving Daisy a pat. "She’s fine. Just a stone bruise, looks like."
I walked over to the stall. Daisy immediately came to the door, pushing her velvet nose against my chest, looking for a scratch. I’d gotten more comfortable around the horses—they were basically just thousand-pound dogs with anxiety issues.
"Hey, pretty girl," I said, rubbing the spot between her ears. "You feeling better?"
"Look at you," Winnie said, leaning against a post, a small smile playing on her lips. "Not even scared she’s gonna bite your face off anymore."
"I was never scared. I was cautious."
"You screamed the first time Bandit sneezed."
"He’s intimidating! He has the eyes of a mob boss."
"He’s a gelding, Beau. He eats carrots and naps." She laughed—that real, unguarded laugh that I was starting to crave like a drug—and tossed me a pitchfork. "Come on. We got stalls to muck. Unless you need more emotional bonding time."
"Daisy and I have an understanding. I feed her, she doesn't kill me. It’s a very civilized arrangement."
We fell into the rhythm of morning chores. I was faster now, more efficient. I didn't gag at the smell, and I’d figured out the wrist flick required to not dump manure on my own boots.
I was doing great. Until I forgot to latch Pepper’s stall.
I turned around to grab a water bucket, and Pepper—a mare who clearly sensed weakness—sauntered out of her stall like she owned the place.
"Hey!" I dropped the bucket. "No! Go back!"
Pepper ignored me, trotting toward the open barn door and freedom.
"Winnie!" I yelled, jogging after the horse. "We have a containment breach!"
Winnie looked up from the feed room, saw me chasing a horse in slow motion, and doubled over laughing. "You’re supposed to stop her, not escort her out!"
"I am trying to reason with her!"
"She’s a horse! She doesn't speak English!"
I finally managed to cut Pepper off near the tack room, waving my arms like a frantic air traffic controller. She huffed, looked at me with deep disdain, and allowed me to guide her back into the stall.
"My dignity is bruised," I announced, latching the door with aggressive thoroughness. "But the asset is secured."
Winnie wiped tears from her eyes. "Best thing I’ve seen all week. Truly."
"Glad I can provide entertainment."
We moved on to feeding. I was hauling a fifty-pound bag of grain when I saw Winnie checking her phone, a grin spreading across her face.
"What?" I asked, dropping the bag.
"Cassie sent me a video from last night. Someone recorded your karaoke." She turned the screen toward me.
There I was, pixelated and blurry on a tiny screen, holding a beer in one hand and a mic in the other, belting out "Wagon Wheel" with my eyes closed, surrounded by cowboys.
"Oh god," I groaned. "Delete that. Burn the servers."
"Absolutely not. This is gold." She was grinning, eyes bright. "You actually look good though. Very... authentic."
"Authentic?"
"Yeah. Like you belong here. Instead of just visiting."
That hit me in the chest, warmer than the whiskey had last night.
"Send it to me," I said on impulse.
She looked suspicious. "Why?"
"Just send it."
She did. I opened Instagram for the first time in a week. I stared at the curated feed of my old life—suits, cocktails, skylines. Then I uploaded the grainy video of me in a flannel shirt, singing country music in a dive bar.
Caption: Learning new skills. Don't tell Dallas. ??
"Did you just post that?" Winnie asked, peering over my shoulder.
"Yeah."
"You have a million followers. You just showed them you’re in Oklahoma singing Old Crow Medicine Show."
"Let 'em look. Maybe it’ll bring some business to the Rusty Spur." I pocketed my phone. "Besides, Old Beau would have filtered it. New Beau doesn't care."
She stared at me for a long beat. "New Beau is weird."
"New Beau is evolved."
"New Beau still has to shovel shit for the next hour. Grab the wheelbarrow, evolved boy."
***
By "second breakfast" (a concept I was fully embracing), my phone was blowing up.
I sat on the porch steps, eating a cold piece of bacon, watching the notifications roll in. 50,000 likes in an hour. The comments were losing their minds.
"IS THAT BEAU STERLING IN A COWBOY HAT??"
"I am deceased."
"Okay but why can he actually sing?"
"The flannel. The boots. The vibe. I’m pregnant."
I scrolled through, half-amused, half-detached. It was weird. A month ago, I lived for this engagement. Now? It felt... distant.
"Your phone’s gonna vibrate off the table," Winnie observed, sitting down next to me with her own coffee.
"The video went viral," I said. "Apparently, people really like the 'disgraced heir goes country' aesthetic."
"To be fair, you do look pretty good in a hat."
"And there’s the ego boost I was missing."
"Don't get used to it." She stood up, dusting crumbs off her jeans. "Come on, influencer. We got fences to check."
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of wire cutters and post-hole diggers. By noon, I was drenched in sweat, my shirt stuck to my back, my hands throbbing. But I’d fixed three sections of fence without asking for help once.
We were heading back for lunch when my phone rang.
Z.
Finally.
I answered immediately. "You’re alive! I was about to file a missing persons report."
"I’m alive," Z said, his voice sounding harried. I heard traffic in the background. "Just barely. Your father has been on a warpath about the Sterling Corp expansion, and I’ve been running damage control for three days straight."
"Wait, you actually noticed I didn't text?"
"Usually you go days without responding to me, Beau. I assumed you were on a bender."
"I was not on a bender. I was working. Manual labor. Also, I have news. You know the rooster? I think he has marked me to death.."
Z paused. Then he burst out laughing. "I’m sorry, you were for real? About the rooster?"
"He’s a terrorist, Z. He attacked me this morning. He has spurs and rage issues."
"That is the best thing I’ve heard all week. Please tell me there’s video."
"There is not, and thank God for that. But seriously... you good?"
"Yeah. Just busy. Your dad asked about you, though."
My stomach tightened. "What did he say?"
"Wanted to know if you’d quit yet. I told him you were sticking it out."
"And?"
"He seemed... surprised. Not impressed, really. Just surprised." Z’s voice softened. "How are you actually doing, man? And don't give me the bit. You sound different."
"Different how?"
"Happier. Less... hollow."
Hollow. That was the word. Dallas Beau was a shell. Ranch Beau was... filling in.
"I am happier," I admitted, looking out at the endless green horizon. "It’s weird. I wake up early, I smell like a barn, I get chased by poultry, and somehow... I like it."
"That’s called finding a purpose, my friend."
"Purpose is exhausting."
"But worth it?"
I looked over at Winnie, who was wrestling a hose by the barn, laughing as water sprayed her boots.
"Yeah," I said. "Worth it."
"Good. Keep it up. And hey... I saw the post. You looked like you were having actual fun."
"I was."
"I gotta run, but Beau? I’m proud of you. For real."
"Thanks, Z."
He hung up, and I stood there for a moment, the phone warm in my hand. Z was proud. Pops was proud.
"You comin' or what?" Winnie yelled from the barn. "I’m not doin' all the cleanup while you have a moment!"
"I’m not having a moment!"
"You’re staring at the sky! That’s a moment!"
I jogged over to her, grinning. "Fine. I was having a moment. Sue me."
"No time for lawsuits. We got—oh shit, Beau, behind you!"
I spun around.
Pickles.
The rooster stood ten feet away, head cocked, eyes black and soulless. He ruffled his feathers, lowered his head, and charged.
"NOPE!" I yelled, dropping the bucket I was holding and sprinting for the fence.
"RUN, CITY BOY!" Winnie cackled, climbing the gate to safety.
I scrambled over the fence just as Pickles slammed into the wood, crowing his victory.
New Beau was evolving. But he was definitely still terrified of chickens.
Some things never change.