Page 159 of Fever Dream
Now I watch the crown of his black cowboy hat bobbing behind the fencing, behind the chute. When he climbs up, my heart stops in my chest. The allure of dating a bull rider has always been lost on me. It never felt especially unique or interesting, but that’s all changed now.
Now I look at him and wish there was something I could do to make this victory happen for him.
Instead, I sit and watch with my stomach in knots and incessant sweat on my palms. He climbs up the fence, looking down over the white-speckled bull he pulled. Smarty Pants. Known for turns and dekes, he supposedly concocts a fairly intelligent plan to fuck you up.
Emmett needs to bring his A game.
His chin tips up, and his eyes scan the crowd. They land on several of our cameras before finding me.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t wink. His tongue pops into the side of his cheek, and he tilts his head as if to say,Are you ready?
I grin back at him, saying,Let’s fucking gowith my eyes.
We started off communicating with mere looks, and it’s become a more carefully honed skill set over the past several months. We can read each other so well.
With a quick nod, he drops onto the bull, the fringe of his black-and-red chaps flopping down as he seats himself. I’ve been watching him ride all season, and I’ve watched him take some ugly spills. None of them made me as nervous as this moment.
I try not to think about my dad and that this exact moment took him from us.
I’ve convinced myself that it’s a statistical improbability for me to live that story twice. Still, I’ll feel a deep sense of relief when this ride is over, no matter the outcome.
Emmett’s got the eye of the tiger. He’s focused. The cowboys around him speak to him, and I see his lips move, giving them one-word answers. Our cameras are up close, and I’ll be able to review the tape later. But for now, I want to stand back, enjoy the view.
I get to watch the man I love accomplish something he’s dreamed about his entire life, with a front-row seat.
Before I know it, he jerks his chin, and the gate flies open.
My stomach shoots into my throat, and my hand flies to my chest. Every muscle in my body tightens as I look on.
Smarty Pants drops into a vicious spin, jostling Emmett and his rope hand, but his incredible balance kicks in. His core corrects the motion, his heels flipping up to spur the bull harder. The bull jumps and kicks higher as it slams on the brakes and takes a turn in the other direction.
Emmett’s body moves like water over rocks in a creek bed, flowing, adjusting, adapting. Perfectly natural.
And for all the bull riding I’ve watched this season, I find myself admiring this ride especially. It’s not only because he finally found the strength to cut ties with his father and have him banned from WBRF events. I always thought that watching Emmett ride would fill me with overwhelming dread.
Instead, I often find myself in awe of him. At the edge of my seat, yes. But in anticipation.
He oozes talent and skill. He is always artful in his riding style, but there’s something special about this being his last professional ride. It chokes me up.
He’s the man I love, doing the thing he loves with such joy. And it touches me in a completely unexpected way.
I get lost in the moment so intensely that I’m startled by the sound of the buzzer ringing.
He jumps off, but he doesn’t celebrate. He turns to look at the scoreboard, waiting with bated breath for the score to pop up.
The rodeo clowns clear the bull, and Emmett doesn’t move.
He stands there.
My heart beats in time with his. My stomach turns and my chest aches.
The pull to him is so strong.
I know his family is in the stands, but the sight of him standing out there all alone does me in.
Without a second thought, I duck through the fencing and walk toward him, my eyes on the scoreboard, waiting for the number to appear.
My step stutters when it does.
