4. A Cowboy’s Life For Me
FOUR
a cowboy’s life for me
Wesley
I’m awake for work, way too fucking early. I fumble for my phone on the nightstand, secretly hoping for a text message from Dahlia. After the first few days, I was curious if she changed her mind about staying in touch. Much to my delight, there is a text from her this morning.
Dahlia
Hi Wes! It’s Dahlia.
From the Fata Show.
You punched that guy for me?
Sorry, you probably saved my number. Ignore these messages and pretend I only said hello like a normal person.
I wanted to reach out, but didn’t want her to think I was creepy, so opted to leave it up to her—no hard feelings. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find her attractive. She’s cute as fuck and built like sin, with big doe eyes and a body deserving of worship from my knees.
My dick twitches in the morning glow at the erotic visual I’ve conjured up. Palming my erection, I vow not to jerk off thinking of my new friend and text her back.
Wesley
Dahlia!! What’s up?
Dahlia
Hi Sorry, I didn’t reach out sooner. I’ve been busy as shit with work and school, so I haven’t been very social.
Wesley
No worries, I’m glad to hear from you.
I didn’t realize you’re in school, what do you study?
Dahlia
Yeah! I’m getting my masters in social work. My last semester starts in August, so I’m in the home stretch.
Wesley
Damn, smarty pants. Very cool. I’m about to head out for work, text me anytime though.
Dahlia
Hope you have a good day, I’ll hit you up later.
My balls ache with the need for release, but I know if I stay in bed and fantasize about her any longer, Jasper will kick my ass for being late to chores.
“Sleeping beauty has arrived. Thanks for joining us.” It seems Jasper is starting his shit early.
The other farm hands chuckle before returning to their chores to avoid Jasper’s wrath.
The smell of horses and dew fill the air, the mix of new and old surrounding me as I wander along the worn dirt path to the old barn.
“Fuck off, Jas. I’m only ten minutes late. I was talking to Dahlia. She finally texted.”
“The one you haven’t shut the fuck up about? I’ll start looking at wedding venues.” He tosses me a shovel and I ignore his bitterness in favor of starting to muck the stalls.
Jasper is one of the most caring people I’ve ever met, but he is a grumpy ass through and through. Before I moved here, I wasn’t all too close with him.
At thirteen, Child Protective Services dropped my ass on his dad’s doorstep.
He didn’t hesitate to step in as my brother and protector.
Only three years older than me, he was wise beyond his years and he helped keep the hurt from consuming me.
When all I wanted to do was light the world on fire, he sat and listened as I raged on about the unfairness of life and how much I fuckin’ hated my dad.
He taught me to throw a punch and how to ride a horse, taught me how to sneak out the least creaky window in the house after he caught me the first time. I’ll love him forever, but the man can be a dick.
“Want me to see if Dahlia will send me Daphne’s number? Maybe we can start a group chat.” I’m needling him on purpose, but I don’t care.
Clearly my words hit their mark, because his shovel clangs like he lost its grip. “Daphne? The loud-ass friend? I’m good.”
“So, I must’ve imagined you staring her down while she was talking to Jade?” He thinks he’s slick avoiding all interaction with anyone outside this farm, but I don’t doubt he’s lonely.
“I was just trying to understand how one person could be so…her,” he bites out. Sure, he was glaring at her, but for Jasper, any interest is a big deal. In all the time I’ve lived here, he hasn’t once talked about a romantic venture or brought a partner home.
We go through the motions of the chores and the monotonous labor is a welcome reprieve from my lovesick thoughts of Dahlia.
The crisp morning air turns into the sticky heat of the afternoon, sweat clinging to my forehead as I turn my hat around to protect my neck.
The farm is brutal during the summer and the outdoor labor is heatstroke-inducing.
I probably should wear my cowboy hat more often, considering the protection the brim offers.
Jasper wears his every damn day—surely, it’s molded to every bump and ridge of his head at this point.
A breeze rolls through the open barn doors, briefly stirring up the hay lain across the floor and giving me seconds of relief from the stale horse air.
The day drags on and I’m bone tired by the time I kick off my boots on the porch.
Maybe if I felt the same possessiveness over the ranch Jasper does, this exhaustion would feel more gratifying.
Half the time we’re caring for our mismatched bunch of horses, and the other half we’re working on the small orchard on the west side of the property.
I’ll always love and appreciate the Andersons for taking me in and giving me safety, but their home didn’t replace the one that broke me.
They haven’t done anything for me to feel less than loved, but I feel like I don’t belong sometimes.
Aunt Lorraine would have my ass for saying this, but growing up the way I did hardened my heart a bit.
My father’s slurred words echo in my head—a fucked up soundtrack to the self-loathing that comes when I think of the past.
As if my ten-year-old antics were worthy of black eyes and bruised ribs. Like clockwork, this time of year triggers these memories of my life blowing up.
A kindhearted social worker at my school noticed some bad bruising I failed to cover, and all the class clown behavior in the world wasn’t enough to refute the physical evidence. My safety cost my dad his freedom. Not that I fucking cared—he deserved to rot in a cell for how he treated me.
My mom was a mystery, essentially bringing me into this world and disappearing, so the county shipped me off to my dad’s brother and his wife.
Jasper’s parent’s, Lorraine and Stone, didn’t hesitate when they saw me on their doorstep with my shit in trash bags, immediately jumping into protective mode.
As good as it was to be away from my dad, I still felt a cloying homesickness for the life I had. The complicated emotions swirling in my head were only intensified by the court proceedings and eventual therapy, where I refused to talk.
Dad served his time and overdosed the day after he was released.
The day Stone came up to my room with sad eyes, I knew it’d happened.
When your parent is an addict, a lot of time you’re already bracing for impact, awaiting the day your worst fear comes true.
Grief is a bitch and at thirteen, that grief poured out of me in equal measure of hatred and sadness.
My muscles ache as I drag my ass into a hot shower.
I chastise myself for going down the rabbit hole of the past, knowing damn well nothing good ever comes from looking back.
The moments when my carefully crafted mask slips are the hardest—the decaying sadness below the surface hidden purposefully behind the easy-going jokester.
It’s easier for everyone this way. My therapist disagrees, but I don’t pay him to kiss my ass, so I let it slide.
Probably should consider scheduling an appointment sooner rather than later, if tonight’s any indication of how this month will go.
I stay in the shower until the water runs cold, blocking out the world for a little bit longer behind the frosted glass.