Earlier today, he’d asked Woodman, who’d been slumped in his seat, his expression a mask of quiet anguish as he toughed through the pain of his foot, “Excited to see Ginger?”
Josiah’s entire face had transformed at the mention of her name, softening, looking younger and more like his old self. But little by little it crumbled until he stared down at his lap despondently.
“Sure. Always,” he said softly. “But I can’t expect a girl like her to love a cripple.”
“Then we ain’t talkin’ about the same girl,” Cain said, his heart aching as he pushed all thoughts of her into Woodman’s arms. “Girl I know wouldn’t give two shits about your bad foot. In fact, with her in nursin’ school? Bet she loves it. She’ll have her own personal patient.”
“I don’t want to be her fuckin’ patient, Cain. Don’t want to be some half man who she feels sorry for, who can’t do for her, who can’t . . . can’t . . .”
“Uh, did I miss somethin’ here? Did your balls get crushed instead of your ankle?”
“Cain—”
“No, I’m serious, son. ’Cause it seems to me you still have a workin’ pair.”
“Shut the fuck up about my balls, huh?”
“I’m just sayin’,” he continued, ignoring the cries of his own heart, “that you can do for her.”
“Don’t talk about her like that,” said Josiah, but he wore a grudging smile, his cheeks turning pink, no doubt from thoughts of being intimate someday with Ginger.
And Cain’s own knife twisted in his heart.
“Numbnuts,” he muttered.
Woodman scoffed. “They ain’t seen the action yours have, brother, but I promise you, they ain’t numb.”
This led them down the path to one of Cain’s favorite conversations, and he gratefully left talk of Woodman and Ginger behind, the pressure in his chest easing.
“Tell me the truth: did you, or did you not, bang the redhead in Fort Lauderdale?”
“I plead the Fifth,” said Woodman, reaching for a bottle of water and unscrewing the top.
“The blonde in Marseille?”
“Da Fifth,” said Woodman in the same way the guys on Saturday Night Live used to say “da Bears.”
“That hot piece of ass in Rome?”
“Which one?” asked Woodman with a snort.
“Oh, man, I love Italian pussy.” Cain sighed, laughing along with his cousin until Woodman groaned in sudden pain. “Hey, when can you take more meds?”
“Whenever I want.”
“Then take one.”
Josiah narrowed his eyes. “I can wait.”
“Don’t be stupid,” said Cain. “Take it when you need to.”
“You know how easy it is to get addicted to that stuff?”
Cain gave him a look. “You’re not goin’ to get addicted. You’re in pain. C’mon, Josiah.”
“Don’t ‘Josiah’ me,” said his cousin. “I’m toughin’ it out. When I can’t stand it anymore, I’ll take one.”
That conversation had happened at ten o’clock in the morning, and Woodman had lasted until six o’clock in the evening without even so much as an Advil. Finally the pain was so excruciating, he couldn’t bear it anymore, and he took half a Vicodin that knocked him out.
As much as Cain didn’t like his cousin wading through the pain when there was a more comfortable alternative, it was these little flashes of spirit that Cain clung to, that convinced him that Josiah would find his way out of the darkness of his injury. Cain looked over at Woodman—at the blond hair that had started growing back in, at the golden beard that he refused to shave, and the thousands of freckles he’d inherited from his mother. Woodman was his flesh and blood, his memory keeper and friend, and Cain loved Woodman as much as his heart could love anyone.
Which is why he pledged to stay away from her and hoped—even as the mere thought bled his heart—that Ginger would be there to guide Josiah back into the light.
***
“Cain! Mein Sohn!”
“Servus, Papa!”
Cain stepped forward into the tack room and allowed his father to wrap him in an impromptu hug. He still wore the jeans and T-shirt he’d been driving in all day, and his father wore the boxer shorts he slept in and nothing else. It didn’t matter.
Cain couldn’t remember the last time his father had embraced him, and he savored the moment, inhaling the smells of leather and horse, cut grass, and Head & Shoulders. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He was home, welcomed back into his father’s arms like the prodigal son returned, and damn if it didn’t make his eyes burn so much, he had to pull away.