“Like, a kid?” he asks with pinched brows.
“No, no. He’s around our age. He seems pretty cool.” As the words leave my mouth, I realize how pointless this whole conversation is. Where am I going with this? Why did I feel the need to tell Shooter about him in the first place? To what, tell him I made a new friend?
My cheeks heat without my permission, and I’m thankful for the darkness surrounding us, so maybe it’s not as noticeable as before.
“You should’ve invited him tonight, man,” he says coolly, oblivious to the internal spat I’m having with myself.
And you know what? I should’ve. He’s new in town, clearly doesn’t know anybody aside from his aunt, and well, now me. I said I was being neighborly earlier by coming over and helping him, but I should’ve also been neighborly and invited him out, so he has a chance to make some friends while he’s here.
I consider pulling out my phone and shooting off an invite, via text, to him right now, but that seems weird. Oh well. Next time, I guess.
We all sit around the fire for a little while longer, sipping on our beers before the lot of us get up and do a round of Jell-O shots for the birthday boy. Clementine, or Clem, as most of us call her, makes some of the best Jell-O shots I’ve ever had. They’re never anything extravagant, just basic flavors like blue raspberry or strawberry, but they’re the perfect mix of Jell-O and vodka. I’ve had somenastyones in my day, so I always love when she brings a big ol’ batch.
After we toss back a couple of shots, I walk away from the crowd for a minute to have a smoke. It’s a nasty habit I picked up when I was a teenager, one I’ve never kicked. It’s become a comfort for me at this point. Something to do with my hands or something to keep my mouth occupied when I don’t know what else to do. I’ve always been into chewing gum or sucking onmints. This is kind of like that…but way different. A shitty kind of comfort, but hey, it could always be worse.
Scanning the property, I notice how many people are here tonight. It’s much more than our normal get-togethers, but if I had to guess, it’s probably because Colt invited a ton of people for his birthday. He’s a social butterfly. Being a professional bull rider gets him a lot of attention. To be honest, we all get a ton of attention from being part of the pro rodeo, but some of us—Colt, and up until recently, Shooter, specifically—enjoy and relish it much more than others.
A couple of girls walk up to me as I’m taking a drag from my cigarette. I nod at them by way of greeting, and they smile at me.
“You’re Copeland Murphy, right?” the brunette with big, bouncy curls, asks.
“The one and only,” I reply with a grin. “But please, you can call me Cope.”
She giggles. “Okay, Cope. Well, I’m Bridget, and this is my friend, Miya. We’re big fans of yours.”
Eyebrows lifting, I say, “Is that so? Well, thank you very much. You ladies having fun tonight?”
They look young. Not too young, but if I had to guess, they’re probably barely old enough to drink. Copper Lake U students, I’m sure.
“Yeah, we are,” Miya replies, lifting her red Solo cup to her lips and taking a sip of whatever liquor is in there.
“When we heard about this party tonight, we knew we had to come,” Bridget practically purrs as she steps closer to me. “We were hoping to get to meet you.”
The sweet scent of vanilla and coconut wafts over to me from her. I know what she’s insinuating—what they’re both probably wanting—and while they’re very attractive girls, I have no interest in going there tonight. Deciding to nip this in the bud, I grin at them both before taking another drag. As I blowout the smoke, I tell them, “You know who’d really love to see you beautiful ladies?” When their eyes widen in question, I point behind them. “The birthday boy. Colt would love to celebrate tonight between the two of you.”
Somehow that works, and they prance away excitedly. After I finish my cigarette, I grab a bottle of water and take a seat by the fire again. Shooter and Sterling are back there, too, except Sterling is now propped in Shooter’s lap. They’re in the middle of a heated discussion about football, and I sit back and enjoy listening to them bicker back and forth about it.
By the time the fire starts to die, my eyes are scratchy and I’m ready to climb into bed and call it a night, already mentally rearranging my morning in my head, knowing I’m going to get up extra early to help Xander with his farm chores. Doing a quick round, I say bye to everybody before I jump into my truck and take off. On my way out, I spot Colt with those girls who were talking to me, and I chuckle to myself. He’ll be nice and busy, it looks like. Similar to how Shooter was before Sterling came around, Colt is a natural flirt. He loves the attention, and there’s never a shortage of buckle bunnies around to keep him occupied. I love that for him.
For many years, I thought there was something wrong with me. Unlike my friends, the idea of dating and hooking up never appealed to me. I lost my virginity much later in life than everybody else I knew—at almost nineteen—and I think I only did it to say it was done, not because I was dying to do it. Sure, it was nice, and it felt good in the moment, but it never seemed like something I couldn’t do for myself.
I’ve never struggled with being alone. I happen to enjoy my own company, and I don’t know… I never felt the pull toward finding someone to fill my bed for the night to be all that alluring. That’s not to say I don’t hook up from time to time, especially when we’re on the road for the season, but it’s usuallyafter a few too many drinks, and by the morning, I’m internally rolling my eyes at my actions.
There was a period when I thought maybe it was a relationship I wanted, and that’s why hooking up never appealed to me, but any time I’ve tried to have a girlfriend, I just never felt overly connected to her deeper than a friendship. I know it’s not because I’m turned off by relationships or commitment, because Idowant to settle down with someone and start a life with them. Hell, it’s the whole reason I bought my house. But I want that person to be someone who makes me feel like I couldn’t imagine living without them. Not someone I have to question if I even have romantic feelings for, or if it’s just a friendship, that’ll eventually lead to sex.
That girl’s out there somewhere, I’m sure, and I’ll find her one day. In the meantime, I’m in no rush. I’m cool being alone, riding out this rodeo career, and letting whatever’s meant to happen, happen. Maybe I’m just a sappy romantic with unrealistic expectations over what a relationship is supposed to feel like, but after watching the way my parents love each other unconditionally, how they still to this day are playful and flirty with each other, and how vibrant their adoration is for one another after so many years together, I don’t think my expectations are that crazy.
My house is about twenty minutes from the ranch. This time of night is my favorite time to drive. The stars are out, the moon is shining, and nobody is on the road. I can cruise with my windows down, my music turned up, and just let the road take me. Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I’ll hop in the pickup and drive with no destination in sight. Typically, I’ll just make a loop through town, and be good to sleep after, but sometimes, I’ll drive through the outskirts of town and get myself lost for a few hours. I don’t know what it is about backroads in the dead of night that’s so comforting.
Thankfully, be it the few beers I had or the farm work I helped Xander with, tonight isn’t one of those nights when sleep escapes me. As soon as I’m home, I brush my teeth, strip down, climb into bed, and I swear I’m out before my head even hits the pillow.
4
XANDER DAWSON
Sunrises here are unreal. I’ve never seen anything like it. The entire sky burns a rich orange, blanketing everything beneath it in the vibrant color before it fades to a pastel pink as the sun finds its proper place in the sky. Everything feels fresh, like the world is truly waking up. You can’t help but watch it, enthralled by its beauty. Which is exactly what I’ve been doing every single day for the almost week since I arrived here.
Each morning when I wake up, I brew a pot of coffee—thankfully, now I have creamer—and take the steaming hot cup of joe out onto the back porch. As of the last couple of mornings, the fluffy brown cow who looks like she just got a blow-out, whose name I’ve learned is Agatha, trots up to the house and stands on the edge of the porch beside my rocking chair while I sip my coffee and scroll through my phone.
