Chapter Twenty-Seven. Case

The hardest shit seems to hit on Tuesdays. I don't know why. Walker's double pneumonia diagnosis was on a Tuesday in August. He died a month later on a Tuesday in September. Because of some fluke of planning at the funeral home, his viewing and funeral were an entire week after on yet another Tuesday.

I'm not a superstitious person, but that doesn't mean I haven't been wary of Tuesdays ever since. Today has confirmed why.

I never used to collect the mail. Nothing ever comes for me, and after misplacing some important something or other meant for my dad back in the fourth grade, I've never craved the responsibility. However, that was before I applied and was accepted to a university. The acceptance process itself was online, but that hasn't stopped the onslaught of marketing mailers I've received since. Not to mention a recruitment letter for the rodeo team. I'm still getting every email, too, but it's as if Texas Tech is actively trying to out me by doubling down on the spam.

Which means it's way past time to let my dad know my college plans, but things have been pretty quiet the last few months. I don't feel like rocking the wagon and reminding him I'm not making choices he'd approve of.

I'm living my life the way I want, but I don't feel like explaining myself yet.

I'm thinking after July 31. That's a good deadline that's still a few weeks off but is also plenty of time before the first day of school.

It's just ever since Winnie and I became official, we've been busy. Work, obviously, and training whenever we're not working, but also, it's as though that first kiss in my car set off a fuse between us. Either I'm tugging her into the tack room, or she's pulling me behind the barn, or on one extra memorable night last weekend, Winnie stayed late after work and agreed to go night fishing with me down by the creek.

I've always had this fantasy of skinny dipping after dark with the crickets calling and fireflies sparking up the sky. Like Nitty Gritty Dirt Band–style. The reality wasn't as great. Lots of mosquitos, actually. And Winnie refused to get in the water if she couldn't see the bottom, which was fair. So reality was more like kissing in the grass under the light of the moon, which was still one of the greatest moments of my life so far.

I'm off track. The mail. I was talking about the mail and fucking cursed Tuesdays. I saw the dust trail of the mail truck while exercising Moses in the closest pasture, daydreaming about the way my girl glows in twilight. After cleaning Moses up and stowing him away, I went to retrieve the mail and grab some lunch from Kerry. Resting on top of the stack I'd retrieved from our giant rust bucket of a mailbox was an envelope with my name on it with a return address from a ticket vendor. Which was weird because I haven't bought tickets to anything maybe ever. Rodeo has taken up most of my free time the last decade. Curious, I'd walked over to a bench outside the stables and tore it open.

Inside, waiting for me, was a gut punch from my late best friend.

Two tickets to Headbangers Ball this coming weekend in Austin.

I sank to the bench, staring unseeing at the paper in my hands, blurring out my surroundings.

And that's where I've stayed.

Walker bought them a year ago. I remember the conversation—can still see him clearly in my mind. We were driving in my car after a run-of-the-mill field party. Walker was drunk as fuck, and some old Guns N' Roses song came on the radio, so he cranked it up. That was one of the hallmarks of Drunk Walker. I wouldn't let him listen to the radio in my car, because he always turned on his '80s arena rock garbage. "Thunderstruck" and AC/DC was only the tip of the iceberg when it came to Walker's obsession. But it was late, and I was sober and tired, so I didn't fight him on it. Thinking back, I'm glad I didn't.

The windows were down, and the night smelled like fresh-cut hayfields. This was months before he got sick. Not like Walker was ever healthy, in the strictest sense of the term, but he wasn't always dying. He was in this in-between period, borrowing years, perpetually waiting for the other boot to drop. Live fast, die young, that kind of thing. But back then, "die young" was mostly hyperbole. If things went well, he could live a happy life for a long time. But then the world went to hell, and people like Walker, who depended on everyone else to take precautions, found themselves constantly at risk.

Anyway, that night after Guns N' Roses squealed their last, the DJ announced a concert that following weekend in Austin called Headbangers Ball. They were a touring cover band of '80s arena rock. It was sold out, so Walker went and signed up for the mailing list. He was determined this would be our year.

Case, he'd pleaded with me, his eyes wild and animated under thick black brows. We have to do this. I'll make the arrangements. But we have to go.

I'd assumed that was the ramblings of Drunk Walker. He'd just lost his girlfriend to a yearslong battle with leukemia, and I was on this mission to make him forget for a while. I went along with it at the time, assuming in the hungover light of morning, he wouldn't remember.

Except he did. The fucker had actually done it. He'd reserved two tickets for this weekend, and then he went and died on me. What am I supposed to do with these? I don't want to go. I hate this shit.

Without permission, my vision goes watery and I swipe at my nose, sniffing loudly.

I hate this shit.

I don't know how long I sit there. Long enough for Winnie to find me after returning from her trail ride. She doesn't say anything, just sits beside me. Eventually, I pass her the tickets. I can tell by the way her breath catches she's found his name, but still, she doesn't ask anything of me. Which is good because I'm a dried-out husk, so tired of crying and angry that, once again, I'm crying. I don't want to do any of this anymore. I burned the list; I applied to college. I'm healing. Why can't I stop this fucking sadness from sinking me over and over and over again?

How long is someone supposed to feel this way? How can a person possibly live like this, being fine one minute and the next feeling as if happiness is impossible? Like I'm grasping at a concept I'll never understand again.

Winnie leans her head onto my shoulder, and the golden warmth of her body sinks past my defenses. I still don't have any words. I might never, at this point. Thankfully, she doesn't seem to need them.

Four days later, I'm getting out of the shower when there's a ringing at the front door. Kerry's around, so I let her answer it while I finish getting dressed, but just as I'm pulling down my T-shirt, she's yelling my name from the bottom of the stairs. Thinking it's likely Pax, I don't hurry. This is becoming a theme with him since the tickets came, and he's been by every single afternoon to sweep me away for tacos or burgers or whatever. I don't know where he learned this maternal need to press food into my hands and feed me all the time, but I'm gonna have to convince him to start liking bookstores or the batting cages or something, because I can't keep eating like this.

"Pax, it's barely ten, how can you even be hungr—" I stutter to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. "Winnie! Hey! Sorry! What are you—" And then the rest of her appearance sinks in. You have to understand. Winnie has one style, and it's a good one. It suits her and is cute as hell and really, really works on a ranch kid like me. Boot-cut jeans faded to perfection, fitted button-downs to look professional for the guests, dusty work boots, and a baseball hat to keep the sun out of her eyes.

Like I said: classic, sexy, ready to kick ass, and shovel manure.

Aside from Maria's party, that's been the uniform. Which is why I'm gaping like a fucking trout this morning: she's wearing cutoffs and a fitted T-shirt with the words I LOVE ROCK 'N' ROLL printed in slasher font.

"Too much?" she grimaces. "I found it at Target on clearance."

"Um, no? But—" My girlfriend is wearing cutoffs.

"Is that what you're wearing?" she asks me, taking in my T-shirt with the sleeves carved out and worn barn jeans.

"Y-yeah?"

She exchanges a friendly smirk with Kerry, who walks out of the room, laughing under her breath. "Well, okay, then. Is your bag packed?"

I blink at her, trying to comprehend what's happening. Is it our one-month anniversary already? Did I forget something?

"Let's pretend I'm an idiot and not because I can't stop staring at your legs," I drawl out nice and slow. "What are you talking about? Did I forget something?"

"Headbangers Ball, Case. Hello? It's starting in like"—she looks at her watch—"ten hours, and the drive is eight hours, not including stops, so we need to get a move on."

"We're going to Austin?"

"Yes."

"You're taking me to Austin? Right now?"

"Well, technically, you're taking me, because I seriously doubt my car would make it out of the panhandle. But yes. I already checked with your dad and Kerry and even Pax. The point is: we're going. If you want."

"I'm—I'm not—but I haven't—" I stutter, slipping my hand into my hair and trying to make words make sense.

Kerry is there, handing me my duffel with a beaming smile. "Here're your things. I took the liberty of packing you an overnight bag. Don't you dare try to drive home tonight."

"Don't worry. I made reservations at a hotel outside Austin," Winnie says.

Kerry nods her approval. "I packed some snacks. I know you'll fill up on junk food at the first Valero on your way, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to have something with a little more substance."

"We're going to Walker's show," I say, finally managing to coordinate the words coming out of my mouth with the ones in my brain.

Winnie takes a step closer and lowers her voice. "Are ya cool with that? I'm sorry to throw this all at you, but really, Walker did all the planning a year ago. I just went to Brody—"

"What? You did?"

Her smile is shy. "Yeah, who went to his parents because I initially wanted to pay them for the tickets. They flat-out refused the money. And before you ask, they're also paying for the hotel room. Insisted on it. They got all emotional and told me to tell you this is what Walker would have wanted—for you to still go. So I went to my dad and told him I would be leaving town, and he needed to be there for Garrett. This couldn't be like the last time when he flaked. And then I programmed Camilla into Jesse's speed dial, because let's face it, I don't trust my dad not to fuck this up, but I am trying to trust others. Anyway, he promised, so we'll see. But, Case…" She takes a deep breath, placing her hands on my shoulders.

"It's completely up to you. We don't have to do this. I just thought, maybe you secretly wanted to, and it could be a good way to, like, I don't know, honor your best friend. For that reason, I want to do it, too. Because he was my friend, and I never got to tell him that." Her voice gets a little wobbly, and she takes a second to clear her throat. "What do you think? Want to go on a road trip and eat lots of gas station sugar and listen to hours and hours of obnoxious arena rock?"

I sink onto the steps and drop my head into my hands. It actually sounds fun. I'm sure if it were Walker at my doorstep, I'd have given him shit for years over this, but he's not. The concert does seem like the perfect way to remember him. And getting away sounds nice. And a night in a hotel room with Winnie away from our families and coaches and coworkers… well. It's probably too early in our relationship for that. This isn't one of my sad distraction hookups. But still. Being with her, uninterrupted, sounds cool.

"Okay."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah. Let's do it. Um, can I change really quickly? I look like a farmer."

"But, like, a hot farmer. The kind they use in ads for those online farmer dating apps. I'm kinda digging the exposed biceps."

I snort, turning to run back up the stairs. "I wouldn't want to be too much of a distraction while you're driving my car, Sutton!"