Twenty-Eight | Colson
“You really think this is the best way to be spending our time?” Harlow’s arms are raised above her as she ties her hair into a long ponytail. “Don’t you have … like, more to teach me about riding? Or some new workouts to keep building my strength?”
A light breeze sweeps across the expanse of water before us, texturizing the surface with gentle waves that glitter yellow and white from the afternoon sun.
The first remnants of spring are transforming the earth from subtle browns to fresh greens.
The air has a chill when the wind brushes by, but the sun is enough to give you that comforting warmth that makes you debate whether you need a jacket or not.
It’s been a few weeks since I felt Harlow’s lips on mine, and I think about it more often than I should.
The lasso still cuts through the hallway, and jokingly, during the day when she isn’t around, I pull the end near the stairs.
By the end of the day, there’s a noticeable gap between the end of the hallway and the end of the rope, creating a free space from my room to hers.
She always notices, because I find it back in place when I go to bed, and it pisses me off more than it should.
Harlow’s riding streak has placed her in the twenty-first position in the rankings. At this rate, there’s a strong possibility that she and I will be competing in the championship round together at the World Finals in May.
My cheek twitches as I try to suppress a grin. “Oh, darlin’, I’ll always have something to teach you about riding.”
She slips her sunglasses from resting on her head to cover her eyes, letting loose a laugh that warms my bones. “Don’t think I need much help in that area, cowboy.”
There she goes again.
Testing me.
Teasing me.
Fucking with my restraint that is nearly about to bust.
She knows exactly what she’s doing, and frustratingly, I think she gets entertainment from it.
I step into her, forced to stare at my own reflection in her sunglasses. “Prove it.”
She taps my chest with her hand. “In your dreams.”
“Yes,” I agree. “You going to put me out of my misery at night and replace my hand with that sweet pussy?”
“You’re so persistent.” She gives me her back and turns toward the canoe we dragged to the banks of the small lake with no other souls than ours.
It’s one of the things I’ve always loved about it.
The peace.
The seclusion.
“I’m damn near close to groveling, dust bunny.”
Her breathy laugh makes me grin as she climbs into the canoe and shuffles to the back, where it floats on the water.
It tips back and forth, and she braces her hands on either side, trying not to flip it.
I grab the oars and wait as she settles in her seat with her back to me before I pass one to her.
Placing my hands on the canoe, I push us off the shoreline. I climb in as it takes off, sending ripples outward across the surface.
Sitting down, I observe as she glides the oar through the water. I row with her, guiding us toward the center at a quicker pace. A few trout jump here and there, Harlow’s body eagerly turning rapidly each time she hears a splash on either side of her.
“This is beautiful,” she says in awe.
I swallow, silently agreeing with her, but not about the lake. The body of water engulfing us is stunning, too, but I find myself unable to compare it to the kind of beauty Harlow is.
She’s beautifully wild.
Strong in the way she’s been riding, pushing her fear of the past to the recesses of her mind, as I do.
I have had my fair share of injuries, and although none have been as brutal as Harlow’s, I’ve had a front-row seat to that kind of trauma. She might have walked away that day with a broken leg, but Paisley’s head injury was life-altering.
I came to the lake often after my sister’s accident.
It’s only ten minutes from the ranch, making it an easy escape.
It was suffocating being in a house that should’ve been flooded with laughter instead of rotting from the inside out from tears and verbal accusations that everything was my fault.
My self-loathing was already a constant companion, and I couldn’t subject myself to staying trapped in a home where blame ricocheted off the walls, even though it was already creating a ruckus in my head. To this day, they still do.
Leaving home for good crossed my mind, but when my parents said they were moving and couldn’t live on a property plagued with a horrible memory that easily diminished all the good ones, a part of me couldn’t let it go. So together, Paisley and I tried to find the good.
Every day we still try.
She’s better at seeing the brighter side than I am.
When we near the center of the small lake, Harlow shuffles, maneuvering herself slowly to kick her legs over the bench to flip positions and face me. “This place means something to you.”
It’s not a question. It’s an observation.
I clear my throat. “What makes you say that?”
“I thought that rigid posture in your muscles and face was permanent, but out here, you seem more relaxed.”
I gesture to our surroundings. “Have you looked where we are?”
She pushes her sunglasses to rest on her head, tipping her face up to soak in the last warm remnants of the day.
I can’t ignore that life has been lighter with her around. Brighter. Livelier in a way that I ache to hold on to, as if she might slip through my fingers and disappear if I’m not careful.
She will once the season is over.
“Besides the ranch, this is my favorite place on Earth. I’d come here as a kid with my family during the summer. It was always a reset.” In more ways than one.
As a boy, it was how I spent my summer days—fishing with my dad and Paisley, and swimming till our fingers would prune.
Then, when I became an adult, it was the one place where I could sit down and give myself some grace.
Forgive myself. Which only lasted until I went home, only to find all the reminders.
Seeing Paisley didn’t make it any easier.
Then blame crept back in, suffocating and raw.
“You don’t talk about them much,” she says, her voice as curious as it is cautious. Her tone is right on the line, not favoring either side since she’s not sure how I’ll react.
I know what she’s asking, and I release a weighted breath.
She only knows what I’ve allowed her to know—my family is a subject I’m cautious of.
When these conversations came up with Harlow, I could either side-step the question, give her short answers about the past, or turn it back on her to learn more about her life in Arizona.
But I’m not sure how much longer I can do that, knowing she sees all the photos in the house, hanging on the walls.
“My parents live in Knoxville,” I tell her. “The season and the ranch make it hard to see them often.”
Harlow searches my eyes, as if she knows I’m spewing the lies through my teeth. We both know that’s not that far away, and it’s no excuse for the canyon of distance between us.
“But you said Paisley is there, right?”
I struggle to nod, not sure how to answer.
“Do they ever come watch—” She blows out a breath and shakes her head, glancing out over the water. “Never mind.” She leaves it at that, which I appreciate.
Harlow plays with her fingers in front of her, a sign I’ve come to recognize as her holding back and keeping thoughts to herself that she would rather voice out loud.
The weird thing is, I have this inclination to tell her.
Jam my fingers between the crack in my heart and tear it open to show her all of me.
To let her know that I have never hated her or her riding, just that she’s too much of a reminder—that there’s too much fear behind watching her ride when her tenacity and reckless heart remind me so much of how my sister used to be.
But watching her ride recently …
Harlow is crushing events. Steadily riding those eight seconds like she didn’t lose two years.
And though that little bastard of doubt festers inside me, saying her fear will be her downfall, she’s less vulnerable out there on the dirt than she was.
I know every rider gets hurt. Hell, I have competed with a broken collarbone, ribs, and fingers.
It’s not a matter of if, it’s when.
It’s easy to coach when you have someone so moldable and willing to try anything. Sure, we’re both professionals, but it’s different when she comes in with an open mind, allowing herself to welcome that continuous growth that so many people ignore until they become stagnant.
Not Harlow.
She makes coaching easy, and I’ve loved every moment of it.
It’s fulfilling in a way riding never has been.
She glares down at the water, narrowing her eyes. “Do you guys have those long fish here with those huge teeth?”
Her question has my lips tipping. I place the oar across my lap. “You ride as if you aren’t scared of anything. Terrified of a little water, dust bunny?”
“No,” she says a little too hastily, like it’s a preposterous question.
“Did you know that when you lie, the blood rushes to your cheeks and the center of your chest? This isn’t the first time I’ve caught you lying to me.”
Her breath hitches. Harlow lifts a hand, skimming her fingers across the pigmented apples of her cheeks, and I wish so badly they were mine. To feel the heat radiating from them despite the air that’s starting to chill as the sun continues to dip down.
“I’m not terrified of the water, but I hate not knowing what’s beneath me.
” A laugh spills from me, and she drives the tip of the oar sideways across the surface of the water, splashing me.
The water soaks through my jeans, and I flex my jaw.
“I’m from Arizona! We have a few lakes, but not as many as you do here, and most of the time they are shallow or completely dried up. ”
I wipe the water droplets off my hands onto my jeans. “I think you’re talking about pike.”
“Yeah, those! I’ve heard they attack people sometimes.”
I shrug. “Some bodies of water in Tennessee have them, some don’t.” She worries her bottom lip. Placing my hands on the edges of the canoe, I lock eyes with her, giving her a sinister smile. I rock the canoe a few times, and her hands whip out to grasp the edge for stability.
Harlow’s eyes harden. “That’s not funny, Colson!”
“I beg to differ,” I counter, rocking it side to side more with my body weight.
Bigger ripples flow outward, the canoe rocking until not even clutching the sides can save her from it tipping over. The last thing I hear is Harlow screaming my name in a way that has my restraint from keeping myself from her snapping, right before we both go under.