Waylon Cox's Arc

Chapter 4 of 4

Waylon started with the canvas. He grabbed the torn edge and pulled hard, ripping it free from the rusted nails that held it to the workshop frame. Dust kicked up in clouds around him, coating his boots and jeans. The morning sun heated the metal roof above, making the space feel like an oven. Behind a stack of leather scraps, wedged between two warped boards, he found the photograph. Sun-bleached and curling at the edges. A shirtless version of himself, ten years younger, flexing in an arena with dust hanging in the air behind him. Someone had airbrushed his abs until they looked carved from stone. He didn't remember posing for it, but he remembered why he had—because the sponsors paid more for riders who looked like action figures. He set it on the workbench next to an old wooden sign that still had a bodybuilder poster stapled to it, both relics from when performance mattered more than skill. He carried the sign outside and leaned it against the workshop wall, face-out where anyone driving past could see it. Then he went back for the photograph. For a moment he stood there holding it, looking at the fake version of himself. That body had required two hours in the gym every morning before he even touched a horse. The smile had required forgetting what mattered. He'd needed all that theater because he didn't know how to be enough without it. Waylon tore the photograph in half and dropped both pieces in the burn pile outside. He grabbed a wrench and started dismantling the leather workbench, pulling it apart board by board until the space opened up enough for proper tool storage. By noon the workshop was clear. He had room now for the kind of work that would get him hired at those three ranches. The kind that didn't require flexing or smiling. Just square corners and solid footings. He wiped the dust off Harlan's list and headed for his truck.