"I don't know," I say. Because once I admit those things to Jessica, they become something we have to deal with instead of something I can pretend doesn't matter. “I know that I’m here and he’s there and that she’s somehow gotten compromising pictures of him in the past.”
Jessica studies my face. "That was before you two were together."
"I don’t know,” I repeat because I really do feel like I know nothing. I suspect a lot of things, and I hope a lot of things, but I have no certain knowledge and that’s what’s eating at me. “He's there with women throwing themselves at him, and I'm—"
"You're what?" Jessica's voice is gentle but firm. "Sitting here letting some obsessed fan convince you that your boyfriend is cheating on you?”
I stare at the mountains. "What if she's not wrong?"
"Listen to yourself. You're letting this woman write your story. She sends you a picture, and suddenly Wyatt's guilty. That's not fair to him, and it's not fair to you." She sets my phone down.
The truth of it sits heavy in my chest. "I hate this. I hate that I care this much. I hate that every time my phone buzzes, part of me panics. Is it him? Is it her? Is it the hospital?"
"That's what happens when you let someone in."
"I don't want to let someone in." The confession comes out raw. "I want to do my job and leave and not feel like my heart's going to crawl out of my chest every time he climbs on a bull."
Jessica sets down her food. "Then why are you still here?"
"Because I—" I stop. I reach for the necklace. "I don't know."
"Kinsley." Jessica's voice is patient. "You're dating him. Dating should be fun. Exciting. Not this—" she gestures at me, "—constant state of panic. Unless—" She pauses, studying my face. "Unless you're falling in love with him. Then we need to have a whole other conversation."
"I'm nowhere close to using the L-word,” I assure her. Of that I am certain. "I'm just—adjusting—badly I know—to having someone in my life. To caring about whether he comes home in one piece."
Jessica doesn't look convinced, but she lets it go. "You can leave whenever you want. You can stay here a few weeks,finish your job, and walk away. You're in control of this, Kinsley."
She's right. I'm in control—not Brittany.
I choose when to stay and when to leave. I choose whether to believe some stranger's texts or trust what I see in Wyatt's eyes. I choose how much of my heart to risk. Nobody else gets that power unless I hand it to them.
The sun drops behind the peaks, and the temperature falls with it. We gather the empty cartons and carry them inside. Jessica moves through my kitchen like she belongs there, finding mugs and honey while I put water on to boil.
We settle on the couch with our tea, and Jessica curls her legs under her. "What are you going to do about her?"
"Keep collecting evidence."
"And Wyatt?"
I wrap my hands around the mug, seeking warmth. "I don't know."
"He deserves to know she's harassing you."
"I know."
"So tell him."
Before I can argue or agree, the sound of a truck pulling up the drive interrupts us. I glance at the clock—nearly ten. "That'll be Billy."
We watch through the window as the cowhand climbs out of his truck, hat in his hands. He walks to the porch.
I open the door before he can knock. "Everything okay, Billy?"
“Yes, ma'am. Just checking on you before I turn in." He ducks his head. "Making sure everything's secure."
Something in me softens at his obvious discomfort—doing his job but trying not to intrude. I smile. "I appreciate that. Thank you."
He nods once, settles his hat on his head, and heads back to his truck. The engine rumbles to life, and red taillights disappear down the drive.