Eight | Harlow
Jacksonville and I will never be on good terms.
No offense to anyone who calls it home—it’s a beautiful place. For me, it’s stained and tainted with two memories that will never slip from the recesses of my mind.
When Mel told me Aaron had died from a heart attack, my knees buckled out from under me. The fusion of adrenaline from my ride and shock from her confession collided like two cars barreling toward each other on an interstate head-on. The aftermath had my knees crashing into the dirt.
I barely remember the flight home the following day. We were airborne and touched down on the Phoenix tarmac before I could process what was happening.
Complete transparency, I still haven’t.
Grief and shock don’t even begin to define the feelings swarming in my stomach as I walk down the path through the cemetery toward my car.
All morning, my family kept pressing me to ride with them to the funeral, but I needed time alone.
Between my crumbling heart while I was getting ready and seeing my father’s red-rimmed eyes when I walked down the stairs, I needed the space.
Space if I was going to hold it together.
But not before wrapping my own father in my arms, promising myself that I wouldn’t take any moment with him for granted.
Aaron wasn’t just my coach. He was a friend. A father.
And there’s no room in my heart to think about what losing Aaron means for me and my riding career when three young children just lost their dad.
When a wife has just buried the love of her life.
A cool breeze whips against my heated skin, increasing the nausea.
I feel sick. Utterly and thoroughly ill because I’ve never known this kind of hollow feeling until now.
How it feels when you lose someone and your chest caves in, clenching onto the reminders of them, trying to hold onto that person who used to be a part of your life but is no longer there.
Tears burn behind my eyes, a feeling that hasn’t dissipated since I got home from Florida four days ago.
I’m supposed to leave tomorrow night for our event in Milwaukee, but I haven’t been able to train at all this week.
Any time I stepped into the barn with my mechanical bull, I burst into tears.
I was able to do some stretches and workouts, but that was it.
“Harlow.” A deep voice blends with the breath of the early, crisp December wind.
I pause, and the voice finally registers through my muddled, exhausted brain. I don’t have time to entertain Colson right now, so I keep moving, hastening my steps and keeping my head down as the dirt path turns to gravel.
“Harlow,” Colson calls again, sounding closer this time.
His footsteps accelerate behind me, quickening my breath. Reaching into my pocket, I grab my keys and unlock the car, reaching for the handle.
A large hand whips out, snatching my elbow. My eyes slam shut, and I battle the urge to squirm out of his grasp and leave him here in my dust.
He clears his throat. “Harlow, will you please talk to me?”
Please?
I’ve never heard Colson say that word to me, let alone witnessed him say anything laced with pure desperation like it’s a plea. He’s using my actual name, which is even more concerning because he always calls me Dust Bunny.
What does he want to do? Joke around that I’m without a coach now and going into the season more vulnerable than I already was after coming back from an injury?
I don’t feel like being the target of his assholeishness today.
Spinning to face him, I draw in a deep breath, nostrils flaring, preparing myself for a conversation that is bound to escalate. But the look he’s wearing only confuses me more.
Colson’s frantic eyes search mine. I don’t have a trace of makeup on because I knew it would only end up smeared across my shirt sleeve or swiped across my face.
I didn’t see the point. It takes more effort than it should to keep my eyes open to look at him.
My puffy eyelids make it seem like I’ve been crying for a week straight, which I almost have.
Colson’s the one who chased me down; he can get to the point. My head tilts, regarding him. I press my lips in a line, my focus darting to where his body is contacting mine.
He glances down at his grip on my elbow and releases me, taking a step back. “I’m sorry about Aaron. He was an incredible rider and even a better man.” I don’t know what I expected Colson to say, but it wasn’t that.
“He was,” I agree, not knowing how else to react.
We awkwardly stand in silence, watching as the last few people peel out of the parking lot.
His mouth opens a few times like he wants to say something, but then doesn’t.
I watch him in fascination. It’s like he’s fighting an internal battle, trying to decide if he wants to say whatever he is holding in.
I thought there was nothing that could hold his tongue back—he usually says whatever is on his mind.
I stare at him blankly.
He drags a palm over his face. “Fuck it,” he mutters, and my brows furrow. “Are you hungry? Can we go get something to eat so we can talk?”
Uh. What?
He shoves his hands into his pockets, rocking on his heels.
“I mean, like, just to talk,” he stammers.
“Not like a date or anything like that. I just … want to discuss something with you. I’ve only been to Ember Ridge once for a rodeo a long time ago, so do you know a place we could go?
Of course, only if you want to go—with me. ”
Wow. I’ve never seen Colson Payne word vomit before. I’m fighting to suppress the amused grin that wants to appear. His face flushes with embarrassment, the rosy hue disappearing under the light dusting of facial hair on his jaw.
I’ve never seen him so flustered.
I’m way too entertained by it.
I attempt to process what he’s asking of me, trying to determine if this is some trap he’s luring me into.
What kind of trap, I’m not sure, but I’m trying to be cautious around this man who has only ever irritated the hell out of me.
Now he wants to sit down, eat, and talk like we don’t hate each other?
Words continue pouring out of his mouth. “Unless now isn’t a good time and you want to go later? My flight back to Tennessee is a red-eye, so if you … uh … need time or something—” I hold out a hand to stop him, and he inhales a deep breath. “What?” he asks nervously.
“I’m worried you’re going to hurt yourself if you keep going. I think you’re short-circuiting.”
He blows out a breath. “So, are you going to put me out of my misery and give me an answer, dust bunny?”
“I don’t know,” I drawl, eyeing him up and down suspiciously.
His powerful gaze holds mine.
No wonder he gets women in his bed all the time if he gives them this pleading look.
His irises attract yours like two round magnets with specks of blue and green in different lighting—you can’t help but be entranced by their pull, and I’m trying my hardest to stay rooted.
Currently, it’s like I’m peering at a field of sagebrush.
His eyes are dragging me in right now despite my conscience digging its heels in the ground.
It’s probably a horrible decision I’ll regret later, but I’m curious about what’s going on in that hard head of his.
He waits expectantly, and I huff out a breath of defeat. “Fine, but you’re buying breakfast.”