Chapter 33
When did this room get so small?
I make eye contact with Rhett, ready to apologize for nearly sending him into the toilet, but the moment I meet his widened gaze, my heart skips a beat. He raises his hand, opening it to reveal my dad’s buckle.
Fuck. I forgot it was here. I still don’t want this conversation, but how do I get out of it now?
I don’t want his pity and there’s no doubt I’ll find it within the confines of my story.
Best case scenario, he will no longer see me as bold by choice, but strong because I had to be.
I will no longer be fierce by nature, but forced by lack of nurture.
I will be less than, and, once again, my dad will get center stage.
“Why’s this in the trash?” Rhett’s eyes don’t meet mine as his fingers trace the bull rider on the gold buckle.
Unfortunately, that gives me the courage to lie. “I found it on the ground. It’s all banged up so I just tossed it.”
“Ya know what this is?” He looks at me only long enough to see me disagree.
Another lie.
He remains in a trance, circling his thumb around the shape of the buckle.
“Ya literally found gold. Like, not just cuz it’s made of it, but one of the best riders of all fuckin’ time won this.
” His excitement is palpable and so is my heart racing in my chest. But, unfortunately, no longer in a good way.
Nausea hits me faster than my emotions do.
One of the best riders of all time? Try the biggest piece of shit to walk the planet.
“You like it?” I don’t know why those are the first words to pass my lips, but I’m spiraling and the only way to get out of this is away from it. The room is like a carousel spinning fast. I’m dizzy. Confused. How am I supposed to explain this?
His eyes strain on the hunk of garbage in his hand. “I still got the hat he gave me back at this one event I saw him at as a kid.” He sounds elated, and the more enthusiasm he shares, the more my irritation grows.
Great, two fucking terrible mementos live on.
“You can have it.” I sound angry, probably because I am.
And now I’m very much not in the mood to have him here too.
“I’m not feeling well.” I brace my hand on his back, guiding him toward the door.
“I’ll see you later tonight at the show if I feel better.
” His brows furrow, but I refuse to budge.
Not on this. So I push him a little harder toward the door. “You can let yourself out.”
I grab his shirt off the bed, shoving it into his arms. Confusion covers his face, as he slips it over his head. No pressing or retaliation, just uncertainty blooming in his eyes.
He clears my door frame and I slam the door behind him, placing my ear on it to listen for his exit.
He huffs, but says no more. The weight of his body sounds down the stairs and the front door clicks closed.
Rushing toward the window, I do my best not to be seen.
He walks towards his truck, taking a moment to look back at my house before climbing in and driving off.
His fucking hero? I groan at the now evident nausea in my stomach. I thought the worst case would be a conversation, not finding out he’s a life long Slayton superfan.
What was supposed to be a liberating execution of my dad’s existence now just became the potential downfall to what could have been a great relationship.