20. Red

Cassidy texted me to say she made it home safe and we should have a talk about boundaries after the holidays—then silence. I know we're apparently done hooking up, but after four days apart, I genuinely expected she would give in. Even if not, we're supposed to still be friends… and this feels like I'm not even somebody she'd make polite small talk with in the goddamn grocery store.

I should've kept my big fucking mouth shut instead of admitting I didn't just want to be whatever the hell we were. I can't believe I suggested we be together. Hell would freeze over before Cassidy would be interested in dating me. Her dad hates me. Her friends are probably indifferent, at best. And, even though she calls me Chase now, I'm still Red deep down. I'm still a fuckup kid from a fuckup family. A wave of ruin, liable to destroy the future she deserves. Unworthy of somebody so incredible, so bright, so beautiful.

Denny chucks a log onto the bonfire—our thrown-together New Year's Eve celebration, since going to the big party at The Horseshoe isn't an option. "Who wants a turn against the reigning champ?"

"Yeah, me." I take a long pull of whiskey to stay warm, then hand the bottle to Kate. Jackson climbs onto the snowmobile with a devilish look, and I know he's not going easy on us. The kids are in bed and all bets are off.

Denny and I hop onto our GT snow racers—sleds meant for small children, with tiny, plastic seats strapped to three ski blades. We're seriously testing the weight limits, and my knees are up to my chest when I sit down. We must look ridiculous. But towed behind a snowmobile at high speeds, they're fun as fuck. At the very least, it makes for a great temporary distraction.

I barely have time to give the nod that I'm ready before Jackson's taking off, sending us jolting forward with a sharp yank of the tow ropes. We're floating across the snow-covered hay field, guided by the headlights on the snowmobile. The bonfire at the far end of the field is a faint orange glow, and I struggle to make out Denny on the other sled. Until he veers the tiny, barely functional steering wheel on his snow racer and heads right toward me.

Motherfucker.

The object of the game is to knock your opponent off. Denny's been the champ three winters in a row because, apparently, his experience as a saddle bronc rider is actually good for something. He has surprisingly good balance.

Just before the front ski of his sled crashes into mine, I kick my foot out and give him a hard shove. He shoots away with an echoing, goofy laugh, and I make chase. Cranking the tiny plastic wheel and tearing after him. Jackson turns the snowmobile, helping give me the upper hand as I glide across the fresh powder.

Neither of us is prepared for a sudden acceleration when our sleds make contact. I'm thrown backward, reflexively grabbing Denny's arm and dragging him down with me. In a giant cloud of powdery snow, we tumble onto the ground.

Denny jumps to his feet with a grin. "I win that round, you fucker. You hit the ground first."

Jackson swings the snowmobile around to pick us up. "Nah, that was a tie. You went off at the same time. Tie breaker?"

I shake my head and brush the snow from my coveralls. "I need some more alcohol first. Shit—falling off hurts more and more every year."

Back at the bonfire, the ranch hands are playing beer pong on the flat deck of Colt's pickup. Somebody's cranked the truck speaker so loud the bass comes out scratchy. And I snatch the whiskey bottle from Austin for another long pull. "Are we getting too old for this shit?"

"Definitely." Austin shakes his head, holding Cecily tight on his lap. They kiss, and it feels like I've taken a bull horn to the sternum.

Cass was never mine to start with. Even when we were fucking and sleeping in the same bed every night, she made it clear we were nothing more than friends-with-benefits. And, apparently, friends-with-benefits don't kiss under any circumstance. Who the hell am I to argue? I'd follow any bullshit rules she gave me if it meant being in her life.

At midnight, I watch the couples kiss and text Cass to wish her a happy new year, knowing she likely won't reply. I don't know what else to do. I've never cared about somebody enough to be put in a position where I might have to fight to keep them. And losing this girl isn't an option.

The rest of the night's filled with mayhem, alcohol, and singing country songs at the top of our lungs. I can't go more than two minutes without thinking of her—no amount of liquor seems to erase the constant missing her. It does nothing to ease the dull ache in my chest or the weariness in my bones. But, damnit, that doesn't stop me from trying.

Even with all the cowboys working together to dethrone Denny, he comes out on top. Reigning champ four years in a row—and he won't let us forget it, either. Kate presents him with a purple and gold crown from Odessa's dress-up box, which is still firmly on his head when he passes out on the bunkhouse couch at three in the morning.