Page 16 of Sunday's Best

In a flash, I throw the blankets off and chug the last of my wine cooler. Grabbing my sweatshirt from where it’s draped over the back of the dinette bench, I head out into the dark rodeo grounds.

I’ll take a walk, give him enough time to be fully dressed before I go back. Or put on something, at least. With any luck, he’ll be sleeping, and I can continue my sinless night of reading and drinking.

The night air is sharp and carries a dampness that has me stuffing my hands deep into the pockets of my hoodie. The low bass of classic rock music drifts from the far side of the campground, and I move toward it without meaning to, weaving between quiet trailers and weary-looking horses.

In the amber glow of a crackling bonfire, I see a handful of people I know, and even more I don’t recognize. They’re laughing and drinking and playing cards in their underwear.

Strip poker, I presume.

I grimace. Even during my college days, no amount of alcohol would warm me up to the idea of sitting outside in my underwear on a night like this. A shiver wiggles up my spine, as if I’m experiencing a second-hand chill seeing girls in thongs and bras when the air’s so frigid.

But my heart stops when I spot Logan amongst them.

He’s in an old-school folding lawn chair, beer bottle braced between his knees, wearing only his jeans. He laughs at something one of his friends—a bull rider we’ve seen at nearly every rodeo we’ve been to so far—says to him and tips his head back to chug his beer.

The now-empty glass bottle clinks against the rocks beside him, and he smiles at a blond girl I’ve never seen before. He seems loose and happy in a way he hasn’t been with me all week, if not longer. Certainly a major change in his attitude compared to when I last saw him.

The woman slides onto his lap, straddling him in her underwear. He doesn’t move. Neither do I.

Then she kisses him. A quick, soft, hesitant kiss. One I know he’s going to melt into, because I’ve been that girl straddling his lap and tasting cold beer on his tongue.

Regrettably, I’m correct. Logan’s fingertips glide down the valley of her spine, pausing to toy with the thin black G-string, then settle on the globes of her ass as he deepens their kiss.

Someone cheers.

I turn away before anyone sees me, and before the embarrassment really sinks in. All these people know Logan’s doing this. They see me with him, hanging on his arm like a stupid lovesick puppy, and they know. They know he’s lying to me, and they’re fucking assholes, because they lie right to my goddamn face, too.

My ribcage cinches around my lungs until I’m gasping for each breath on the slow, staggering walk back to the trailer.

Logan’s been stabbing me in the back for the entirety of our relationship, and each girl’s girl in my inbox or inappropriate photo on his phone wedged the knives deeper, but watching him kiss another woman—and the blasé reaction of his friends—twisted them, carved up my insides. I’m bleeding out, and nobody around cares.

The shower’s still running when I step inside.

A million emotions slice through my brain at different angles. I’m relieved to have confirmation of his infidelity. I’m angry and aching and sad. I want to be that spiteful girlfriend who tosses his shit outside and sets it ablaze. Want to scream. Want to pack up my things and figure out a way to get home tonight.

But isn’t this what I signed up for when I told Holden I’d play nice for a couple weeks? When I realized he wasn’t stopping at a light touch on that other woman’s hip? God, what I’d give for another hit of that emotionally-stunted apathy I experienced watching him walk out the door earlier.

A minute later, the bathroom door opens and Holden appears in nothing but a towel around his hips, shrouded by steam. Lord help me. A towel. His hair’s still wet, and the long, dark tendrils curl across his forehead and around his ears, dripping water onto his shoulders. The heat of the shower rolls off his skin in heady, intoxicating waves.

He grips the towel a little tighter at the sight of me standing in the middle of the trailer, and his throat works with a hard swallow.

“Forgot to grab clean clothes before I went in there,” he explains, nodding toward his duffle bag on the shelf behind me.

“Oh, uh…” I can’t stop staring at his wet chest hair long enough to form a proper thought.

His nostrils flare as he takes a step forward. “You need to move out of the way.”

“Right,” I say, a little too hastily, and plop down onto the sofa bed so he can skirt past me.

Once he’s back in the bathroom, the tears fall again. I’m done crying about Logan, I remind myself, as if I have any control over these obstinate tear-ducts.

When Holden reappears, he’s wearing charcoal sweatpants, a Carhartt T-shirt, and a frown, as if he forgot about me altogether during his time in the other room and the sight of me on his sofa is an unpleasant reminder. His hair’s damp, cheeks still flushed from the steamy bathroom.

“You’re crying,” he observes. He folds his arms over his chest, mouth flat. It’s pretty damn clear I’m inconveniencing him.

A laugh scrapes up my throat, and I swipe my fingers across my hot cheeks. “Sorry not everyone is as cold and unfeeling as you.”

“Maybe I just know when somebody isn’t worth crying over.” He shrugs, opening the fridge and stealing two of my wine coolers. He twists the caps off both bottles and hands one to me.