Seven | Colson
The all-too-familiar feeling of loss resurfaces, digging its sharp claws into my chest. The Arizona air should carry the crisp smell of juniper and sage that tangles in the breeze, yet it’s void of all scents.
Not a single bird chirps.
No voices emerge from the sea of black engulfing me.
Everything is quiet, as if the entire world has fallen silent, remembering a soul who touched so many.
But maybe it’s because I know what this feels like. What crippling sensations overcome you when you place the shell of who someone once was in the earth, while memories are all you have left to seal the cracks they used to fill.
The most recent passing was my grandfather five years ago. I have been in this position too many times, and it never gets easier.
I may not have known Aaron Jackson well, but he has left a legacy—a true legend best known for being the first to conquer and ride the bull Ol’ Unreliable over twenty years ago.
From the videos I’ve seen, that bull had lived up to his reputation.
He was unpredictable, making it nearly impossible to anticipate his next move.
Other riders never made it eight seconds on the back of that beast.
However, Aaron did.
It was his last career ride at thirty-seven, and he went out with a bang, becoming a coach quickly afterward.
I looked up to the man. So did the family standing across the crowd from me as the casket with their loved one is slowly lowered into the waiting grave. His weeping wife clutches her three children to her side—a teenage boy and two young girls.
While the air seems to hold its breath, my fists ball at my side. Nausea stirs below the surface, my muscles tight as I plead for this to be over.
I wanted to be here for Aaron and his family, but if I keep staring at the hole in the ground, my control is bound to break.
But it’s too late. The familiarity starts to coil around me.
The scene morphs in front of my eyes to my first funeral, a late summer day back at home when my family’s entire world cracked and crumbled like the dirt beneath our shoes.
I slam my eyes shut, willing that fear, that hurt, back into the crawl space in my soul where I can’t reach it, the same way I do when I’m on the back of a bull.
When my eyes open, the dread that was expanding behind my ribs transforms into a subtle ache. The kind of ache that’s always there, even when I try to ignore it.
I wasn’t kidding when I said I’m swimming in a sea of black. The Jackson family pretty much extended the funeral invite to everyone in the Pbr because this was his world. This was his family for thirty-seven years, from when he began his professional bull riding career to when he became a coach.
People showed up for him and his family.
And since he was a man who inspired me, I didn’t even have to think twice when the invite came through on my phone.
This is also why the burial is being held on a Thursday morning.
They wanted everyone here who could be before the upcoming event this weekend.
Scanning everyone around me, my eyes settle on someone lingering behind a few people in the front row. Harlow’s long blonde hair is pin-straight today, appearing like champagne in the sunlight against her black button-down, riding vest, and black leather chaps.
The family requested that everyone who was a bull rider be decked out in our gear to celebrate Aaron’s career.
The breeze blows a lock of hair across her face, the strands sticking to her wet, flushed cheeks that stand out against her dark attire.
She tucks it behind her ear, her blue eyes briefly clashing with mine before her lashes flutter and her gaze slips away.
She looks at her sister, clutching her arm tightly as if it brings her comfort to hold onto something when I know she’s falling apart.
Two more people stand close to her, and I’m assuming they’re her parents by the way they keep peering at Harlow with pained expressions crossing their features.
I don’t know how long I stare at her from under the tree limbs casting shadows over me, but it must be long enough as the black ocean engulfing me parts.
Some people leave, heading to their cars, while others wait to offer the family their condolences or join small group conversations in hushed voices.
Despite everyone else moving around me, my attention doesn’t stray from Harlow.
She interacts with her family, giving them tight-lipped smiles and gentle nods before stepping up to the fresh plot of dirt with tears spilling over her bottom lashes.
Pure devastation is written all over her face, and my heartstrings tauten seeing her this way. She just lost her coach, finding out only a few minutes after she had one hell of a ride.
Harlow is talented, I won’t deny it. My personal issues may affect my feelings toward her as a female rider, but if I weren’t so fucked up from my past, I would say she has potential.
Damn. After watching her pull herself together last week in a city that broke her, I’ll admit she has a lot of potential.
She just gets too lost in her head and her “reason” for riding.
She is so determined to prove a point to the world that it’s costing her the focus she desperately needs.
There is still a flicker of fear from her injury blazing somewhere deep; I’ve seen it already this season.
If she wants to be on top, she needs to learn to push past her fear—surround herself in a barrier where it can’t reach her.
Now, she’s lost Aaron when she needs a coach the most. Truthfully, I can’t help but feel bad for her after she’s worked this fucking hard to get through the minor league and get back into the Pbr.
Something ignites in my chest, my breathing shallowing. The season just started, and she doesn’t have a coach or mentor—someone to help her block out her fear of the past. Someone to watch her ride and help her adjust so she can keep improving and hone her skills.
I’m always there, watching her every weekend.
I’m not Aaron Jackson, but I’ve been competing in the toughest sport on dirt since I was eighteen.
Sixteen years.
I cock my head, observing as she closes those watery blue eyes and mutters something I can’t hear under her breath.
Fuck me.
I can’t be thinking about being her coach. Can I?
I’m her competitor.
People consider us rivals since we’ve never been able to co-exist in the same room without bickering or shooting each other threatening glances. That’s our thing. Still not sure how it started, but that’s how we’re comfortable with each other.
She could still compete without a coach. I don’t have one.
But as I watch her suck in a shaky breath through her wet pink lips, visions of her holding her leg and screaming in agony two years ago have my feet moving across the grass on pure instinct.
She turns from the grave, not noticing me advancing, and ambles toward the path that leads to the parking lot.
My decision is made.
This could end in only a few ways, the probability leaning toward this plan ending disastrously.
However, that doesn’t stop me from running after her.