Page 7 of The Cowboy's Cabaret

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 dragson 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 thatbroke 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 lookingback. 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.

FIVE

cowboy cockblocking myself

Dahlia

Wesley

You see that post about Kn1ghtmre’s new album? Heavy stuff, but the lyrics are real beautiful

Dahlia

Damn, not yet, I just woke up so I’m only half-conscious

He sendsa link to the album and I immediately queue it up to soundtrack my morning. Starting the day with a text from Wes has me unreasonably giddy, which means I need to nip this crush in the bud before it becomes a problem.

Wesley

Up late last night?

Every weekend, I’m up into the wee hours of the night entertaining the people of Brooklyn with burlesque and boobs, so the exhaustion is real. Past shrimp-dick partners have given me shit about the job, like it’s something to be ashamed of, but I love it and I make good ass money. I don’t get that vibe from Wes, though.

Dahlia

Yeah, I work nights. Ever heard of Cunting Season?

Wesley

Are you misspelling Hunting and trying to tell me you’re out shooting bucks?

Dahlia

No, silly. Cunting Season is a club here in Brooklyn, kinda near Liberty Arena. I’m a dancer there.

Wesley

No shit? So cool. I’ve never been.

We talking breakdancing, interpretive, line dancing?