I’ll also be doing a bull-riding demo. It wouldn’t be fair for me to compete at this level now. My days of tossing my hat in the ring on the local circuit are far gone, but it’ll make for good TV, or whatever the fuck Dick Wad always says.
I’m sitting at a picnic table, waiting to meet Catherine’s mom and best friend while the crew looks on. When they approach, I stand politely and shake their hands.
If I had to pick a favorite of the girls, it would be Catherine. She’s quirky, interesting, and kind. She’s not the hair-pulling type, either—for that, she gets extra respect.
We sit at the table with a pitcher of iced tea, a red and white umbrella fluttering lightly above us. The cameras surround us, but after this many weeks I’ve grown used to them.
We mostly chat about Catherine’s favorite topics, murder and kidnapping, along with a little light stalking. All in a day’s work when you’re pretending to date someone who’s obsessed with true crime.
Much like me, her mother and her friend seem charmed by her interests, and I find myself relaxing and enjoying their company. The crew must notice because Teri shoots me a double thumbs-up and a big grin, like she’s thrilled about whatever footage they’re getting.
I wonder if it ever leaves them feeling empty, that they’re forever producing the perfect scene.
I get a few questions about my intentions with Catherine, and it’s awkward as fuck. I can’t tell them the truth, that I’m just not interested in her that way.
So I settle on explaining how I’m still getting to know Catherine. I tell them I have a huge amount of respect for her and love how her brain works. I say that I admire the way she conducts herself on the show. It’s not overly flowery, and it’s definitely not some sort of declaration of love, but it is true, which is more than I can say for my next few family meetings.
The crew moves me to the next spot where I meet Jada’s family. I disassociate for most of the conversation and resort to saying things like, “It’s been a pleasure getting to know your daughter. And I can’t wait to see where this takes us.”
I keep it vague and distant, which is exactly how I feel about the whole thing.
When I move on to Akira’s family, I feel like a walking, talking zombie that tries to tell them the things they want to hear, that smiles at the right times, and laughs at their lame jokes.
I’m sure her dad picks up on it. His distaste for me is clear in every facial expression, but I don’t have the grit to rally. By this point in the day, my brain has spiraled into thinking about the only person who seems to hold my attention these days—Julia Silva.
She consumes me. It’s not fair to any of these women or their families. But what am I supposed to do?
I’ve tried to get her out of my head, but it never lasts. It’s a constant battle. While on camera, I try not to search the crew for her, but that’s a challenge.
Time apart combined with the way she stepped in when Carl was reaming me in his typical way has only intensified my attachment to her. His explosions are short-lived if you just grin and bear them, but no one has ever been there to stop them.
Until her. And she did it so effortlessly.
For a minute there, I bought her act. Until she locked the door and hugged me. She squeezed me hard enough that every other thought fled my brain—save for the ones about how good it felt to be held by her.
It made me want to take her back to my cottage and show her how consumed I am with her. Hell, I’d have settled for following her around for the rest of the day.
But I couldn’t.
When we separated, she didn’t prod me about my dad. She didn’t even address the incident, save for jokingly offering to kill him. Instead, we had a quick discussion about which rodeo would be best to set up a demo at and parted ways like true professionals.
We’ve kept our distance since then. Just like we promised over diner omelets and black coffee. Sure, we slipped that afternoon in the tack room.
But we course corrected.
Neither of us is oblivious to what’s at stake.
Now, with three of the four meet and greets out of the way, I prepare myself for the riding demo. Richard has left Evelyn’s family for the end of the night. He said something about saving the best for last, but I’ve begun tuning him out and didn’t care enough to hear the rest.
The barrel racers have gone. The steer wrestlers have gone. Hell, even the kids riding sheep have gone. And now, as soon as the competing bull riders have wrapped up, I’ll do one ride for show.
Through the speakers, the announcer explains bull riding. The way it’s scored and what it entails, because this rodeo always brings out spectators who don’t really know what they’re watching.
I walk toward the holding pens, and I can see the crew, the women, and their family members scattered throughout the stands. Behind the scenes, everyone knows me by name, but I barely recognize anyone. It’s been too long, and I’ve avoided these events like the plague just to keep my distance from Carl.
Darkness falls over the rodeo grounds, and the rodeo workers light the arena with large overhead floodlights. I watch a few of the younger riders go, offering them tips and encouraging words before I get myself dressed and warmed up. I strap on my chaps, my vest, my helmet, my gloves—everything I have is littered with sponsorship logos.
Most of the guys riding here can only dream of competing at the same level as me. And hell, one or two of them might make it. Mostly, what they’re going to get are head injuries and bad knees.
Who knows, maybe if they’d had Carl on their ass every step of the way, they’d make it further. Fucked-up as it sounds, enduring Carl has been worth the success it’s brought me. I’m a fierce competitor, unapologetic, focused, and willing to tolerate an abusive parent all because I love winning.
It’s damn near impossible to make it to the top of the sport, but even without an asshole for a dad, I’ve had unmatched natural talent on my side. Balance, inherent coordination, strength and stamina from days on the farm, mental toughness that doesn’t allow me to overthink. It’s all served me well. Some people might say admitting that makes me cocky—I say it makes me realistic.
I channel that arrogance as I make my way toward the pens, not feeling the least bit nervous.
Until I catch sight of Julia. Curly hair, baggy jeans, a cropped T-shirt, and a pair of sneakers.
I feel like in her mind she’s dressing not to impress, flying under the radar. But it doesn’t work on me.
She could wear this outfit, the denim minidress, or that red dress. She could wear a paper bag or a barf-covered sarong, and I’d pick her out of a crowd.
Either way, her presence here sets me on edge in a way I’ve never felt before.
I push away the nerves as I hop up onto the metal fencing bordering the chute. People are talking to me, giving me instructions, directing me, but I tune most of it out. This is all second nature to me.
I drop onto the bull in the narrow pen, and it jostles me, eager for the gate to flip open and set him free. I’m not worried, though. This isn’t a WBRF bull, and that’s where all the best bulls end up.
I wrap my hand, heating the resin on the rope. The motion lulls me into a certain sense of peace and familiarity. As I zone out, I enter a headspace where everything else falls away.
This always happens. Years of practice coming together in a perfect symphony. The moment flows from there. I secure my gloved hand and feel slaps on my shoulders.
The announcer’s voice crackles on the speaker. I hear my name. Bush, not Brandt. For a moment, I’m transported back to my teenage years. Being hauled from rodeo to rodeo. As much as I hated spending time with Carl, I fucking loved riding bulls.