Page 39 of Fever Dream
I often think our shared tragedy has bonded us in a way we might never have been before. I love my family fiercely. So much that it hurts sometimes. I don’t recall how old I was when I made this decision, but at some point I decided that I already love enough people for this lifetime.
“You know I’m not cut out for a relationship, Parks. You know how it feels to lose someone. No thanks. Hard pass.”
“I know how it feels. But I still want that one day. Maybe more even. I’m willing to take the chance.”
I wince, trying not to worry about my sister’s poor heart. “Happy for you. But I don’t need to set myself up for more of that. It’s how I came to appreciate the beauty of casual relationships.”
She arches a brow at me. “This show is not very… casual.”
“No.” I sigh. “But it’s predictable. And I know my limitations. Which means I know I can make it through this dating show without falling for anyone. Won’t let myself.”
Her second brow lifts, matching the first. I can’t tell if she’s impressed or thinks I’m full of shit. “What if you come close?”
“If I come close, I’ll take care of it by saying or doing something that makes me out to be an unlovable prick. My strategy is basically foolproof.”
“Wow. Lucky ladies,” my sister says dryly.
“Welcome toRomance Ranch.” I wave a hand over the set and chuckle, providing a little levity to an uncomfortable conversation.
Parker leaves and heads back toward the barn office, shaking her head at my antics as she goes. I watch her, feeling a bit lighter for having run into my sister.
But all my humor evaporates when my eyes land on Julia. She’s standing next to Richard, talking animatedly.
All traces of blood are wiped away and there are no cactus pieces stuck in her hair. In fact, it’s slicked back in her signature bun. All traces of her escapade are erased—save for her scuffed knees. But even those are now covered with Band-Aids.
In a pair of icy blue linen shorts with a matching vest, she’s the picture of summertime professionalism. Appearing totally pulled together and far more at ease than I’ve been able to pull off since that exchange in my house.
She’s confusing. Confusing enough that I should push her away. But the problem with Julia is that she seems almost impossible to offend. I’d tried my unlovable prick routine on her yesterday, and she’d thrown her head back and laughed as though I’d said something hilarious.
But the joke is on me because we’re going to be stuck on set together for the next month.
Boner-gate be damned.
I watch the ten women in front of me muck stalls. Or at least try to.
And I try not to look horrified. The cameras are rolling, after all. But it never occurred to me that a pitchfork and wheelbarrow could pose such a problem for an adult.
The ten women chatter and laugh, shooting me furtive glances as though they could make scooping shit sexy. All borderline dolled up, they look bright and colorful in the drab, low-ceilinged barn.
Earlier, I gave them a tour of the stables and arena, and I didn’t miss the way some of them regarded the facility with barely disguised looks of disgust. Which only makes me defensive of this place.
I’m well aware Stal Brandt’s barn is old and outdated. Its tin siding has faded, and the finish has worn off the concrete alleyway, making it difficult to sweep clean. Old tree trunks, still covered in bark, construct the indoor arena. They stand on end, bound together to create a wall sturdy enough to keep the snow out in the winter. It might have been an innovative way to build an arena at one time, but now, with all the equestrian technology out there, it’s just wacky and weird.
But it’sours. Opa built it by hand. It’s one of a kind. It’s not fancy, but it works—kind of like our family.
Plus, Riley keeps the equestrian facilities safe and in impeccable shape. She works with what she’s got and never complains. When a horse sells, she chooses where to invest the money. A portion always gets budgeted to go back into the facility or into developing the next young horse, not just for travel and competition.
The log walls may let the wind through and make riding in the winter downright frigid, but the footing is world-class, sparing the horses any unnecessary wear and tear on their joints.
Sure, she’s the wild child of the family, but Riley is deeply driven and selfless too. So, watching the odd judgmental side-eye has me noting who needs to go when it comes to the weekly elimination ceremonies.
“Emmett,” Teri, the producer who follows me around almost constantly, gets my attention from where she’s set up at the end of the barn alleyway, stalls lining the concrete strip. “Get in there. Show the girls some of your expertise.”
She’s being encouraging, but I still find myself covering my grimace.
Then I think of Julia. She seems to think that if I’m myself, I can pull this off. The way she’d said it hadn’t been completely complimentary. “The hot bad-boy thing you do” makes my personality sound like some sort of charade.
Maybe it is.
