Page 45 of The Cowboy's Cabaret

“Okay, well let’s say our goodbyes before I drop to my knees here and scar my neighbors for life and we can text about it later?” I suggest because I think our proximity to each other isscrambling our horny brains and someone needs to be the voice of reason.

“Deal. Goodbye, beautiful. Text when you make it upstairs.”

“I will. You text when you get home.” I point a finger at his chest before yanking him down for one more kiss. “Drive safe.”

I head upstairs where my nosy best friend is peeking out our door with a shit-eating grin on her face.

“The prodigal daughter hath returned. My, do I spy a post-fuck glow? Bitch, you better spill before I have to leave. I traded shifts with fuck-ass Marcus so I’m working the rage room tonight.” She pulls me inside and we sit on the couch and I tell her all about my friend sexcapades.

Daphne leavesfor Purple Rage around five thirty and I lounge around the apartment until I decide to check my school email.

Mistake number one was checking my email in the first place. Mistake number two was opening an email filled with super critical feedback from my thesis course professor.

While I’ve only submitted brief work, his words strike true, hitting me in the core of my inferiority complex. His suggestions range from critiques of my sentence structure, to the plausibility of my research, and several question marks directed at the grant proposal. His final note suggests I may want to reconsider the proposal as it seems to be a bit of a reach for the case I’m trying to make.

My anxiety and anger quickly fall into a tango of emotions, leaving me ready to punch a wall and then roll myself into a ball and cry.

The panic rising in my chest leaves me feeling worn and deflated, so I drag myself to the shower and sit on the floor as the hot water rains down on me. The rational part of me knows this is part of the drafting process and though Dr. Kane’s delivery leaves much to be desired, I’ll take the guidance to polish my work.

The rational part of me also knows this has no bearing on my value as a person, yet the insanely loud self-hating voice barks at me. My professor’s notes confirm my worst fears: I am unworthy and soon everyone will know.

Anxiety works like that, at least mine does. My fears are loud and constant. Again, all signs would point to me needing to go to therapy, but doing so fuels the inadequacy I carry around like a backpack. I’m studying to work in mental health, surely I should have my own shit figured out.

Before I know it, the water runs cold down my back and I need to get out. It’s nearing midnight and I realize in my spiral, I never checked my phone again after Wes texted he made it home. I find another text from him and I start to cry again, for different reasons this time.

Lover Boy

I know I’m not going to get it perfect every time, Dahlia, but if you’ll let me, I want this with you. I don’t know where your heads at, and by no means do I expect you to have anything to say to this. I wanted you to know I’m in this with you. Your adorable face is on my mind, and your beautiful soul is in my heart. Sleep well, Princess.

Dahlia

I want this too. With you. Always with you. Sweet dreams, Wes.

THIRTY-FOUR

this ain’t a cattle farm, but there sure is beef

Wesley

Sunday comesto pass on the farm without incident. Jasper and I work parallel tasks and I can tell he’s got something to say, but he works in tense silence. By Monday afternoon, I decide one of us needs to speak up. Especially when I stop to text Dahlia and Jasper starts throwing shit around in the barn—not hard to see the connection.

“Spit it out, Jasper. You clearly have something to say.” I toss the hay bale I’m holding into the corner and face him.

Jasper turns to me, arms crossed with a cynical smile on his face. “Nothing, Wes. Right? That’s what this is to you. The property, this family. It means nothing to you. This place could go up in flames and you’d be okay with it. Why the fuck do you even care?”

“Where is this coming from? What the fuck are you on about?” I’m yelling at him now, because his insinuation I don’t care, hit a raw nerve.

“I’m just waiting for you to say it. Tell us all you’re leaving. That’s what you want, right? You gonna shack up in the city with Dahlia while this place falls to ruin?”

Shot after shot, I tense with each word. “Dude. I’m here working, same as you. I take a few days off here and there to spend time with Dahlia, fucking sue me. I’m allowed to have a life outside of this place. You should try it sometime, might help get the giant stick out of your ass.” I huff a humorless laugh. “And you know Dahlia is working on the grant proposal to get us funding. Is that not enough for you to stop being a dick to her?”

“You think I want some fucking handout from your girlfriend? And money with strings attached? Be real.”

I shake my head. “You're a selfish fuck and if you’d rather see this place lost than let someone else help, you’re dumber than I thought.”

Through this argument, we moved closer as we each strike in purposeful, pointed jabs. Jasper is bowing up to me now and I’m waiting for him to throw a punch, but I know it won’t solve a goddamn thing. “Selfish fuck.” He nods. “Got it. Let your little girlfriend take over this place. You two run it together. You clearly don’t need me anymore. You can do it all on your own. Move on with your life, follow your dreams. Never had to give a shit about anything but yourself. Why start now?” He turns on his heel and I hear him kick over a metal bucket outside before swearing.

I’m left standing in the barn, mad at myself, mad at Jasper, and hurt over this situation. I shouldn’t have said what I said—a fact becoming more and more clear as time passes.