Page 44 of We Drank the Dawn

With a single word, he’d brought my fears to life. I shook my head, denying the truth swimming around in my chest. “There’s nothing to figure out.”

“Well, maybe not for you. But I need to decide if I really want to be married.”

Ferocity from deep in my gut spewed from my mouth. “Oh, we are married. Whether you like it or not.”

“It takes two people.”

“What are you insinuating? That you want a divorce?”

He raised his hands in innocence. “No, not necessarily. I just need space to know for sure.”

Even though I had thought the same thing many, many times, I dug in my heels, putting up a fight. “This marriage is not up for debate, Peter Thompson.”

I glanced at the bartender who was throwing curious glances in our direction. “Pay your tab. We’re leaving.”

He pulled another long drag from his cup. “I’m not done.”

“Yes, you are.” I wrapped my hand around his forearm, giving him a tug.

But he reacted, his big strong hand grabbing my forearm and squeezing. He didn’t hurt me, but the touch wasn’t friendly. I took a sharp breath and looked him in the eyes. He stared into mine, desperation oozing through his irises. He leaned forward, drawing his head closer to mine as he trapped my arm out to the side. A thin layer of moisture pooled in his eyes. “Do you remember what you told me the night we got married?”

I blinked, stunned by the turn in the conversation.

He didn’t wait for me to answer. “You told me you wanted ten thousand adventures.” His lips trembled. “Ten thousand.” He grimaced as he laughed, but the tears in his eyes deepened. “As if we’d live long enough to have that many.”

My own vision started to blur.

Still holding my arm, he lifted his other hand and found the curve of my cheek. Too shocked to react, I stood like a statue, afraid he’d draw his hand away if I moved. His fingers trailed down the slope of my neck then came back to my face, his warm thumb swiping over the moisture on my lips. For one second, I thought he would kiss me. I couldn’t even breathe.

But he blinked and pulled his hand away. “I can’t give you any more adventures, Sarah.”

“No—”

He squeezed, and a small pain shot into my hand. “You’re not listening.”

“How could you say that? All I have done is listen, Peter.”

“You’re hearing me, but not listening and there’s a difference. Every damn time I try to talk to you you tell me why I shouldn’t feel the way I feel or why I shouldn’t be so depressed or why I should just suck it up and do the things I don’t want to do. You tell me life is hard and at least I’m alive.”

I opened my mouth but he continued.

“Please, just listen to me this one last time.”

I blinked. Last time.

He whispered, his face close to mine. “I don’t want to ride a fake bull or kick around a ranch. I don’t want to listen to an audiobook or sweat my ass off in a hammock. I don’t want to wake up early for a sunrise I can’t see. I don’t want to be with my family and fight every second to be the old Peter that everyone used to love. I don’t want to work for Chip and fumble around with technology while my clients watch. I don’t want to hear about the stupid list ever again. And, worst of all, I don’t want to be a husband. You know why? Because every second I’m plagued by the knowledge that I should be more. I should do more. I shouldn’t be such a coward. That you deserve better. But I’m drowning and no one is listening. So I’m done trying, Sarah. I’m done.”

He’s drunk. He’s just drunk. He doesn’t mean it.

The words “you don’t mean that” were on my tongue when a loud “Peter” filled the air. To my horror, three cowboys rounded the end of the bar, making their way in our direction. Peter brushed his cheek over his shoulder, swiping away the evidence of his unraveling. Then he turned, his fake smile in place.

I stiffened as Cody walked right up behind our chairs, tossing me an impish grin that made my stomach curl. He playfully grabbed Peter’s shoulders, the motion rough with stifled aggression. “This guy’s got the right idea. I could use a beer myself.”

Peter picked up his cup again.

Harlan leaned against the bar a couple seats down, rapping the countertop with his palms as his eyes scanned the liquor wall. “It’s Saturday night, isn’t it, boys?”

“Yes, sir-ree.” Cody crooned.