From up here, I feel ten feet tall, and I take a moment to bask in the beautiful hills surrounding us and lush mountain terrain in the far distance.
“Remember that time we went on that day trip and ended up stopping at some Old West frontier museum where all the workers were in character? And we rented those costumes and I made you role play with me?” I ask.
He nods. “Yep.”
“I think about that day all the time. I know it probably seemed like a silly little thing to you, but the fact that you humored me and let me fly my freak flag for a day really meant a lot to me.”
“I knew how much you liked to act.”
“You know what the most disappointing thing about New York is?”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve yet to meet anyone who lets me fly my freak flag.”
“Seriously?” he asks. “In a city of eight million, there’s no one else like you?”
“No,” I say. “There’s no one else like you.”
He shoots me a sideway glance, as if to suggest I’m being dramatic or perhaps overly sentimental.
“I mean it,” I say. “Everyone I’ve met so far takes themselves way too seriously. They want to be respected actors, and I get it. Who doesn’t want that? It’s obviously the endgame. But most of them are hyper-focused on outward appearances and networking and social climbing and obsessing over getting invited to the hottest parties and growing their social media followings … and it all just feels inauthentic. And god forbid they set foot in Times Square and get mistaken for a tourist.”
“Keep looking. I’m sure you’ll find a fellow freak sooner or later.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“What about your roommate … what’d you say her name was?”
“Giada.”
“Does Giana let you fly your freak flag?” he asks.
“Honestly … I’ve never tried. I learned early on to tone it down so people wouldn’t write me off before getting to know me.”
“So you changed to fit in. Doesn’t sound like the girl I used to know.”
“Changed. Adapted. Did what I had to do to survive in a cutthroat industry in a city that eats nails for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It’s all the same.”
We approach a gate, and Wyatt gets down from his horse to let us in. A hundred feet or so away is a small herd of black Angus cattle, no more than ten or fifteen with a handful of calves.
“Ready to work?” he asks when he climbs back into the saddle. With a gentle kick of his stirrups, he leads his trotting horse to the rear of the herd, rounding the cattle up and urging them toward the gate.
A couple of cows take off in the opposite direction, but I’m on them.
Less than an hour later, we’ve moved them to another pasture. Wyatt checks the water tank while we’re there and lets the horses get a drink before we saddle up again and head back to the house.
“I want to see where you live,” I say when we’re back in the horse barn and he’s hanging saddles.
He stands frozen for a second, as if he’s contemplating it. Maybe I’m getting too comfortable and overstepping some invisible boundary by asking to see his personal home, but once upon a time that line shack was ours.
“It’s not the same as it was,” he says.
“I know. You said you updated it. I want to see what you did with the place.”
“It’s not a good idea.” He hangs the bridles on some wall hooks, then turns to face me, his hands low on his hips and a pained glint in his eyes. “I shouldn’t have let you keep coming back here like nothing changed. I hope I wasn’t leading you on and giving you the wrong idea—”
“–leading me on?” I choke on my laugh. “Giving me the wrong idea? Wyatt, you’ve given me nothing this week except a handful of stories and your stoic company. Trust me when I say you’ve not once given me the wrong idea.”
He frowns, his lips pressed flat as if they’re barring him from a response.
I check my watch, remembering the walk I promised my father this afternoon. I wasn’t anticipating the cattle drive today, so I’ll have to shower off the horse smell as soon as I get home or he’ll be asking questions I wouldn’t know how to answer.
“I’m going to take off,” I say. “Thanks for the ride today.”
I turn to leave, feeling the weight of his stare growing heavier with each step I take. He doesn’t call after me, not that I expect him to. I’m almost to my car when I run into Renata carrying calf bottles to the corral.
“You taking off, sweetheart?” she asks. “I was just about to start fixing lunch.”
“Yeah, I have to get going.” I don’t elaborate because it doesn’t matter. Any and all efforts to get Wyatt to open up about the past these last few days has been futile. No sense in dragging it out and making a bigger mess of it.