10. Julius #2
I read the message with the boxes tucked against my hip. Across the lot, Ramona holds a lead rope while a hand lowers the ramp. She checks the latch, then turns to see whether I’m coming.
I lift a finger, and she nods before going back to the horse.
Tell her you’re leaving. Then go.
I set the boxes down so I can type.
Julius: I meant what I said earlier. I need to spend more time with Ramona.
Dakota: I’m not asking you to stop spending time with her. I just miss my friend.
My thumb stops above the screen. I think of Dakota sitting beside the stall, rubbing her knee while she tries to explain what it was like to hear she’d never compete again. I asked her to tell me that story. Now I’ve spent days finding reasons not to be alone with her.
Julius: I know. I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you instead of explaining.
Dakota: Then explain. Is this because of me?
A truck starts reversing nearby, and I move closer to the fence, keeping the phone in my hand.
Julius: Ramona and I haven’t been doing well. I need to give her my attention when I’m with her.
Dakota: You could have told me. I would have understood.
I start to type that I didn’t know how, then stop. Through the gate, Ramona walks beside the horse as it steps onto the ramp. She keeps her hand against its shoulder until it’s safely inside.
I erase what I’ve written.
Julius: I should have been clearer. Unless it’s about the horses, we need to leave it for now.
Dakota: You talked to me about more than horses before.
She isn’t wrong. I lean against the fence while I read it again, remembering how relieved I felt when she understood why I missed riding. I didn’t have to work so hard to explain it, and after a while, I stopped checking how much I was saying.
Julius: I know I did. You helped when I was having a hard time.
Dakota: You helped me too. I thought that was okay.
I want to tell her I thought so, too, and that I wasn’t trying to start a thing I’d have to end. But Ramona’s face on the hotel terrace comes back before I can put those words into a message.
Julius: I need to talk to my wife about those things. We can still work together, but I need to keep my evenings for her.
I send it and lock the screen. Across the lot, Ramona closes the trailer door, then walks toward our truck with her hair coming loose around her face.
“Are you ready?” She holds the passenger door open while she waits for me to look up.
“I’m putting these away.” I lift the boxes from the ground. “I’ll meet you at the truck.”
She smiles and climbs in. I carry the boxes to the storage trailer, set them inside, and pull out my phone to see whether Dakota has answered.
There’s no reply, but the conversation opens beneath my thumb. An older message sits just above tonight’s exchange.
Julius: Sometimes I miss being able to get on without seeing how scared she is.
I remember sending it after Dakota talked about her family worrying over every little thing she tried to do. At the time, I was thinking about how hard it is to miss a life that frightened the people who loved me. Now I can only see what I wrote about Ramona.
I scroll past a photograph of the gray mare and a joke about a gate somebody left open. Below them is a message I sent from the driveway, telling Dakota I wasn’t ready to go inside.
I’d been tired. Ramona would have asked what was wrong, and I hadn’t known how to answer. That part isn’t on the screen.
I look toward the truck. She has taken off her boots and tucked one leg beneath her. When she catches me watching, she lifts the candy bag from between the seats and gives it a shake.
I smile back, but my hand tightens around the phone.
We finally had a good evening.
I could show her the conversation. I could explain what I meant, if she let me get through it. But she would read that I waited outside instead of coming to her. She would see her name in messages I sent another woman while she thought I was busy with the ranch.
My thumb presses against the thread until the options appear.
If I keep it, I’ll check for another answer. Dakota might ask another question, and I’ll feel I ought to explain myself better. I’ve already told her what needs to change. I need to leave it alone and get into the truck.
I select delete, then stare at the question asking whether I’m sure.
Through the windshield, Ramona reaches across to move my jacket off the driver’s seat.
I tap yes.
By the time I reach her, she’s leaning over to open my door from inside.
“You took your time.” She settles back with the candy bag in her lap. “I was deciding whether to eat your share.”
“I thought I always ate yours.” I get behind the wheel and hold out my hand.
She gives me a piece, then rests her fingers against my palm instead of pulling away. I close my hand around hers and bring it to my mouth.
For a moment, I want to tell her I spoke to Dakota. I want her to know I’m trying, that I haven’t forgotten what she asked of me.
Then she’ll ask what we said.
I lower our hands and reach for my seat belt, leaving the words where they are.
I meant to stop talking to Dakota. Now I have to keep Ramona from asking about it.