Rough Love (Tannen Boys 1)

But mostly, my mind wanders to the past, flipping through memories like scrapbook pages in my mind. Allyson Meyers—the girl I loved, the girl I thought I was gonna marry, the girl who dumped me as soon as she caught sight of the fancy, smart city boys at State.

The girl who broke my heart.

Anger burns hot and bright in my chest, and I rub at the hard muscles there, even though I know it won’t do anything for the pain. The anger is the dark, bitter chocolate syrup on a shit sundae of hurt, disappointment, and disillusionment. Big words for a stupid cowboy, but there ya go.

I hear a guitar playing up ahead and almost turn back, knowing Bobby’s been working on a song lately and it’s giving him fits. Farming’s always been this way. There’s a lot of hard work, sure, but when you get a break, time stretches out and you can get a little too deep with your thoughts. I offered to find some rhymes and help, but like the asshole he is, he’d said he already knew how to rhyme cat and hat, as if that’s the extent of my capabilities.

Love that fucker, though I’d never tell him in those words because that’s not our way. Nah, I’d told him by sweeping his legs out from underneath him and holding him down while caterwauling my dirty version of a ‘cat in the hat’ song. Though it was probably more of an unofficial naughty limerick.

There once was a man so hick,

That he thought his leg was his dick.

So he swung it this and that way,

Everywhere, every day,

Proud when people said, ‘Look at that prick!’

So I decide interrupting him is all right and a fair shot at annoying him some more. “Incoming,” I shout.

As I round the last row of trees, Bobby’s poised with his guitar on his lap, leaning back against a tree. He’s got half a smile on his face, shaking his head. “Incoming? You dropping bombs? There are easier ways to fertilize the trees, you know.”

“Maybe,” I deadpan. “Though I wanted to be sure you weren’t serenading a friend. A naked one.”

I look around pointedly, seeing that he’s definitely alone, as usual. He’s a hard worker, not much for screwing around with his life, with his music, or with girls. “Want me to sing for ya again? Give you a little inspiration? I could be your muse.” I frame my face with my hands like I’m posing for a picture, mean mugging the whole time.

“Fuck no, asshole! I had to listen to two solid hours of Hank Williams and Johnny Cash after the other day to get my balls back where they belong. I don’t think I’ve ever cringed that hard.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, choosing to take it as a compliment. More seriously, I ask, “Song still giving you a hard time?”

He picks at a couple of strings, finding the melody he’s been playing on repeat for weeks. “Yeah, it’ll get there, though. Sometimes, the hardest ones are the best ones.”

I can’t help it. He’s being all profound, but c’mon, I can’t skip a soft ball like that. “That’s what she said.”

“Dipshit,” he says, kicking at my shins but grinning. “You know what I mean.”

I nod, sitting down beside him in the shade. “You’ll get it. You always do. Just let it marinate like Shayanne’s roast.”

It’s a bit of a running joke in our family. When Shayanne has shit she wants to do that doesn’t involve cooking us fuckers dinner, she throws a roast in the crockpot and calls it a day. She used to think she was being tricky, like we’d be fooled by the aroma of cooking meat, but we all knew that a roast meant she’d been up to something, usually something sketchy. It’s become a bit of a euphemism to not work too hard on one thing and to let yourself branch out a bit.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the strums of Bobby’s playing. He gets into a loop and pauses. “What’s up?” he says, his fingers working chords on the neck of his guitar but his other hand resting on the body of the instrument.

I scoot down, laying against the tree more than leaning, and pull the brim of my cap down low so he can’t see my eyes. “Nothing.”

Drop it, I silently order.

But he does no such thing, making that annoying noise like I gave the wrong answer on a game show. “Ehnnt, try again. What’s up?”

I stay silent, stewing in my head, and he doesn’t push anymore. His patience is one of his strongest traits, and I know he’ll wait me out with ease. One of his greatest weaknesses, though, is his big mouth. Boy can’t keep a secret for a hot minute.