Page 28 of Unruly

Awater trough needs to be replaced today. I know this because Rhett told me twice this morning and I nodded both times. Then I spent twenty minutes standing at the post, looking at it instead of replacing it, because I was thinking about pink hair, curves, and leg tattoos.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve noticed everything about Halle Dawson.

I know she opens The Bar on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I know she rides her bike when the weather holds and her sedan when it doesn’t. I know she leaves through the back door every night and checks the parking lot before she walks to whatever she came in on. I also know she really didn’t like me sitting inside The Bar, watching her close up, so I’ve resorted to just sitting in the parking lot and watching her.

She knows I’m doing it and hasn’t said anything to stop it, which I consider a win.

I drove past her house twice this week just to see if the lights were on. They were, both times. It took everything in me not to knock on the door just to see her face.

By lunch, I’ve finished bailing most of the hay on this part of the property and move to the next task, thinking about the night I helped her close The Bar. She says she can’t fuck me, which hurts, but I get it.

Maybe I should actually ask her out on a date.

Is that what older women like? To be wined and dined? The thing is, every time I get to this point, I’m reminded that I don’t actually know how to ask someone out. Like … properly—in a way Halle deserves.

I’ve never planned a date. I can’t even recall a time I ever asked a girl out. They’ve always asked me, or things have just fallen into place. Or I’ve been somewhere and someone’s been there too and the rest handled itself.

That’s twenty-two years of a system that has worked without a single modification.

I wrap up my day and find Dawson and Makai near the barn. The two could be twins if you weren’t looking hard enough.

They’re hosing down equipment, both of them covered in mud. Makai already has a beer in his hand, and if my mom saw, she’d chastise him for being underage, but I don’t give a shit. He’s good company, and he pulls his weight, and that’s the whole list of requirements as far as I’m concerned.

I come in sideways, because that’s the only way to do this.

“Hypothetically …” I say, leaning on the fence rail.

Dawson doesn’t look up from the hose. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“You said ‘hypothetically.’ That word never precedes anything good coming out of your mouth. So, no.”

“Just … listen. If a woman has already told you no, what do you do with that? ”

Dawson turns off the hose and turns around slowly. “I’m sorry,” he says. “What?”

Makai looks up from what he’s doing, looks at Dawson, then he looks at me. Something dawns on his face that I deeply regret initiating.

“Did Cash just ask how to handle rejection?” Makai asks, chuckling.

“I didn’t say rejection. I said ‘no.’”

“Those are the same thing,” Dawson says.

“They’re completely different,” I argue.

Makai nods his head. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

“Just someone I know.”

“Someone you know well enough to ask out more than once?” Dawson asks.

I go very still. “What?”

“You said you already got told no.” He looks at me. “How did you ask her the first time?”

“We’re done here,” I say.