Page 11 of Sunday's Best

Time stills with Logan and Holden beaming at each other. Pride swells in my chest. This is a dance they’ve done a million times; two brothers so in sync, surely nothing could ever cause a tangle or tear between them.

The minute Logan’s moved on, Holden calmly pats his horse’s neck on his way out of the arena, ignoring the crowd and me and even the announcer shouting about the pair breaking an arena record.

I really don’t want to fuck up our last season roping together, Sunday.

Holden’s words sit on my shoulders as I watch the brothers ride off toward our trailer. I don’t think he was talking about the money, the winning, the afterparties. I think he’s scared of losing the moment when they look up at each other through the cloud of dust, across twisted ropes and a strung-out steer, to share a deep level of intimacy and connection they don’t experience anywhere else.

If he’s right about how Logan will handle a breakup, there’s a real chance they lose all that. And it’s fleeting anyways, with Holden planning on quitting soon. As badly as I want to go home and move on, something else claws at my chest—I don’t want to be the reason it all falls apart.

By the time I’ve meandered my way back to the trailer, the two of them are nearly done with their celebratory beer. Holden’s sprawled across the small patch of grass outside the trailer, leaning back on his elbows, looking more relaxed and content than I’ve ever seen. Logan smiles up at me from his camp chair and beckons me over. His cheeks are still flushed from the run, and the bottom half of his jeans are covered in a film of light-brown dust.

“Did you see that run?” He laughs breathlessly. “All thanks to my lucky charm watching from the sidelines.”

Oh, he’s laying it on thick today.

I laugh, too, and let him pull me into his lap because it’s easy to play pretend with him when things are like this. “I’m pretty sure you were good at this long before I came around.”

“Mm… debatable. At the very least, we weren’t breaking arena records before you came along.” His arms loosen around my waist so he can grab his beer bottle for another long pull, then his cold, moistened lips press to my temple.

Holden huffs. “We weren’t breaking records before this year because we weren’t rodeoing in middle-of-nowhere arenas. Has nothing to do with your girlfriend tagging along.”

I flinch at the word girlfriend and again when Logan’s free-hand splays across my stomach possessively. Suddenly, his lap is uncomfortable, his thighs too bony, his grip on me suffocating.

“Ignore him, baby,” Logan whispers against my hair. As if I could ignore him. All I can focus on is the death-grip Holden has on the glass neck of his beer bottle while he downs the last few drops. “You’re still my lucky charm. What do you want for dinner? My treat.”

“I’ve been craving poutine all day.” I saw a woman walk by with one before the rodeo started and have been salivating at the thought of it since.

His nose scrunches. “I was thinking something fancier than that.”

“Oh, um…”

“Thought we could hit up the steak dinner the rodeo association’s putting on.”

My smile fades a little, and I steal the beer from his hand so I can sip and stall until I’m able to give him the enthusiasm he wants. Yes, I’m dating a cowboy. Yes, I grew up in cattle country. But yes, I prefer chicken over steak.

“Doubt they’ll have poutine at the steak dinner,” Holden notes.

“Every rodeo we go to has poutine. Most don’t have steak dinners—we’ll get poutine another time.” Logan brushes a lock of my hair behind my ear. “I want to show off my gorgeous good luck charm tonight.”

“Jesus Christ,” Holden mutters under his breath. He’s notably less relaxed, eyes trained on the paper label he’s picking off his beer bottle. “Why bother asking?”

“What?” Logan asks.

“Why bother asking what she wants if you already decided for her?”

A question I’ve silently asked a million times over the past year. At this point, I have to assume he derives pleasure from trivializing my thoughts and opinions.

“That’s not what I’m doing—we all deserve a steak dinner after that run.”

Matter-of-factly, Holden replies, “Sunday wants poutine.”

“No,” I interrupt, glaring at Holden in a way that I hope conveys please, stop. This isn’t worth ruining his mood. Though I kind of love having somebody stand up for me for once in my life. “I didn’t realize there’s a steak dinner happening. That sounds great.”

The corner of Logan’s lip curls upward. “Go get yourself dolled up for dinner, baby.”

I pull myself from Logan’s lap, brushing my hands over my ass to sweep away the arena dust, and savor the heat of two sets of eyes as I walk away.

A little after ten o’clock, I’m tucked in the corner of the sofa bed with a Diet Coke and a hockey romance. Knees pulled to my chest—Kindle balancing precariously on them—I’m cocooned by the oversize sweatshirt pulled all the way down over my bare legs. Outside, the trailer generator hums low and slow, responsible only for powering the fridge and a single tiny light above the stove.