Forty-one
Peter
Ilaid on my bunk with my air pods nestled deep into my ears. All the cowboys were fast asleep, but I couldn’t quiet my thoughts. Sarah’s voicemail greeting ran around my brain like catchy lyrics. The beat and lift in her voice. The rise and carry of her vowels. The smile in her tone.
“Hey, you’ve reached Sarah Thompson with Align Massage. If you’re calling about an appointment, please leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Have a wonderful day!”
I’d left my nightly message hours ago, but her voice persisted like an eternal echo in my head. Try as I might to roll over and sleep, I heard her, whispering in my ear.
I didn’t know what the future looked like for Sarah and I. Everything in me wanted to hear her voice and beg her to forgive me. I wanted to wipe the slate clean and take our best shot at a new start. But, what if she never gave me that opportunity? What if she never called me back?
No. I dug in my heels. I could not start the what ifs.
They always wrecked me, and I was sick of being derailed by my fear.
Somehow, someway I would orchestrate an opportunity to talk to her.
I had to. When was the tricky part. How much time should I give her before taking a more aggressive approach in my communications?
I had been helping with the riding schedule for almost a week.
And the days were blurring by—I’d lost count.
Our separation dragged on, ticking closer to a month.
I could send her an email. But that seemed so impersonal.
I liked the idea of a handwritten letter.
Maybe I’d start working on one and just ask her to call me. We could take it from there.
No matter how I reached out, one thing was certain: I couldn’t keep being passive. I didn’t want to lose Sarah forever. When this whole separation started, I thought splitting up would be best for both of us. But, Dad was right. I was growing here at the ranch. I’d accomplished so much.
I was riding horses, mucking stalls, stacking hay bales, helping my sisters at the bed and breakfast. I’d even gone on a trail ride a couple times with the guests.
I’d bonded with Wren, mended my family relationships, and gotten to know my nieces and nephew a little bit.
What Bea had said was true, too: everything I believed about myself was based on perceptions that were not real.
I could give Sarah a lot. Maybe not everything I could before.
But I could still give her all of me.
I wished I knew where her head was—what she was thinking, planning. Or if she wanted another chance for us. But there was no way of knowing until I talked to her. So, until then, I’d keep loving and engaging with the people around me, like my dad said. And keep working on me.
And when I got the chance, I’d give everything and hope it was enough.
Man, I missed her though.
A deep sigh slipped from my lips as I opened my pictures app and filtered to just videos.
Because I’d had almost no opportunity or use for the camera app, I figured I hit videos of just Sarah and I within a few seconds of backward scrolling and began slowing to listen to the first few seconds of the audio on each video.
It only took a few minutes to locate the video I wanted.
Sarah’s voice filtered through my AirPods and hit my chest like a knife, instantly recalling my visual memory.
“Here, Peter. Take a picture.”
Frantically, I tried to conjure up what she’d been wearing at Hollie’s wedding and how she arranged her hair. I wanted to say the dress was purple or red or something similar. And her hair was down, curly. I remembered it being over her shoulders.
She held up the little pink and blue bundle and grinned at the camera.
I said, “I’m taking a video actually.”
That made her grin stretch even bigger and she lifted her elbow to shower Wren’s tiny forehead in Auntie kisses. If I was remembering correctly, she waved me over, closer. “Get a close up view of her cheeks.”
We both laughed as I pushed the camera up to Wren’s little face and Sarah jiggled her cheeks with a quiet squeak of adoration. “I could play with these all day.”
Maybe I just imagined that I turned the phone toward Sarah’s face, or maybe the screen actually captured the way Sarah leaned up close to the phone as she whispered, “When can we have one?”
I listened to the audio on a loop—her precious voice petitioning me for a child.
On the fifth watch, moisture left a path to the pillow beneath my head.
Like a jigsaw puzzle with two dozen missing pieces, I scrambled to weave the details together.
What color was the dress she wore that night?
Why couldn’t I remember? Were there tears in her eyes when she asked when or was she smiling?
Did the heat in her eyes betray her truth—that she was barely hanging on, waiting for me? Or was she hiding?
Burgundy. It had to be burgundy.
Even if the dress color was hazy, I remembered with vivid accuracy unzipping it and watching it fall to the floor. And remembered every second afterward—Sarah clinging to my neck and her heady gasps each time my lips touched her skin. My neck prickled with heat, the bunkhouse suddenly hot.
For long moments, I laid there, sick with desire for her.
What if, starved of inspiration, my imagination stopped working? Would I be able to close my eyes and experience her all over again? What would I do if my only safe place—sighted memories—were as terrifying as the rest of the world?
Nothing could make me panic faster.
No. No what ifs.
I tried to change the course in my mind, steering myself back to what I could do.
I could listen to her voice—always. Through videos.
Through her voicemail. And face-to-face if we got the chance.
I could write my memories down so I didn’t forget—honestly, I should’ve already been doing that.
I could experience the people I loved in a different way, even if it didn’t seem as good as before.
Eventually, it would be normal to me. I could take her on some adventures.
Granted, she’d have to do the driving, but we could hike some trails maybe or do some small things, at least.
“When can we have one?”
I shook my head, still not convinced I could give her that. Still not convinced that I would be the partner and father I needed to be.
Could I? I didn’t know.
I sniffled, lifting the bedsheet and dragging it across my damp face.
For over an hour I scrolled back, listening to the memories we’d made, stopping to loop her laughter and the way she said my name when she scolded me with a squeal.
One video she was laughing so hard, and a sound sort of like a hand slapping flesh interrupted her squeals.
“I’m going to pee. Put me down, Peter! Put me down! ”
I wracked my brain for a long time, trying to remember that one.
Where were we? Was I carrying her somewhere?
We sounded so happy, both of us laughing together, the phone creaking and popping like we had shifting hands all over the mouth piece.
But I couldn’t place the circumstances. And the farther back I scrolled, the hazier each audio memory became.
A glutton for her, I picked up the phone and called again, knowing she wouldn’t answer.
Even if I wasn’t blocked, it was almost midnight and she got up early for work.
I blinked up at the ceiling, considering all my missed opportunities as it rang.
I could’ve gotten up with her, kissed her forehead before she left.
Or made her pot of coffee. A blind husband could do that—set her coffee and fill her favorite thermos before she walked out the door.
A sick feeling wound through my torso as her words drifted through the plastic in my ears.
“Hey, you’ve reached Sarah Thompson…”
All too soon, the greeting led to a beep.
A loud thump made me jump upright on my bunk, the wavy mop on my head catching peaks on the stomped ceiling. Swiping a hand over my hair, I held my breath and pulled my airpods out, waiting for the sound again.
Thump.
I turned my ear toward Cooper’s bunk, trying to hear above his white noise machine.
Sure enough, his heavy breaths and low whimper penetrated the silent bunkhouse.
My heart twisted with worry. Several moments went by as I sat and listened, wondering if he was stuck in a dream or moving into peaceful sleep.
His sudden, panicked thrashing answered my question.
Throwing the blanket off my body, I skipped climbing down the rungs and heaved myself to the ground, the floor joists groaning in protest. Crossing the room with a few quick strides, I reached up and found Cooper’s ankle, giving it a squeeze.
I kept my voice low. “Hey, Cooper.”
He mumbled something I couldn’t understand.
“Coop, come on. You’re dreaming.”
With a start, he jerked up on his bed, his rough breaths loud and wheezing. The wet rattle in his exhales gave his emotions away—he’d been crying.
My hair stood on the back of my neck, and I wasn’t sure why.
“Everything’s okay,” I whispered. “Try to breathe.”
Taking my advice, he forced his breaths to come rhythmically—still too fast, too shallow. So strained they sounded like a rubber band on the verge of snapping. Then covers whipped and Cooper hauled himself off the side of the bed and toward the bunkhouse door.
The front door hadn’t even closed behind him before a terrible vomiting sound ripped through the quiet.
Reaching out, I steadied myself on the post of Cooper’s bunk, a lot more worried than I was willing to admit.
Something wasn’t right with him. That was two nights this month he’d had dreams that left him throwing up. The only two I knew about anyway.
The first time it happened at the campsite, I thought the visceral reaction was due to the fact that he almost killed me.
But, maybe he threw up like this because of the dreams. I hoped not.
I crept across the room and located my tennis shoes at the foot of my bed.
Pulling them on, I swiped Cooper’s pack of cigarettes off the counter where he left them by his keys, filled a glass of water from the sink in the kitchen, and counted my paces toward the door.