Rider’s Block

36. Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter thirty-six

"Mercy," Brett Young

A fter being in Montana during the height of the fall season, California seems a little anticlimactic. The steadiness of a slight variation of one setting has always appealed to me, but now that I know that aspen trees apparently have a gorgeous transition of season, I find myself wishing I could put on a chunky sweater.

I bought one online. It was a lush cable-knit option that was oversized in all the right areas. I put it on immediately when it arrived. And then had to crank up the air conditioning. I looked ridiculous, but I felt festive.

My agent agreed with Eric that I should do a few events with my older books to tease the release of the new one, and she also swooned a little bit when Eric requested to align my events with his rodeo schedule. So, she did just that. I’ve gone to all but two of the past few rodeos he’s competed in over the last two months, so we barely feel like we’ve been living in separate states. He hasn’t made it out to California yet, but he’s got a trip planned for later this month. I’m pretty booked out through the rest of the year, but I’m okay with it. We knew this would happen with accepting the offer from this new publisher, so I was prepared for it.

What I was not prepared for was seeing a tall, dark, and imposing cowboy at my book events. Anytime there’s not a timing conflict, Eric finds a way to show up to my events that are lined up with his. I don’t know why it surprised me, but it did. The first time he walked through the door I was in the middle of answering a question, and I’m pretty sure I dropped my sentence mid-word. I got a lot of funny looks from the audience, but after turning to look at what I apparently was staring at, they got it. Eric just has a presence.

It’s only been a little over a month since I told Eric I wanted to actually give us a go. What’s surprised me the most is how little things changed. He still FaceTimes me every night we’re not in the same city. He still sends me little things in the mail. His effort hasn’t changed, but mine has.

That patient, angel man made so many unreturned gestures. The first time I mailed him something I was hit with immediate remorse that it took me so long. It was nothing big, really. Just a small good luck charm I saw in the store, and since I can’t make it to the rodeo this weekend I thought it’d be cute to send. He FaceTimed me immediately when he got it in the mail and made a big deal about showing me where he’s going to put it on his helmet. It was a small sticker that had the Hunter constellation on it, and now it’s on his helmet.

Somehow, seeing it on the television screen as I watch his ride makes me nervous. The few rodeos I haven’t been able to go to in person I still watch if they’re televised, and my anxiety watching him ride is ten times more potent when I’m not there and know I can hug him immediately afterward.

Tonight, I went out of my way to make it an occasion. Olivia is over watching with me. I’ve got popcorn and I’m wearing a shirt Christine sent me that has the ranch’s brand on it. Olivia, being familiar with the whole cowboy culture, is just as fun to watch with as Christine and Penny. The two of them have been texting me non-stop today, giving me the rundown of everything going on. I’m genuinely sad this is one I have to miss, but as hard as Sarah tried, there weren’t any events to line up, and it was too much travel time for me to make it back to my meeting in San Diego with my publishers.

The first thing that has my stomach twisting a little differently tonight, though, is that he’s on Ringo again. That horse never left my shit list after stomping all over my hat. It all worked out, sure, but he still is a mean soul that looks especially riled up tonight. I hate it. But Eric’s ridden him plenty, and won on him plenty of times, but I’ve got this sinking feeling for some reason.

Olivia is also apparently a vocal sports watcher. She does that leaning thing to help give athletes good juju, figuring if she leans, they’ll lean, and everyone will get where they should be. If I get her and Penny next to me at the same time watching, I’d get smooshed. But the gesture is familiar, so it makes me smile. She must know my nerves are through the roof as Eric gets in the pen because she stays stock-still. I watch Eric tap the sticker on his helmet, and I want to think he’s thinking of me, but I want him to be thinking of his ride.

I hold my breath, and this time when I let it out, it’s with a scream.

Ringo shoots out of the gate more aggressively than I’ve ever seen him. He’s whipping around and spinning so fast I’m dizzy just watching it, but what makes me so uncomfortable is how close he’s staying to the edge of the arena. Normally the horse tries to get into some open space, but Ringo is riding the edge and spinning in a way that I know he doesn’t have his bearings. Eric looks steady, but something in his hold seems to slip. When I get a closer look at the hand roped into place at the reins, with horror I see that he’s no longer strapped in. How he remains in the saddle for so long without his hand to steady him I’ll never know, but I do know that I lost several years of my life as I watched him fly off the side, hitting his head against the metal fence.

***

When everyone talked about Eric’s big accident, I went back to my cottage and looked it up. I knew it was a head injury, but that was it. Before he wore a helmet, he simply wore a cowboy hat. Most of the guys do, it actually seems a little more rare to wear a helmet, even though the benefits are infinite. But Eric didn’t have one on the day that his horse reared up so aggressively in the pen that, watching the replay, you can see the horse’s head whip back to hit Eric’s.

We haven’t actually talked about it, because I didn’t think I could stomach it, but when I watched the video, the remarkable part wasn’t the hit itself. No, what’s crazy about the whole video is that Eric continued the ride, despite his nose gushing blood, and rode for the full eight seconds, seemingly in complete control. It wasn’t until he was limply hanging from the horse, running repeated laps around the arena, that anyone realized there was something wrong. I watched the video as the handlers in the arena realized Eric wasn’t coherent and went to remove him from the horse that continued to sprint. By the time they got to him, he was unconscious.

I haven’t asked him about it because I don’t want to nag him; that’s what I’d tell anyone who asks. But I also haven’t asked him about it because in this moment, right here, I have the suspension of disbelief to try and tell myself he’s going to be okay. I don’t know the extent of his previous injury, but I know right now that the hit he took would be serious, regardless.

He doesn’t move for the first minute and a half. If I thought eight seconds was long, it’s nothing to this moment right now. Every attendant on the ground sprints to him. It takes that minute and a half for him to be moved out on a stretcher, and if it weren’t for the fist bump he gave one of the guys on the way out, I would have passed out.

Before I can even find my phone, I hear it ringing from the kitchen and sprint my way there, knowing it’s probably Penny. It is, and I don’t know if it helps. She does her best to tell me what’s going on, but I can hear the fear in her voice. She passes the phone over to Nancy, who tries to make her way to the medical center so I can talk to him myself, but by the time she gets there he’s already left. I’m still on the line as the medics assure everyone he’s fine, that he has no injuries and is good to go. When Nancy asks why he was brought out on a stretcher they say it’s protocol, especially for previous injuries, for the contestants to be given a full screening as a precaution. When I scream from my end of the line asking why he stayed so still, they simply said he did a good job following protocol. Nancy walks around for a bit trying to find him, but no luck.

I try to call him, but it goes straight to voicemail. I wait a whole twenty minutes before texting him, but after another thirty minutes, his read-receipt is still marked unread. Olivia does her best to calm me, but after two hours of waiting around to hear something, it’s getting late, and she heads home so she’s not a complete zombie at work tomorrow.

Penny and Christine are doing their best to help, but when they said that no one has seen him since he left, I really started to panic. I call Dean to see if he knows anything, and even he can’t help. He said he saw Eric get in his truck and drive off, and that was it. When I asked if it was wise for Eric to be driving on his own, he told me in a lighthearted way that, on any other occasion would be endearing for him, Eric was completely cleared and injury free and I should get my panties out of a wad.

I want to call him again, I want to text him again. I want to know what the hell he’s doing right now. Is it, is it my fault? Could it somehow be my fault?

The idea seems ridiculous. But he tapped his sticker before he rode. He’s never done that before. He’s never had the sticker before. Did it mess with his stride? It’d be silly to blame me for this kind of thing, but I’ve been in these shoes before. Blamed for things I had much less control over. If he’s as superstitious as Dean and Trevor are about their ropes, adding a step in the process could feel detrimental.

This is it. This is the shoe I’ve been waiting for to drop. I try to rationalize with myself. Try to be reasonable. But with each hour that passes without hearing from him, the dread in my stomach turns sour and I’m fully wallowing. The self-pity that I feel is off the charts, and I’m mad I let myself dive this deep.

I’m mad I let myself enter a scenario I knew could have the potential to make me feel like a burden again. I’m mad I let myself tie my happiness to another person. I’m mad I let myself trust again.

I do my best to hold off the tears, but they fall despite my best efforts. My anger turns into sadness as I pace my living room well past midnight, still holding out hope that he’ll at least reach out to tell me he’s okay. No one seems nearly as concerned about the fact that he’s disappeared as I am. Apparently, after a loss like this he normally retreats for a while to recuperate. Dean tells me no less than ten times that it’s normal for Eric to need personal space after an event like tonight’s.

But Dean doesn’t realize that every time he says that it breaks my heart a little further. I guess it’s fine that Eric needs space, I just wish he’d tell me.

It’s nearing two in the morning when I finally get enough resolve to start cleaning up the mess in my living room before going to bed. It’s not much, just some dishes and a few pieces of paper I nervously tore up watching the earlier events. I’m dropping off the last mug in the sink when I hear a familiar knock on the front door. My first thought is that my mind is playing tricks on me, but when Chester’s ears go back as he makes his way to the door I start to panic. I grab the bear spray Roper ran off with before going to the front door when I hear a second, slightly more urgent knock. A knock I know very well.

I look through the peephole, and all I see is a cowboy hat before I swing the door open.