Page 61 of Deviant
The running felt like the lie.
I reset a fence post twice because I got the angle wrong the first time and that never happens.
I’m not as present as I’m pretending to be.
By noon, I’ve built the case against it so many times it should be airtight.
We don’t make sense.
He’s only living with his aunt for the summer and then he’s going back—back to school, back to wherever he goes when Cedarbrook gets to be too much.
I have a ranch I’ll inherit, a family that expects things from me, and a life that was laid out for me before I was born.
I’m not built for whatever Colt Dawson is. I’m built for this—this land, this work, these early mornings and long days and the particular satisfaction of something done right.
I don’t need what happened last night.
I don’t need any of it.
I need to get my head straight and do my job, and when Colt comes back tomorrow, I’ll be professional and distant. There’s only six weeks left of summer and then he’ll leave and this will all have been a temporary insanity that I can put behind me and never speak of again.
I’m repeating it to myself for approximately the fortieth time when I hear the motorcycle.
I’m at the water trough on the south side of the barn, filling it, my back to the driveway when I hear it, and I don’t turn around immediately. I hear the engine cut, and I hear bootson gravel, but I just stand there with the hose in my hand, watching the water level rise and telling myself to be calm and professional.
This is just another afternoon on the ranch.
“Hey.” His voice. Right there.
I turn around.
He looks like he didn’t sleep either. There are shadows under his eyes and his jaw has that particular set it gets when he’s holding something in check. His knuckles are wrapped and I notice that but file it away and don’t ask. He’s looking at me with an expression I can’t fully read, something between careful and certain—like a man who came here with a purpose and is deciding how to deliver it.
“Thought you were sick,” I say.
“I’m not sick.” He pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket and holds it toward me. “We need to talk. I got a text last night—from that number. The one you thought was me.”
I look at the phone, and I read the message. Then I read it again.
The water runs over the edge of the trough and I don’t notice until it’s soaking my boot. I shut off the hose before setting it down, taking a breath.
“What the fuck is this,” I say flatly.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Someone was watching us last night. Someone knows and they’re threatening to use it.” He steps closer. “Which means it wasn’t me sending those texts. I couldn’t have sent that to myself. Think about it.”
“How do I know you didn’t fabricate this?” I ask. “You’re pissed I left last night. You could have typed that yourself.”
Something shifts in his face. “Rhett.”
“No.” The word comes out hard. “I told you, what happened last night…it didn’t mean anything. I’m not gay. I don’t havefeelings for you. Whatever you think is happening here, it’s not. I need you to understand that, and I need you to leave me alone.”
The silence that follows is very loud.
He looks at me for a long moment. “Say that again,” he says quietly. “Tell me it didn’t mean anything. Look me in the eye and say it and I will leave. I swear to God, I will get on that bike and ride out of here and I won’t come back. Then you can go back to your perfect little life and pretend the whole summer didn’t happen.”
I look him in the eye. “It didn’t mean anything.”
He nods once and something closes off in his expression, some door shutting behind his eyes. And as he takes one step back, I think it’s over. I think he’s actually going to go, but then?—
