Page 32 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

Ah, that. My failed relationship. My only relationship—if you can even call it that. It lasted four months before she told me I needed to “work on myself”.

Translation: I was too much and not enough at the same time.

Which is why I ended up spending an arm and a leg in therapy each week, just to realise that everything wrong with me stems from way back. Before my relationship ended. Before Naomi told me I needed to work on myself. All the way back to the rainy night I watched my mom disappear from my life Eighteen years later, and she was still not back. And that sits the heaviest now that I'm an adult. Wade couldn’t keep me from her anymore, even if he wanted to. So why has she never come back?

I finally speak, because Dr. Palmer is doing what she always does best, letting the silence choke me until I give in.

Therapist tactics 101.

“Yeah, well, this ain’t the same. Last time I… I expected too much.” One of my legs swings back and forth, my boot scuffing the floor with every movement as I avoid Dr. Palmer’s eye contact.

I glance up to confirm that I was correct. Her expression softens, though I didn’t think it could get any softer. “It’s good you can see that. But sometimes we repeat patterns before we notice. You might be putting more weight on this friendship than Maeve expects. That can create pressure—for both of you”

My brows furrow.

“She likes being around me too,” I shoot back, maybe more defensive than I intended. “I’m not chasing her off or anything.”

“I didn’t say you were.” Her voice stays calm and collected. “But you’ve spent most of today’s session talking about Maeve, how’s she’s changed things for you. I’m just asking you to be aware of how much you are putting into this friendship. Balance. Independence. Those matter too.”

I stand, grabbing my hat because if I sit here any longer, I may not return. “Yeah… balance. Got it,” I glance at the clinical-looking clock above the door. “That’s our time, ain’t it, Doc?”

“It is.” She rises with me. “I’ll see you next week. Just reflect on what I said. I have your best interests in mind.”

She walks me out into the harshly lit waiting room, my good mood from earlier already dimmed after her words.

I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to feel better after therapy, and yet, I’m a ball of anxiety driving back to the ranch.

I blast the radio through the speakers, hoping it will drown out Dr. Palmer’s words replaying in my head.

It didn’t work.

Instead, all the slow country songs fuel this uneasy feeling deep in my gut, leaving me questioning whether Dr. Palmer is right. Maybe I am the reason Maeve was off yesterday, and not Wade. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind until now. Wade’s usually the problem. But what if I’m the one who made things… heavy?

She didn’t even stay for dinner when she returned from town. Wade took a plate, joining us all at the table, while Maeve said she was too tired. Said she wanted an early night. Even when Mrs. Mae tried to get her to eat, always the force-feeder, Maeve just joked that she had her fill of coffee and pastries.

I followed her out into the hall as she left, to check if she was ok, but she was short with me.

“I’m fine Colt, chill.” Granted, I did ask like four times, but it’s not like her to be so blunt. I say this like I’ve known her my whole life, but sometimes it does feel that way.

Why am I beginning to overthink everything now?

The gravel crunches under my tires as I ease the truck to a stop in front of the main house. And before another thought has a chance to enter my head, I am out of the truck striding toward the barns with one thought in my head.

Find Maeve.

I need to know if going to town yesterday with Wade worked. If she’s still planning on staying.

Storming through the barn doors so fast that I’m pretty sure there’s smoke under my feet, I call out, “Maeve, you in here?”

I am met by nothing but horses chomping away at their hay.

Where’s she? She should be here. She usually is.

As I make my way to the back of the barn to check whether she is in the back by the pen, I hear a clang coming from the tack room. A slight moment of hope washes over me, only to be snuffed out by the sight of Wyatt organising the saddles.

“Whatcha doing here?” I ask.

“What does it look like? Clearing out the damn barn,” he responds in a dry, humourless tone.