I tried to make it light. I really did.
This morning, I brewed coffee thick enough to qualify as a mineral. I made a joke about it being strong enough to summon spirits from the canyon walls. Billy laughed—but it was the kind of laugh that’s offered, not given. And I felt it. That slight recoil behind the eyes. A warmth retreating.
We rode in silence again. Not the easy kind. Not the kind born of companionship or reverie. This silence had corners. Edges. It snagged.
The canyon had swallowed yesterday’s sun, and it seemed to be chewing on us now. Even the birds kept their distance. Every now and then I’d catch him watching me, but when our eyes met, he’d glance away, jaw tight. I wanted to speak. To give him something true, even if it wasn’t the whole truth. But what could I say?
We crested a ridge before noon, a high spot overlooking a lazy river snaking through the rock below. It should’ve been beautiful. It was beautiful. But the mood clung to us like dust. Heavy. Static.
He dismounted first, tending to his horse with more focus than necessary. I joined him, brushing down mine, not trusting myself to speak. The silence stretched, taut.
“Gonna be hot today,” he muttered.
“Scorching,” I replied, grateful for any words at all.
We broke for lunch beneath a crooked juniper. I pulled out bread and dried apples. He gnawed on both like they were penance. I tried to tell a story—something about a desert owl who couldn’t keep time—but my rhythm was off. My timing faltered. The story fell flat.
Billy finally set down his food and looked at me. “You ever get the feeling you’re not the only one hiding?”
I met his gaze and held it. “I know I’m not.”
That earned a blink. And then, like a storm breaking, he sighed. “I just… I feel like there’s this wall, Tak. Between us. And I didn’t put it there.”
“I know,” I said. It was the truest thing I’d spoken in days.
“I’m not asking for everything. Just… something real.”
I wanted to give it. Gods help me, I did. But the truth… the full truth? It wasn’t safe. For him. For me. For the fragile thing we’d been building, one laugh and touch at a time.
So I gave him a sliver. “I’ve lived a long time, Henry. Too long. And the longer you live, the harder it gets to know what’s yours and what’s just borrowed.”
He tilted his head. “Is that what this is? Borrowed?”
“No,” I said, and meant it. “This is the first thing in a long time that feels mine.”
That softened something in him. The air shifted. Not completely. But enough.
We spent the afternoon walking along the riverbed, the horses trailing behind. He skipped rocks. I failed to. He mocked me. I threatened a dramatic soliloquy in response. He dared me. I recited a love poem about river fish in my most theatrical voice. He laughed—really laughed this time—and shoved me into the water.
I yelped and dragged him in with me. We flailed. We splashed. We became mud-caked children in a godless baptism.
And for a while, the silence forgot how to find us.
We dried on warm rocks, bellies full of sunlight. He whittled a stick into a crude flute and made haunting, broken sounds with it while I pretended to be moved to tears. When he handed it to me, I played three notes before he snatched it back, horrified. “You’re cursed, Tak. That was music murder.”
“Please,” I sniffed, flicking water at him. “My critics are savage.”
Then came a moment, simple and sacred: he lay back, arms crossed beneath his head, and closed his eyes. I watched the rise and fall of his chest, the way the light caught on his damp lashes, the smallest twitch of a smile that ghosted across his mouth. He was still there, still mine, in that moment—and that was enough to silence the screaming truth inside me for a little while longer.
We rode back at a slower pace, letting the horses take the lead. Billy hummed tunelessly, and once or twice I joined him, just to keep the space between us filled with something besides memory. He pointed out a hawk circling high overhead and swore it was following us. I said maybe it was his spirit animal. He said it probably just wanted my boots.
By the time we reached camp, the light had gone amber. The fire took longer than usual to catch, but Billy didn’t complain. He handed me kindling, sat close without touching, and whittled the silence down to something bearable.
We played cards. I cheated. He pretended not to notice. Eventually, I confessed, and he lunged across the space between us, pinning me down and growling mock threats about hanging me for crimes against poker. His weight was warm, grounding, human.
And just like that, the wall didn’t matter.
That night, by firelight, we said little. But it wasn’t avoidance anymore. It was quiet in the way comfortable things are. I caught him watching me. This time, he didn’t look away.
And I thought: maybe I haven’t lost him. Maybe I still have time.
But the question—the real question—still sits between us. Like a stone in the center of the fire. Heating. Waiting.
I’ll have to lift it someday.
Just… not tonight.
