“Hear me out,” Blythe continues with a newfound energy. “Yes,to all of what you just said and what’s meant to be will work out. But also yes . . . to looking like the sexiest damn thing to ever step foot in the state of Texas on Saturday.”
She smiles mischievously, narrows her eyes, and holds her hands together in front of her mouth.
“If I’m the sexiest thing at your wedding, wouldn’t that be upstaging the bride? Not that I will be. But I’m not going to entertain the risk. Nice try.”
“Oh, that’s not going to be a problem. I’ll be beautiful, but you will besmokinghot if we have anything to say about it.”
“You’re already stunning, by the way. You don’t actually need any extra help from us or bells and whistles,” sweet Savannah throws in with a hand on my knee.
“Thank you.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and contemplate the look on Tripp’s face when he sees me if I let them work their magic.
What has he been thinking in that head of his this week? I feel like a different person after the number of times I’ve replayed our every interaction, including the heavy words exchanged the night of the accident. The distanced perspective has been good for me, despite the fact that I simply miss him.
Maybe he’s been combing through our memories together and realizing that no fear should keep him from wanting to make more. Maybe he’s been documenting every doubt in himself, letting my hard truths hold more weight, and then crossing them out one by one. Maybe he’s already prepared what he wants to say to me.
Even if he isn’t doing any of those things, showing up to the wedding this weekend as an irresistible siren would do wonders for my mood.
I know how to be sexy, having already played that card plenty of times in my life. But I’m also sitting in a room with three of themost stunning girls this side of the Mississippi. It couldn’t hurt to recruit their expertise. I bite my lower lip and lift my head to see them all eagerly leaning toward me.
“Let’s do it.”
A chorus of squeals and claps fills my tiny cottage, and I fall back to lie flat on the ground as if it exasperates me. But there’s a smile on my face. Even when Blythe starts applying a thick cream that smells like cucumbers under my eyes, and Hattie starts showing me skimpy dress options on her phone, I smile.
I don’t even care if Tripp breaks his jaw when he sees me.
I’m good. I’ve got my girls.
31
TRIPP
My upper bodyinstinctively leans forward as Regal and I thunder across the outer ridge of the only bluff on the ranch. It’s miles away from anything else—which is exactly why I chose it.
I stay loose in the saddle, while my horse stretches to full speed like the wind is chasing us. Her hooves pound the dirt like war drums, and the front of my shirt clings to my skin as the back of it flares behind me.
Nothing can touch me out here. The prairie doesn’t give thought to my mistakes. It takes me as I am. It’s a toxic acceptance I don’t deserve, but I’m out here basking in it anyway.
The tension in my shoulders unravels, but not enough. I’d ride until it’s completely gone if I weren’t pressed for time today. With a gentle tug, I finally pull the reins back.
Regal’s speed fades to a smooth walk. She swings her head south like she knows we should be heading back. Leftover adrenaline still pulses in my veins as I bend to run my hand over her now sweat-soaked neck.
I let her cool down at a continued steady walk as we head back to the barn. My hair is tousled and sprinkled with flecks ofdust from the ride. Running my hand through it feels nostalgic because I used to do this a lot in my teens.
It grounded me more then than it does now. The boy version of me was a ball of resentment, but the world hadn’t fully hardened him yet. These days, my frustration runs too deep to escape from.
The thin leather bag attached to the horn of the saddle shakes with vibration. I avert my gaze from the quiet expanse of land to check my phone. It’s damn pathetic the way I frown at the caller ID. Any name but Mesa’s is a letdown.
I have no right to call her myself, of course. After the things I said to her last week, I wouldn’t be surprised if she never spoke to me again.
My throat feels dry, and I’m not in the mood for an ass-chewing, so I decide to ignore the incoming call from Warren. I’ve heard enough from him and the rest of the boys over the past six days.
I listened to them, of course. I knew my only chance at fixing the mess I put myself in was to do the work and take their advice.
“Man up and stop pouting,” they’d said. “She won’t take you back if you don’t get your shit together.”
It’s only been a week of missing her and sitting with regret. But I spent an ungodly number of sober hours in front of the mirror just trying to convince myself I wasn’t looking at a direct reflection of my dad. She wasn’t shy about making sure I knew I was nothing like him.
Believing her felt impossible at the time. Now, I’ve learned not to question a girl like that. She’s not a liar, and she has no reason to feed my ego. I’ve always trusted her, and I plan to do that more wholly in the future—especially when it comes to her calling me out on my superficial anxieties about turning into a man like my dad.
