Amarillo by Morning

The last time he saw her, she had tears in her eyes.

You love me, Caleb Fincher, she said.

Yes, he told her.

He was angry, her face crumpled.

But not enough, she said, and her hands came up over her eyes.

For a moment, he stood still, surprised by the responses floating through his mind.

No, he almost said, not as much as you're asking me to.

Instead, he said nothing.

He repositioned his hat, pulled it down low over his brow, and made his way to the door.

Don't be the fucking cowboy that rides away, she cried.

We ride together.

We'll talk about this later, he said, his hand wrapped around the knob.

She sniffled.

No, we won't, she replied.

Had she known then? Did she have some sort of premonition? She shouldn't have ridden after that.

She was too upset.

Off her game.

But she did ride, and that was the end of everything.

Caleb shifted in his seat and turned down the volume on the stereo.

Garth Brooks, If Tomorrow Never Comes.

Apt, he thought nervously.

The song was too raw for tonight.

Outside, the world was dark, the landscape just a shade blacker than the sky.

Benny was driving, for which Caleb was grateful.

Caleb's Yeti Tumbler was filled to the brim with Jack and Coke, his bottom lip stuffed with Copenhagen Southern Blend.