Chapter 19 Tex
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Tex
The scrape of the pitchfork against the concrete is a sharp, angry sound in the cavernous space of the barn. Each thrust of my arms, each scoop of soiled straw, is a futile attempt to shovel out the memory of her.
The thought that she’s gone forever isn’t a gentle wave of sadness; it’s a shard of glass lodged under my ribcage, a constant, piercing ache with every breath I take. So I clean.
I work until my muscles burn and my back screams, because the physical pain is a welcome distraction. It’s a pain I can understand, a pain I can control.
The other pain… the one centered around a pair of green-gold eyes and a soft, sad smile… that’s a wild, untamable thing.
The air in here is thick with the ghosts of a thousand summers—the sweet, dusty scent of hay, the earthy musk of horsehide, the faint, sharp tang of manure.
It’s the scent of my entire life, but today it feels hollow, incomplete. It’s missing the one element that, for a short while, made it feel like home again.
Her scent.
Honeysuckle and warm cedarwood.
It’s gone now, driven away by my brother’s fury and my own pathetic inability to do anything but watch her go.
I kick at a loose piece of straw, sending it skittering across the floor like a frightened mouse.
I need to get the last bales of alfalfa from the loft. It’s a two-person job, but there’s no one else here.
Seth is probably holed up in the house, staring at spreadsheets that won’t fix what’s broken, and Billy… Billy is wherever he goes to brood, a dark cloud of misery I’m too tired, too ashamed, to chase away.
I climb the wooden ladder, the rungs smooth and worn under my boots, each step a leaden weight. The loft is dim, the only light coming from a single, dusty window that looks out over the valley, painting the stacked hay in long, golden stripes.
The bales are at the far end, a fortress of winter feed. I’m halfway there, my boots sinking softly into the loose hay on the floorboards, when I see him.
Billy.
He’s sitting on a bale in the far corner, half-hidden in the deep shadows where the light doesn’t reach. He’s not moving, just staring out that window like he’s waiting for something that’s never coming back.
A half-empty beer bottle dangles from his fingers, his knuckles wrapped around the neck so tightly his tendons stand out. His other hand is curled into a fist, resting on his knee, and I can see the dark, mottled bruise spreading across his knuckles.
The bruise I gave him yesterday. It’s an ugly thing, a mix of purple and angry red.
I stop dead. Every instinct screams at me to turn back, to grab the bales and go, to leave him to his solitude. But I don’t.
I force my feet to move, one step at a time, until I’m standing a few feet away. I expect him to turn, to snarl, to throw that bottle at my head.
But he doesn’t. He just sits there, a statue carved from granite and grief, his profile sharp and unforgiving in the dim light.
The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, filled with the buzzing of a trapped fly and the distant lowing of a cow.
I should just get the hay and leave. But I don’t.
I walk over and sit down on a bale across from him. The hay shifts under my weight, a soft, whispering sound in the quiet.
He doesn’t look at me, just takes a long swallow of his beer, his throat working. “What do you want, Tex?”
His voice is flat, devoid of all emotion, a carefully constructed wall.
“Nothing,” I say, and it’s the truth. I don’t want anything from him. I just… don’t want to be alone with this feeling. “Just needed to get some hay.”
We sit there for what feels like an eternity, the words a mess of barbed wire in my throat. This is a huge deal. It’s the first time I’ve ever even considered saying this out loud, and the thought of it makes my palms sweat.
I look at his bruised hand, then at his stony face, and I know I have to.
Not for him, but for me. This secret has been festering inside me for years, poisoning my own admiration for my brother, and I can’t carry it alone anymore.
“Look, Billy…” I start, then stop, my voice cracking. I clear my throat, run a hand through my hair, my heart pounding like a drum solo. This is harder than riding a bull, harder than anything I’ve ever done. “I have to tell you something. It’s… it’s about Sedona.”
He finally turns his head, his eyes meeting mine. They’re not angry anymore. They’re not empty, either. They’re just… old. Weary. Like he’s aged a decade in the last twenty-four hours. “What?”
The words come out in a rush, a jumbled, embarrassing torrent of truth.
“I kind of have a thing for her. I have for a long time. And I know it’s fucked up. I know she’s your… she was your… and I would never, ever act on it. Not in a million years. You have to know that. But… I do. I see the way she talks, the way her mind works, and I just… I do.”
I brace myself for the explosion. For him to lunge at me, to finish what we started yesterday, to finally give me the beating I probably deserve.
But he doesn’t. He just watches me, his eyes searching my face.
I have to keep going. I have to make him understand the depth of my own pathetic betrayal.
“And that’s nothing. It’s just some stupid, pathetic crush from a distance.
I’ve never even had anything with her, and it still feels like the worst pain.
Like my chest is cracked open and there’s a cold wind blowing straight through.
I can’t even begin to imagine how you survived it.
How you survived her jilting you. If this is what I feel, and I have nothing…
no memories, no promises, no real loss… what you must have felt…
I can’t even imagine, Billy. I don’t know how you’re still standing.
I don’t know how you didn’t just… break. ”
He looks away, back out the window, his jaw tight, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He’s quiet for so long I think he’s not going to answer, that I’ve just destroyed whatever fragile truce we had.
Then he speaks, barely audible over the buzzing fly. “You should punch me again.”
I let out a short, humorless laugh, the sound harsh and ugly in the quiet loft. “I know.”
The words hang in the air between us, a strange, twisted confession. An acknowledgment of all the pain, all the guilt, all the fucked-up feelings that have been poisoning this family for years.
He’s not telling me to actually hit him. He’s telling me he understands. He’s telling me my pain is real, and he’s sorry for it.
It’s the most profound apology he’s ever given me.
I stand up, the spell broken, the weight on my chest feeling just a little bit lighter.
“Come on,” I say, my voice gruff with emotion I can’t show. “Help me with these bales.”
He nods, setting his empty beer bottle on the floor with a soft thud. We work together in silence, our movements efficient and practiced.
We’ve been doing this our whole lives. We don’t need to speak.
I lift a bale, feeling the scratchy twine against my palms, the surprising weight of it, and he’s there to take it from me, his movements strong and sure.
We stack them near the loft opening, our bodies moving in a familiar, well-worn dance. The anger is gone. The tension is gone.
All that’s left is the quiet, somber reality of two brothers, bound by blood and a shared, devastating love for the same woman.
We work until the last bale is stacked, the setting sun bathing us in a warm, forgiving light. And in the quiet, I think we both understand each other a little better.