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Ouch.

That’s the most likely explanation.

I take a sip of scalding black coffee and shrug. “Doesn’t much matter to me either way.”

He’s watching me, but he won’t get a micro-expression out of me right now. I’m excellent at hiding my feelings in business. I can sit in a boardroom across from the biggest asshole I know and smile and shake his hand with no problem. Poker face is my default mode.

“Alright,” Sabrina says brightly, appearing in the kitchen. “Who wants to help me cook the sides?”

I end up having to chop a bunch of vegetables before I have the chance to shower. Then, while Sabrina and Coen sit out with the grill, I go up to the guestroom and strip down, trying not to think about the last time I was in this house. It’s a highlight reel, a pornographic one, and I can’t seem to turn it off.

After I shower, I reach for my sweats. My hands go still while tying on the strings. A wash of something I have no name for comes over me like a wave pulling me into deep water. My intention was to come out of Wyoming to see Coen, get a little bit of old times to keep me going, then head out of Maine for a few days for a rare break before I have to handle one of my new clients. I’ve spent the last seven months flying between LA and New York City. Exhausted isn’t a strong enough word.

I’m dead, in my bones.

The problem is…I’ve been dead before and I’ve always managed to wring some energy out of myself.

I have far too many people depending on me for their paychecks and careers. Stopping isn’t an option. Maybe, I can safely add a few hundred more milligrams of caffeine and take a direct flight when I head back so I can sleep before I get to Maine. Once I’m at the house, I won’t have the excuse of traveling to not answer my phone and emails. These days, I have to be on the verge of death before I can ignore an email and whoever is on the other end takes that as a valid excuse.

I shake my head and go downstairs.

It’s nice to be back at the ranch, but something is off. When I was here last year, I was worried about Coen and getting him situated. Now, he’s thriving and I’m thinking I might be the one who’s crumbling at the edges. All through our meal, I keep catching him looking at me like he’s worried. Do I really look that bad? Tired, yeah. But not to a worrying degree.

“What are you working on now, Jamie?”

I blink, focusing on Sabrina’s expectant face.

“I got a new client,” I say.

“Oh yeah? Anyone we know?”

I shake my head. “She’s got a big social media following, but I can’t say too much. I think she’s got a lot of potential though. I’m gonna be busy for the of the summer.”

“Is that where you’re headed after this week?” Coen asks.

I open my mouth, but somebody else’s words come out.

“I actually gotta get back in the next couple of days. She’s out in Texas, and I want a chance to hit up the Maine house to grab some things I left there.”

They glance at each other with that annoying all-knowing glance that couples do. They both know, but clearly nobody is going to outright mention the aspect in all this. If they’re not, I’m more than happy to keep quiet about it too.

At least for the time being.

After dinner, Coen and I do chores. It’s been a while since I worked on a ranch, but the muscle memory is there. I’m more impressed that he’s fallen so easily into the rhythm of it after years of being in the music industry, touring, and writing. He used to walk with his shoulders hunched, almost like he was expecting someone to swing. Now, he moves easily with his shoulders back, chest out. He looks a lot like me in that sense, only mine is born out of the need to always be on the defense.

Sabrina says she wants to get to bed early and retires upstairs. Coen lingers in the kitchen, wiping the countertops. I lean on the breakfast bar and watch without speaking.

“You want a whiskey?” he asks finally.

“I wouldn’t say no.”

He takes a bottle from the cabinet and pours two glasses, sliding one over. “So how are things?”

I shrug. “Same old. The record company is off my ass. I made a new contact at -Best Records, and I’m thinking I’ll pitch this new client.”

“Huh, you think Houston-Best would be a good fit for country?”

“She’s country-pop.”