Twenty | Colson
Ifucking hate New Year’s.
I’ve always been stuck in this repetitive cycle, spinning and spinning with no end in sight, because I’m too stubborn to wonder what life would be like without bull riding.
Paisley always reminds me that there’s more out there, but that thought feels just as hollow as I feel now.
I think she worries that if I don’t explore other possibilities, I’ll end up an old man trying to find a cure at the bottom of a bottle when his riding career is over because he’s got nothing else going for him when it all ends.
No wife. No kids.
I’m not sure I even want them if the opportunity ever presents itself—considering how reckless I am.
I stand in the middle of the old practice area that my parents built for Paisley and me when they realized how serious we were about making this a career. It’s tucked in the field at the bottom of a small slope, behind the barn.
Stars pierce the clear darkness above me, the air filled with a scent and a bone-chilling quality that makes me think snow could fall, which would be a miracle since there isn’t a cloud in sight.
The rim of the bottle shakily finds my lips, the amber liquid slipping down my throat as smooth as water.
I no longer taste the sweet spice that usually lingers on my tongue.
I don’t feel the cold seeping through my thin sweatshirt.
I don’t feel the excitement most people do as the last day of the year ticks down.
I feel nothing but dread, standing at the center of where Paisley’s and my dreams slipped through the cracks in the ground. Literally and figuratively.
A light breeze floats by, stirring the memories. My eyes snap shut, my body swaying involuntarily.
At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if the whiskey is flowing through my veins at a rate that should stop my heart.
But all it does is spur on the vision of a sunny midsummer day.
The old practice arena and chutes, currently blanketed in black night, shift and warp around me into lush fields of green, with pops of yellow from the flowers overtaking the pastures like they do every summer.
“He may have hated that we wanted to be bull riders, but I swear Dad was made for this life.” My twin laughs beside me, shaking her head in amusement at the group of men loading the bulls into the pens, laughing and drinking beer like it’s a barbecue party and not our usual weekend practice session.
Dad’s been so supportive of our riding careers, and I know I’m not alone when I say that all I want to do is keep making him proud.
There was nothing like seeing the flash of pride in his eyes when Paisley and I walked away from the intermediate youth rodeo last season, placing in first and second place.
Of course, I placed first, but rubbing that in my sister’s face would land my ass in the dirt faster than being bucked off a bull.
I may be gaining more muscle than I can keep up with, but Paisley will never be afraid to call me on my shit and put me in my place. I swear she kicked me around in our crib when we were younger, too.
The start of the new youth intermediate season may be a few weeks away, but this is the year our work really matters.
We’re seventeen, but the minor league is right around the corner when we turn eighteen.
Paisley and I are determined to work our asses off to make it to the Pbr as the first set of twins.
Plus, for Paisley, I know she’s determined to make it, since females competing at the professional level are rare in the sport.
“Cols and Pais,” my dad calls. We look up, watching him walk toward the house. “Mom made some lemonade and snacks for everyone before we start. You two want to join us?”
On any other day, Paisley would shake her head with me, but she knows she can’t practice today.
Then she glances to the side with her lips twisted thoughtfully, peering at her horse grazing in the field right outside the practice pen.
The fields are a lush, vibrant green, dotted with wildflowers and the sunflowers that have recently popped.
I can only imagine that not being able to ride her horse, Cosmos, is harder on her than not being able to bull ride, since those two are inseparable.
“Go ahead,” I call. “I’m going to stretch and get my gear on.” I need to get in the zone. Get in my mental headspace for this training session. My coach said that was one of my issues last year.
I know how hard sitting out has been on Paisley since that bull threw her headfirst into the fence last week. It scared the shit out of me and everyone, but luckily, it was only a concussion. As much as she hates sitting on the sideline for two weeks, she still needs rest.
Unfortunately, my sister is competitive as hell. She points out everything I’m doing wrong, since she can’t ride and is forced to watch. Honestly, I can’t wait till she can get back at it and stop pestering me.
“Don’t do anything until we get back,” Dad says, giving us a stern look.
“Yes, sir,” we respond simultaneously.
Paisley turns to me and rolls her eyes before lowering to sit cross-legged in the dirt in the middle of our practice area. The light breeze whips her hair from side to side under her cowgirl hat.
“This sucks! I wanted to start this season off strong, but that’s not going to happen if I’m missing this many practices.”
I lower myself to the ground to sit in front of her, propping my arms on my knees. “You’ll be fine. You were outriding all those guys last season, and a break isn’t going to hurt you.”
Her head slants, the sunflower charm necklace I gave her for our sixteenth birthday glittering in the sunlight. “Yeah, and while I’m sitting here, those guys are getting better with each practice. Don’t you remember our dream?”
Like it’s so easy to forget. All I want in life is to stand on that platform and have earned the world title, the buckle, and the million dollars that comes with being the best in the world.
And if it’s not me, I want it to be her.
That’s all we want in life—to be side by side in the rankings and chase the thrill of the ride and everything that follows that life.
“I remember the dream,” I answer.
“Then I should be practicing right now,” she argues.
I kick her boot with mine. “If I were in your place, you would be telling me the same thing.”
“No, you would be begging me to help you find a way to practice when Mom and Dad aren’t around because you are hardheaded.”
“So are you,” I joke.
She grins arrogantly. “Weird, it’s like we’re twins or something.”
I’ll never get tired of this constant joking between us, because behind the teasing is a whole lot of love and a connection that nobody will ever be able to sever between us.
A grunt has both of our heads turning to see the black bull waiting to be loaded into the chute.
“We’re almost professionals,” Paisley says, her eyes not leaving the bull. “We know what we’re doing.” Her head snaps toward me, those aqua eyes pleading in a way that is already preparing me for what she’s about to say. “You can help me with one practice ride. Mom and Dad don’t have to know.”
They’ll know anyway if I let her ride, considering we need help wrangling the bull back into the pens.
“Paisley, I don’t think it’s a good idea. You’re supposed to have another week off before you ride again.”
She’s quick to stand, dusting off her hands. “I’m fine, little brother.” I roll my eyes at that. Four damn minutes. “The headaches are gone, and I feel normal. Pleeease,” she begs.
I huff out a breath and stand, wiping the dirt off my hands onto my chaps.
“They’ll know that I let you ride. We’ll get in trouble.”
“And then they’ll realize I’m okay and let me practice again,” she says, and I narrow my eyes at her. “Fine. If they say something, I’ll tell them it was my idea. I’ll take the fall.”
“Aren’t you kind of scared after your concussion?”
She shakes her head defiantly. “Remember what Dad says?”
At the same time, we say, “Fear is something you power through; you don’t let it stop you.”
I always knew my sister had a talent for roping me into trouble as I close the latch, locking the bull in the chute. Paisley fixes her hair, puts on her helmet, and adjusts her glove and riding vest, making sure they are secure.
“We don’t have much time before they are on their way back. Are you ready?” I ask, vaulting the fence to the other side of the chute, where I will release the gate to let Paisley and the bull free.
Something that feels like frayed rope dipped in kerosene tangles in my gut.
I should stop her, but she’s right; I would probably be begging her to let me ride, too.
I watch as my sister hesitates, staring at the bull with a look I can’t dissect, and discomfort blooms in my stomach.
For a second, it almost looks like fear.
I swallow down the anxious feeling as she swings a leg over and starts to settle on the back of the bull. We have to hurry since the bull could start to buck while it is in the chute, and that could be disastrous.
I hold my breath, and Paisley nods. I throw open the gate, releasing the pair as they dance onto the dirt. The bull kicks and bucks, and instantly, I know something is wrong by the way Paisley’s free hand, which is supposed to be in the air, joins the other to grip the bull rope.
She’s hesitating, riding like a statue.
“Paisley, get off,” I yell.
Her scream pierces the air and floods into my ears like acid. My heartbeat booms in my chest, the contact against my ribs increasing the panic.
Time slows. Everything starts to transition into slow motion as she’s flung off, hitting the ground with a thud that is the first bullet to my heart. Paisley cowers, her body curling in the dirt on protective instinct.
I’m running to her, but the next shot has already been fired as the bull’s hooves crash down onto her head and chest before it bucks off to the edge of the arena.
Her name is ripped from my throat—roughly torn from my chest as I dive for my sister. I reach for her body, pulling her onto my lap.
“Paisley,” I cry. “Please be okay.”
She wheezes, the sound broken and tattered in a way that my breath isn’t, despite how hard I’m struggling to calm myself. I should be worried about the rogue bull, but my twin is my priority.
The clanking of the metal fence and the distressed grunts piercing the air have me turning my head to see Cosmos, the horse’s head hanging through the bars, her frantic dark eyes trained on her owner and me.
When I frantically peer back down, Paisley’s eyes flutter behind her helmet, but her irises are vacant—utterly still. Her hands struggle to lift and grasp my forearms secured around her, her fingers pressing into my flesh.
The sounds escaping her have me screaming for my parents.
Even as everyone crowds around and calls for help, I hold onto her with everything I have. I don’t let her go. Not until the paramedics show up and load my barely breathing sister into the ambulance.
That sunny afternoon will forever haunt my soul. But not as much as the scene I was forced to watch, as my legs barreled to get to Paisley curled in the dirt.
It didn’t matter. I was too late, and what was a concussion turned into something worse.
Something life-altering that left our dream in the dust as my parents and I tailed the ambulance to the hospital.
Even after her surgery, when they said she was stable, I knew our life would never be the same.
I lost a lot more than our dream and my parents’ trust that day.
Watching that bull whip and lash with my other half’s body crumpled on the ground beneath its power was the purest form of torture I’ll never recover from.
I blow out a breath, watching the vapor rise.
I know I said Paisley couldn’t be here while I was coaching Harlow, but I miss her and wish I didn’t feel so …
alone. I find myself thinking about what the atmosphere is like at my parents’ house.
If they miss me or still harbor that resentment.
Paisley said they don’t anymore, but I don’t believe her.
She just wants me to be there with them, and I’m not sure I’m ready.
I don’t think I ever will be.
Glancing at the bottle, I decide to down the rest of the contents at the bottom.
It would equal two fingers of whiskey—a glass.
That’s nothing compared to the five or six I’ve had if I’m measuring correctly.
I’m probably wrong, since the bottle is blurry in my vision, but I can’t tell if it’s from my drunken state or if it’s the tears lingering in my eyes.
I turn around, peering at the arena that I haven’t used since that day seventeen years ago.
Once spring comes, Paisley and I will get it prepared to turn it back into a flower garden.
That first year, after her accident, she thought we should turn an ugly moment into something beautiful, and now we do it every year.
Still doesn’t stop me from looking at it with repulsion as I always do.
At the top of the pasture, a yellow light glows through the forest trees. There shouldn’t be headlights on my very private road this time of night. At first, I think it might be Matt, but he’s with his family.
I leave the arena and close the gate, dragging my drunken ass up the slight incline toward the old barn, tossing the empty liquor bottle on the ground. I’ll get it later—if I remember.
I hope I don’t.
Rounding the side of the old barn, I eye the unfamiliar car suspiciously. But when the rear door opens, the blonde head of hair that catches my eye is unmistakable.
The first flash of light in the dark I’m drowning in.
As if it’s the simplest cure in the world, seeing Harlow penetrates my misery that not even alcohol has ever been able to numb.