hometown & length of time in br: born & raised. toured around the US for many years but officially returned a year ago.
neighborhood: silver creek ranch, on the outskirts of briar ridge hills
✍︎ penned by: tee
PINTEREST | BIOGRAPHY | TIMELINE
TW: Parental abandonment, physical injury
Weston grew up on Silver Creek Ranch, feeling overshadowed by his brothers and distanced from his famous bull-rider father, who often made him feel inadequate. After his father left the family when Wes was just nine, he channeled his feelings of abandonment into sport, finding solace and a sense of control. Despite his family’s concerns, he pursued bull riding tenaciously, gaining a reputation for his skill and fearlessness, winning numerous titles. Bull riding was everything to him, and though he was aware of the risks, he wanted to ride for as long as possible. The harder the bull, the better. However, by his mid-thirties, the physical toll of the sport caught up with him, culminating in a severe knee injury that forced him into early retirement. Wes returned to Briar Ridge for good with his tail between his legs, taking on a ranch hand role on their family farm. Although Wes has been struggling with his new reality, his hometown is becoming more and more of a safe space as time goes on. Still, the spirit of the daredevil lies within him, and although he has no idea who he is without bull riding, he's slowly, but surely, rediscovering himself.
HEADCANONS:
Wes is dyslexic and has dyscalculia. It's always been one of his biggest insecurities, why he hated school. Oftentimes you'll find Wes pulling cash out of his wallet to pay, and getting embarrassed and walking out because he struggles with numbers. Give him a credit card ANY day.
Not a fan of doctors, or going to the doctors.
Hates coffee, but is partial to a tea.
Wes took on his mom's maiden name Campbell as his stage name, to avoid being compared to his father in the rodeo circuit.
Wes' dad moved on with another woman shortly after leaving his family. Over the years he's tried to reach out a handful of times, but the only one who has cared about speaking with him is his older brother. There was a time where he swore he spotted his dad in the audience of one of his shows, and it almost threw him off his game. Little does Wes know he was actually there.
Loves spending time with his nephew. You'll often see them grabbing ice cream and hanging out around town.
Drives a blue pick up truck.
Can play the guitar and sing — but rarely does so
Has a bloodhound named Gus that follows him everywhere
CONNECTION IDEAS:
Old riding buddy — someone he used to compete with, now either a rival or drinking buddy.
Protégé — a younger rider who looks up to him and seeks advice.
Drinking partner — someone he hits the bar with, whether it’s for fun or to blow off steam.
Unrequited crush — someone who liked him (or he liked) but the timing never worked.
Secret fling — happened years ago and was never spoken of again, but it’s hard to ignore now.
"⸻ son of a bitch." The curse flew from Evan's lips, spoken none too softly, as she finished listening to the sixth (yes, sixth) voicemail from Sadie's new guidance counselor. It wasn't like her to ignore her phone. It definitely wasn't like her to ignore calls from the elementary school.
Then again, her afternoons were usually spent working a slow shift at the hardware store... not clocking extra hours at the bar for the sake of the tips.
If not for a quick, three worded text from Sadie's dad—headed to school—she would've been out the door and peeling from the parking lot before anyone could stop her.
Instead, fingers pinched the bridge of her nose. To the nearest customer she sighed, "You ever feel like you're jugglin' so many balls—" there was a joke in there somewhere— "you're just droppin' 'em all? Swear there could be ten of me and it still wouldn't be enough hands."
Wes had been wiping down the bar when Evan's voice cracked under the strain. His eyes instantly lifted and remained on her; she looked worn thin with stress, one hand pressed to the bridge of her nose like she could hold the weight of the world there. He didn't say anything right away, a gentle sigh escaping him as he tucked the rag aside and motioned towards her, arms folding loosely across his chest. “Doesn’t look to me like you’re droppin’ the balls,” he said at last, voice quiet but sure. “Looks like you’re catchin’ more than most folks would even try. School calls, workin' two jobs, keepin' your kid fed and cared for.. that's not failure. That's doing everything you can.” The words weren’t much, not dressed up or dramatic, but they carried the kind of weight that came from someone who meant every single word. And when he saw the tension still drawn tight around her shoulders, he added, softer, “If you need a breath, I've got the bar. We'll manage.”
"People always comment on your brooding good looks, but little know how smart you really are." She pointed to the visor to indicate why with a teasing smile. As if the act of refusing to hang another picture was damn near mind-blowing. There were certain things about their past that she felt were sacred and it was nice to know that perhaps he felt the same about his visor, the jukebox, hopefully their slice of paradise in the form of a private lake. There was no way of knowing without outright asking and risking the chance of exposing the underlying jealousy over who or what he may have been doing while she was gone. It wasn't her place— but she wasn't asking because she was too polite, rather because she doubted she was ready for his answer. Ignorance was bliss. She couldn't help but laugh quietly when a memory replayed, "I remember when Shane tried to pull it down once when he was driving it. You almost dived across the dash to stop him and the red that crept your neck, I'm surprised he didn't try again." Her hand rose to touch the collar of his shirt. Though she was certain that he'd taken one look at the frantic couple beside him and put two and two together.
"Thank goodness for things dying hard." She partly echoed playfully while her gaze trained on the street. As confusing as it could be for them to test the limits or allow so much to remain unsaid, Selin couldn't help the way she eased into that person with him. He was a comfort she selfishly wanted to keep a hold of. Their chapter hadn't ever been closed—whether it be after high school or when she left— and while it could be complicated, there was a warmth in that. "We've always been easy, though. Even when things felt like it would be complicated for everyone else, it wasn't for us." She didn't remember the exact reason why they hadn't told people whenever they found each other during those short periods he was back in town. Whether they assumed it might be the last so there was no reason to, or because it felt sacred without the town being aware. All that mattered was that they were together, and then things felt... right. Easier, quieter, clearer. She fell silent and allowed the pregnant pause to take in the words for what they were. A truth she'd known all along. It was the reason why she'd stayed and continued despite only being given fractions and slivers of the male while he travelled and lived a life she never was apart of but only watched on the small screen of her phone whenever she had a break or saw across her feed from time to time. "You know I never held that against you, right? I got it." Her gaze flicked from him to his leg while she wondered whether or not she should even go down that hole as it could easily shift their night.
Luckily she allowed the moment to remain as it was and he broke the silence before her. "Starved." She peered around in order to get an inclination on where they were going and what was planned. "Don't let the heels and push up bra fool you, Wes. I'm still easy going. I'll eat anything from a street vendor or a food shack." Even though she knew he was doing well at the rusty spur, mainly because she'd visited often enough to know, she still knew that no one opened a business without getting into a bit of debt at the start. "As long as there's something sweet at the end, then I'm happy."
Wes snorted, cutting her a glance. "I don't know about that, but.. don't go spreadin' it around. Folks'll expect more outta me than lookin' broody and fixin' fences." The corners of his mouth twitched as he shifted his eyes back to the road. It was times like this the nostalgia got to him, the memories they carried always having a way of sneaking up on him. Sometimes they made him laugh, sometimes they cut deeper. "I know you didn't hold it against me," he said, his voice rough as he contemplated his next admission. "Don't mean it was fair to you." His jaw worked once, like the words caught before he let them go. A flick of his eyes found hers, enough to let the apology hang between them without dressing it up. Truth was, he didn’t know if he’d ever have the right words to cover the way he’d handled things back then. Young, reckless, hellbent on making something of himself — and blind to what it cost. The guilt still chewed at the edges, same as it always had.
His knuckles flexed against the leather wheel before a ghost of a smile found him. “I remember. Still, figured you deserved better than a paper plate tonight." Her last words lingered, and he turned them over slow, letting the silence stretch. “Sweet at the end, huh?” His gaze stayed on the fading light of the horizon before them, the words quieter now, almost to himself. “I reckon we can manage that.”
— TIME SKIP.
Wes leaned back slightly, letting his forearms rest on the table as he watched the water ripple under the soft glow of dockside lights. The restaurant sat on the outskirts of town, by the water, one they hadn't been to in years. But sitting there now, it felt like a small piece of the past waiting for them, just like The Rusty Spur had. The smell of garlic and basil from the kitchen mixed with the salty air from the water. He twirled his fork lazily in the pasta, stealing a quiet glance at Selin. It felt good — dinner with her after all this time, getting a glimpse of who she was now while reminiscing over their pasts. “Can’t remember the last time I had pasta this good,” he muttered, not really about the food, letting the words hang like a quiet acknowledgment of the moment. “And… it’s nice,” he added, his voice low, almost careful, “being here again.” His eyes flicked briefly toward hers, the smile he couldn’t hide lingering in the corners of his mouth. "I'm glad we did this."
WHO: Maybe You? ( Open )
WHERE: IDK Anywhere, Have Fun With It
How does this always happen to her? She's been doing surveillance since she was a teenager, following people discreetly, getting footage, finding out their secrets. And she was good at it. Well, good might be a bit of an overstatement since she did get caught quite often, but she was good at talking herself out of uncomfortable situations— and she could usually charm or flirt her way out of any kind of confrontation when someone realized she'd been tailing them. Though their reactions were usually telling (the innocent don't have anything to hide, right?), the private investigator could almost always placate them. And when she couldn't? Her car was always nearby for a quick escape. But this time? Well...
This time she found herself quite literally running from someone she hadn't actually been following. They only thought she was because they'd been in the same group as her real mark. "Leave me alone!" She called out over her shoulder, the pepper spray she kept on herself during simpler, low risk jobs, clutched in her hand. "I have pepper spray and I'm not afraid to use it!" Her words, however, didn't seem to placate the other party and she found herself nearly hiding behind the next person she came to. Surely, her pursuer wouldn't harm an innocent bystander or anything, right? "I wasn't following you! You're being paranoid!"
Wes hadn’t expected much more than a quiet walk back from the hardware store, paper bag swinging loosely at his side, when he heard the scuff of hurried footsteps behind him. A blur of motion cut in front of him suddenly, nearly colliding with him before ducking in close like he was some kind of barricade. He stopped where he stood, boots firmly planted on the cracked pavement, a muscle ticking in his jaw as his eyes tracked past the woman's shoulder. Her voice was sharp, frantic, and admittedly, made him a little alert. "Should I be worried?" he finally said, his gaze tracking back to the woman's as he shifted his cowboy hat. A beat passed before he added, almost like an afterthought, “That spray’s for more than show, right?"
Vanna doesn't realize she was holding her breath until Wes tries to make a joke, and she feels her shoulders slump in relief. It feels strange to discuss this kind of topic at The Rusty Spur, but focusing on Wes's presence grounds her completely. As he opens up and shares his perspective, Vanna experiences a profound sense of relief. She finds her eyes welling up as she stares at his shirt while he talks, her brows knitting and relaxing with every word he speaks.
Her mouth broke into a slight smile when he told her she was cool, and a short chuckle escaped her at the idea of a word like that making her feel so emotional. She raised her hand to reach for his, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice shaking, as if a weight she had held for over two decades was finally being lifted.
For a brief moment, she looked into his eyes, her gaze softening as she held both of his hands tightly. Her hands were cold and soft, and her grip conveyed how much she missed him. Her gaze dropped to their hands as she let out a sigh of relief. "I missed you," she said, her voice hoarse and hesitant to get any louder. "No more secrets." She says it like a promise, like she was a child again.
Wes felt the warmth of her hands despite the chill in her touch, his chest tightening at the way she clung to him. For a long moment, all he could do was look at her, taking in the sound of her laugh, the crack in her voice, the way her words hung between them like something fragile but whole. His thumbs brushed lightly over her knuckles, grounding himself in the reality of her there. His best friend.
"I missed you too, Van," he admitted. He really had. The world didn't feel complete without his best friend by his side. "More than I let myself think about most days." His jaw clenched, eyes flicking over her face like he was memorising every piece of it anew. A huff of breath escaped, not quite a laugh. "Guess we’re not those kids anymore. We don’t have to pretend like we got it all figured out." He nodded, a surefire promise that he'd tell her everything, and that he wouldn't let her carry any more burdens on her own. "No more secrets."
Cheyenne watched him take a sip of his drink, that subtle flicker in his expression not lost on her when he does. The widening of his eyes was just enough to betray the unexpected heat he likely felt beneath all that sugar. It was perfect. She liked getting a reaction, especially one that couldn’t be masked by any sort of bravado or charm. His was honest and honest was rare. That alone made her lean in, just a little bit closer. “Well now,” she murmured, voice honeyed and pleased, her grin now turning slightly more mischievous in nature, “if you can handle that drink, cowboy, you might just be able to handle me.” It was only half a tease. The other half? Was an honest promise.
Chey then reached for a rag and began to absentmindedly wipe down the bar, not because it needed it but, because it gave her something to do while she worked through the tangle of thoughts Wes had now stirred up with just a few quiet truths. He was proud of where he came from. That was new. Most men she’d known were either trying to outrun their past or use it like a credit score. But him? He talked about his mama’s ranch like it was part of his backbone. She liked that. A little too much, maybe. “The Rusty Spur,” she repeated softly, testing the name out on her tongue like it was already becoming familiar on it. “Sounds like a place that knows how to get into trouble on a slow night. You ever line dance there too, or just wrangle drunk tourists off the bull all night?” She arched a brow, her blue eyes sparkling again, like she was daring him to say something that would surprise her. But when he asked why she came to Briar Ridge, Cheyenne hesitated instead. It wasn’t that she didn’t have an answer... she had too many, actually. And most of them weren’t exactly the kind you tell a handsome stranger with honest eyes and calloused hands.
So instead, she gave him a version of the truth but, without all the drama. “I needed a change,” she said lightly, though her voice dropped to a mere whisper. “Texas has a way of keepin’ you stuck in the same boots, on the same porch, sippin’ the same tea, watchin’ the same stories play out over and over again.” She tilted her head. “Figured if I didn’t leave, I’d marry some oil executive I didn’t love who worked for my daddy, move into a house with too many rooms, and start collectin’ charity board seats like they're handbags.” She shrugged, smiling like it didn’t ache to say out loud. “Briar Ridge seemed far enough to start fresh but close enough that I could still smell the horses, y'know.” After a beat, she nodded toward his drink. “You ever name that leg of yours?” she asked, tone dipping back into playfulness. “You know, since you clearly still dance with it every now and then, I assume.”
And then, just because she was curious... “You miss it? The rodeo, I mean?” Because she could see it in the way he said he didn’t walk away clean that it wasn't his choice but one likely made for him. And because sometimes, the things you're forced to walk away from end up being the hardest to stop riding toward in your dreams. "What was it like?"
Unable to help the quiet laugh that slipped out at her first comment, Wes shook his head as he took another sip and then set the glass back down. "Guess we'll see about that." He leaned both forearms on the bar, watching her work over the counter with that sense of ease she just seemed to have. Confidence clung to her like second skin, that's how much it radiated from her. It was impossible to ignore. "Trouble on a slow night's kind of the point," he admitted with a faint smirk. "And no, I don't.. line dance. Not sober, anyway. Mostly just wrangling the odd drunk tourist before they break their necks... or the bull."
Her answer about Texas had him quietly listening — as he did best — and sat with her words, the truth under them plain as day no matter how lightly she’d dressed it. The corner of his mouth twitched when she mentioned the oil exec and the too-big house. "Sounds like you dodged a bullet," he said simply, but there was a hint of understanding there. "Can't fault you for wanting a change. —So, you always been able to mix a drink like that, or is that just for my benefit?" His words had a teasing undertone but, he honestly wanted to know more about her.
The leg comment pulled a low, embarrassed laugh from his chest, his hand automatically brushing down his thigh. A force of habit. "Never named it, actually," he replied, giving her a look that was part mock offended and part amused. "But if you've got suggestions, I'll hear 'em." Did it still dance? Could he ride the way it used to? Probably not, and he was far too afraid of finding out. He feared the answer would be worse than anything. Her last question, however, had Wes pause. He broke eye contact for a moment, thumb brushing along the rim of his glass again like it might buy him some time. He took another sip instead, the flavour just as good as the first.. still carrying that same sharp bite beneath the sweetness. "Yeah," he said after a beat. "I miss it." More than I can even explain. Rodeo had been his entire identity for twenty odd years... he was still trying to work out who he was without it. "Wasn't just the riding. It was.. the whole thing. The noise, the smell, the way everything in the world went quiet for eight seconds. Felt like flying." He huffed a soft laugh through his nose, taking another drink. “Hard to walk away from something that made you feel that alive.”
Beck can't help but bark out a laugh at the returned scrutiny— it's short and genuine. But, it's the kind of laugh that drags his head backward and forces a flash teeth before he has to rein it in. It's at that point, he picks up his glass again, swirling the last of what's inside of it, like it might reveal some wisdom at the bottom if he stares at it long enough.
"My love life?" he echoes, his tone caught somewhere between mildly entertained and wildly exasperated. "Man, you know me. I fall in love three times a year and ghost them all by the time the leaves change." He downs the rest of his drink before setting it aside, tapping the rim once with his knuckles like it's the punctuation to the end of his sentence. Then he leans in just slightly, forearms braced on the edge of the bar like he’s letting the weight of something else settle there, rather than carry it home again.
“Honestly?” he adds, voice dropping into something quieter, with an element of more truth behind it. “Love life's a busted engine I keep kicking out of habit. Starts up just long enough to get me into trouble, and then sputters out somewhere between the honeymoon phase and the first ‘where’s this going’ talk. You know the drill.”
He shrugs, not bitter—just tired, like someone who’s been through it enough times to want to skip out on all the melodrama. “Last girl I got close to said I made her feel like summer and sadness. Didn’t know whether to say thank you to that or apologize.”
He glances sideways at Wes then, one brow hitching in familiar challenge. “But sure, let’s talk about your prospects. Maybe get you on one of those dating apps—what do they call it? Bumble? I forget which one it is you swipe left or right on like you're going furniture shopping.”
His smirk curls back in, but it’s gentler now, softened by the edges of real concern beneath all the teasing banter between them. “I just don’t want to see you end up like me, man. All ghosts and goodbyes.”
Then he straightens, reaching across the bar to grab the bottle and pour himself another splash without asking. A beat passes before he adds, more quietly, “Not everyone’s supposed to be alone. Some of us aren't cut out for it.”
"Not big on monogamy, huh?" Or maybe it was just that Beck struggled to allow himself to open up. Wes could relate to that — he wasn't one to sleep around, much less date a lot.. and he'd only ever opened up to one person, one relationship.. and had pretty much struggled to do so with anyone else, ever since. "Summer and sadness," he repeated, dragging a hand down his face like he was trying not to grin. Of course, he failed. "Sounds like one of those bad indie albums." He busied himself momentarily with tidying up the rows of glasses, a little of his OCD tendencies revealing themselves as he did so. "Me?" Oh god, he needed a drink for this, so he poured himself one. To hell with being responsible. "First of all, you're not putting me on Bumble. Or Tinder, or whatever apps are popular these days. I'm not one for strangers judging you off of one picture and three words." He tipped his glass in Beck's direction before taking a lengthy sip. "Appreciate the concern, though. But honestly? I don't even think I'd have time to date. I like being alone. But.. this feels a little like you're projecting, my friend." His gaze lingered on Beck a little too long, like he was weighing whether to say more and deciding against it. "Maybe you just haven't found the right person that you mesh well enough with."
"No, you don't tempt me," she said casually but the look she sent his way spoke more than she ever could. It held heaviness of unspoken words and the tangle of emotion and unsaid questions they hadn't dared let reach the light of day. "Not having a swim suit has never stopped us" She said with a smirk, referring to the amount of times they'd jumped in a lake with nothing or little to nothing in the past. It had become ritual but it hadn't happened in a long time and despite wondering whether he'd returned— or if he'd bought someone else to their secret place while she was away— she couldn't ask in fear of his answer.
Warm laughter filled the cab and she crossed her leg over the other, almost tempted to put her feet on the dash like she used to, before she knew the risk of an accident and her hips getting dislocated. "There better not be someone else's polaroids up there, Wes." She teased though it was only to shift the focus from the heat on her face. She'd worked hard on those polaroids and trying to get them in there before he headed out on the road and left her behind had been hard. They'd become a little reminder of what waited for him here while he was driving some buckle bunny around and entertaining her while he was riding in a different town, far away from home. "It was the highlight. I'd drive here and sneak them into your truck which isn't an easy feat with all the workers you've got on the ranch. A lot of effort went into them." She remembered a time when he almost leaped into his truck window when someone needed to move his truck and reached for the visor. "But it's nice to know you still think of them."
Her gaze flicked towards him when he complimented her outfit. There was something that lingered in the air that made her wonder whether or not he felt it. At a point, she knew they'd need to address it. "Are you flirting with me?" Selin's gaze lingered on him, hoping to make him nervous before she broke eye-contact and pushed a strand behind her ear. "Ready." The seat belt was pulled over her body and she instantly reached forward to move the air conditioning vent away from her face but realized it already was pushed to the side. Her fingers still, refusing to pay it any mind despite the way her heart felt like it would implode in her chest. The nostalgia hit her like a freight train and she couldn't prepare for the jumble of emotions that followed. "Did you ever think we'd be here again? After all this time?" She peered ahead, feeling the weight of the confession begin to bare heavy on her tongue. "I feel like I thought this would be us in the future. I just couldn't wait around, you know." What she meant was wait for him to finally pick her. "It feels like it used to. Comfortable."
Wes's fingers tapped the steering wheel in a slow, steady rhythm as she teased about the polaroids. He shook his head with a dry chuckle, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. "Nope," he said confidently. "No one else's up there. I wouldn't dare." He glanced toward her briefly, then back out the windshield, as if the road might offer him an escape from the weight of the memory. He swallowed and exhaled slowly, like the memory of them was something he'd learned to carry in silence. "I'd never doubt your efforts, but you sure made 'em look effortless, Yilmaz." His thumb rubbed the leather of the wheel absently, tracing invisible circles. "Still remember the first time I found one tucked behind there.. nearly drove off the road." A brief laugh slipped out, more surprise at the sudden rush of nostalgia than anything else, his gaze sliding to hers for a moment, like he was weighing just how much of himself to give away.
When Selin caught him out on flirting, a slow, almost shy smile pulled at his lips, but he kept his eyes on the road, as if admitting it out loud was its own kind of risk. "Old habits die hard." Her next question—the one about whether he ever thought they’d be here again—hung in the air longer than the others. His jaw tightened just enough to catch the light, his hands steady but his breath slow and deliberate. "Sometimes," he said. "But.. I didn't expect it'd feel this familiar. I should've known." He glanced toward the rearview mirror, as if trying to catch a glimpse of a past version of himself before looking back ahead. She spoke then of waiting — waiting for him, for something that never quite came — and it landed like a stone in his chest. Wes’s fingers curled around the wheel tighter, knuckles whitening, the weight of her words settling deep in his chest. "I know," he admitted. "You waited longer than you should've." His eyes flicked to her briefly, a silent apology there, before settling back on the road ahead. "I wasn't ready," he admitted, though they both already knew that.
For a long moment, there was a stretch of silence.. the truck moved forth, and the sun was beginning to set for the night. Finally, Wes gave a small, almost reluctant nod. "Yeah, it does." Strange how that could be, after all this time. Like nothing had shifted. And yet, how could it not? That unspoken thread between them had always been there, before things got complicated. Wes didn't say much — he wasn't a man of many words. But his eyes lingered on her a moment longer than necessary, like he was still trying to piece her together. Then, casually — like they hadn’t just stepped into something heavier — he cleared his throat. "You hungry?"
Cheyenne’s lips parted just slightly, that pageant-winning smile she inherited from her mother, returning and blooming across the edges of her mouth like a slow-burning fire. Wes’ bashful charm was dangerous in its own right. Not quite loud or flashy like the usual types who try to impress her, but quiet, unassuming, and just enough trouble to sneak in through the back gates and stay a while without askin'.
Chey set the glass of her self proclaimed specialty, down in front of him. It lands an inch away from his fingers with a soft clink and is light pink in color with a rim dusted in sugar and a hint of chili salt. It packs just enough bite to make an impression. Like her.
“Oh darlin’,” she sings, those blue eyes twinkling with candlelight and mischief, “that is most definitely a Texan accent you’re hearin’. Born and raised just west of Austin. Big sky, bigger personalities. And no shortage of cowboys who think a shiny belt buckle makes ‘em a gift to women.” By the sounds of it, Chey doesn't seem to agree with that logic. "Wait a minute," she pauses, after dropping a lime wedge over the ice in his drink. Try as she might, it's impossible for Chey to pretend her ears don't perk up the second he mentions owning a ranch and a bar somewhere in town. It was as if the skies had opened up above her and delivered one half of her dream guy out to her, on a silver platter. "You own a ranch and a bar? Where at?" Not that he asked her the same question but, she felt comfortable enough to share her own assets back home. Or enough of them to suggest they have some things in common. "My daddy owns a ranch too, back in Texas. It's been a while since I've ridden horseback. I miss it. I take it you like to ride, too?" She pushed off the counter just enough stand up straight again, displaying her hands on her hips now. "Is that the cause behind this bad leg of yours that needs ocean salt to make it feel better?"
Wes' gaze followed the way she set the drink down, offering her a quiet, appreciative smile, his fingertips brushing the edge of the cool glass but not quite picking it up yet. It was pretty — pink and sugared and sharp around the edges, not unlike the woman who had made it. He could tell without even tasting it that it'd catch him off guard. It drew him in, much of the same way she did. That smile of hers was something else. Like she could win a room without trying, and yet here she was, aiming it squarely at him.
He chuckled now, rubbing his jaw as she talked about Texas and belt buckles and cowboys. He knew all about it, and it honestly felt like home to him in the sense that someone got it. Someone understood that world, just like he did. The good, the bad, and the ugly. "Yeah, sounds about right," he murmured, the smile tugging wider for just a second. Lifting his gaze to hers as she asked about the ranch and the bar, a breathy laugh escaped him. "Well—uh—technically the ranch belongs to my mom. On the outskirts of Briar Ridge Hills. Been in the family a long time." He said it gently, thoughtful in that quiet way of his, with a kind of pride that settled in soft and steady. Funny thing was, he’d spent so long wanting to carve out something of his own—his own path, his own name. Yet the older he got, the clearer it became: what he felt most proud of was where he came from. His family. The thought brought a smile to his face. "But the bar—that's mine. The Rusty Spur. Not much but it's honest. Been an old town staple ever since I can remember. Cold beer, good music, a mechanical bull.." A beat lingered, and something unreadable flickered behind his eyes. "You should stop by sometime."
Wes locked his eyes on her again as she started talking about her father’s ranch, and the way her voice softened at the mention of missing it. It made his chest ache, just a little. He could hear the nostalgia in her tone and understood it like it was his own. He nodded slowly in response, fingers turning the glass now but still not drinking. "Yeah.. I like to ride. Grew up with it. Don't remember a time I didn't know how to sit a saddle." A beat passed, and then his thumb brushed along the rim of his glass like he was stalling. When she teased him about the bad leg, he let out a breathy, embarrassed laugh through his nose. "Somethin' like that," he admitted, giving her a sheepish glance. "Rodeo, for a long time. Didn't quite walk away clean. So what brought you to Briar Ridge, all the way from Texas?"
He took the opportunity to finally lift the drink to his lips and take a sip, surprised by the hit of spice under the sugar. It made his eyes widen slightly, and he huffed a soft laugh, licking the salt from the corner of his mouth before glancing at her again. “Yeah,” he said quietly, smile deepening, “you weren’t lyin’. That does live up to its name.”
Beck catches the glass mid-slide, barely glancing down as he lifts it up to his lips in a mock toast. “You wound me, Wes. I’ve got class.” He takes a sip—if only to let the burn sit on his tongue before swallowing it back with a low exhale. “Not my fault your regulars drink like they’re prepping for an apocalypse and have the taste of a dead whale.”
He sets the glass down with a soft clink, eyes scanning the room like maybe something's changed since the last time he wandered through. It hasn’t, of course. That’s half the reason he comes back, actually. “Business is slow,” he says after a moment, tone easing into something less sharp-edged, though his smirk always remains. “I've been bored. So, I figured I'd pay you a visit. See what trouble, we could get into.” He gestures vaguely to the bar, to Wes, to the faint sound of someone testing the jukebox behind him, even though it’s clearly unplugged. Hence, why it isn't playing any music.
“Also,” Beck adds, leaning an elbow on the counter, eyes flicking back to Wes with a flicker of something unspoken, “you still owe me a drink from that bet we made two weeks ago. So, I've come to collect.” He tilts his head, feigning deep thought. “Unless you want to call it even after letting me take over this place for a week. Might be good for you. Little vacation. Clear your soul. Go for a dip in the water or something. Meet a cute girl, get laid....”
Wes let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he wiped a hand over his jaw. "Class," he echoed, the word flat and amused as he arched his brows. "Yeah, definitely." He followed Beck's gaze over to someone jiggling with the jukebox, the frustration emerging on their features as they try to work out why it isn't working very much a source of amusement for him. Other than Beck's presence, of course. "You're bored, so you come here to annoy me. Got it." Grabbing a clean rag, Wes wiped down a sticky ring on the counter left behind from God only knows when, before huffing a faint laugh through his nose. "Trouble, huh? Last time you said that, I ended up explaining to Mrs Carver why her lawn gnome was on the roof."
He turned then, answering one of the bartender’s questions with a quick nod and a low, practical word or two, hand lifting to point toward the shelf before he shifted his weight back, leaning a hip against the counter. His gaze flicked back to Beck, focus sharpening again like it always did, the easy line of his shoulders settling as he gave him his full attention once more. "Meet a cute.. what is with everyone in this damn town trying to set me up?" The annoyance that came from that alone prompted him to get the good shit back out and pour himself a damn drink. "Meet a cute girl.. get laid," he mumbled under his breath. "Ain't you got anything better to do than worry about what I'm doing in my spare time, Foster? In fact, why don't you fill me in on your extracurricular activities, huh? How's your love life?"
The corner of Vanna's lip twitched at his question as she rolled her eyes and playfully shoved his arm. Perhaps she was trying to say yes, but she wasn't entirely sure. Vanna had always believed she had mature feelings about Wes and Selin. After all, what teenage girl would let her best friend be swept away by a relationship? If anything, Vanna knew she should have given him a hard time instead. But she didn’t. As a teenager, she had chosen to step back and focus on herself. But why? Who was she trying to prove her maturity to?
Her gaze was tender as she listened to him speak, her fingers intertwining nervously beneath the table. She nodded slowly, her eyes drifting away when he touched on more sensitive subjects, particularly the mention of her absence. When he acknowledged the changes in their relationship, Vanna felt a wave of relief wash over her, her body relaxing slightly.
"Yeah, we... we haven't been there for a long time. You know, in that safe space where we feel like we can say anything." Her tone is soft and nostalgic, as if she were longing for the intimacy they once shared. "I think it started when I took up all those extra art classes at the rec center during senior year," Vanna nods, her eyes drifting off, feeling nervous about looking directly his way as she starts to confess. "And... when I stopped asking you to hang out."
Her gaze slowly lifts up to look at him, looking away again before speaking. "And saying no when you'd ask ...me to hang out." She pauses, taking a moment to calm her bubbling nerves. She looks back at him briefly, her eyes soft. "And then coming back like nothing happened after you guys broke up... the first time, at least."
Accountability was difficult for Vanna, and it weighed heavily on her. She recalled how painful it had been to be on her own, but she had been the one to leave first, and there was no denying that.
"I know I made it seem like everything was okay while we were apart. I even convinced myself that seeing Vivienne in secret and working on my portfolio was enough, but it wasn't." She shook her head, heaving a breath, "I thought I could be cool and handle being on my own, but then I'd see you two at school, and—" She looked up at him, a weary smile on her lips, and shrugged gently. "I didn’t feel cool at all," she chuckled. "I was too proud to admit how lost I was without you, and I wish I had fought a little harder and admitted that instead of hiding."
Wes felt a breath escape his chest, one he didn't realise he'd been holding, gaze dropping to the table as he worked his jaw. A small, sad sort of smile tugged at the corner of his mouth when she mentioned everything she'd been feeling, back in high school. There was something in that, something that twisted in his chest, and made him want to go back in time to fix things.. now that he was seeing it from her perspective. He nodded, slow, before his gaze lifted to meet hers, steady even as it softened. "I guess we were both pretty good at pretending back then, huh?"
His fingertips tapped against the tabletop between them, as he worked to admit — "You weren't the only one who felt lost. You'd stopped asking, and I—" His brows furrowed, a quick breath pushing through his nose, almost like a laugh. "I told myself it was fine, that I was fine." He leaned back in the booth a little, gaze drifting toward the very empty bar now before finding her again. "Wasn't fine though." His lips pouted in that twisty sort of way, like he was thinking real hard. And he was. "I wish I could go back in time to tell you how much that isn't true. That you were the coolest person I knew in that damn school. I hate to know you felt that way, Van. I hate to know we kept so many secrets from each other. —I'm.. I'm real sorry."
The door rattles behind him, as Beck lets himself in. The Rusty Spur is not quite open for business just yet but, it's about to be. Which is enough for Beck as he crosses the worn floor like he’s done it a thousand times, sea salt still crusted along the edges of his sleeves, boots tracking sand with every step he takes, and which he won’t apologize for. Never has, so why bother starting now?
The place smells like old wood, cheap cologne, and something deep-fried. It's got the same dim lighting. The same low hum of conversation. And, the same bartender slash owner, who looks like he’d rather fight God himself than make small talk with anyone.
Truth be told, Beck can relate as he slides onto one of the barstools closest to the register without waiting for an open invite. “Still running this place into the ground, I see.” He teases, without looking up, fingers tapping a lazy pattern on the bar's countertop. When he finally meets Wes’s gaze, it’s with that same crooked smirk that always means trouble between them, or maybe just tired affection.
“You pourin’, or just plan on standin’ there brooding at me for free?” He leans back slightly, arms crossed. The tension’s there—always is between them—but it’s the kind that holds, not pushes. Has history wrapped in sarcasm and loyalty disguised as apathy. “I could use something strong. Or at least something that borders on it.” There's a beat. "Assuming you and the riff raff didn’t drink through most of your own top shelf again.”
Wes snorts, not bothering to hide it, the sound low as he flicks the rag over his shoulder, hands splayed out across the counter top as he looked over to the source. "Here we go. Here comes trouble... Still tracking half the damn beach in here, I see," he fires back with a smirk, gaze dropping pointedly to the sand Beck's boots have left behind. "Place ain't dead. Yet," he mutters, the corner of his mouth tugging up just enough to give him away. "But I'd love to see you try running it for a week without crying about the coffee being too weak or the pool cues being crooked." Wes pushes off the counter, reaching for a glass, and doesn’t bother asking what Beck wants, just turns to the shelves and grabs the good stuff. He knows. He poured him a double before sliding it across with practised ease. "You mean the riff raff that just walked in? What are you doin' here so early?"
"Well, this is a blast from the past." She added when she threw the door to his truck open and climbed in, trying to remain lighthearted to combat the way her pulse was going rampant. This reminder her of when they were in high school, despite it being a lot later when he came to pick her up due to his endless ranch chores. Once she got her car, she was was often the one to make her way to the ranch and climb through his bedroom window to wait until he was done. At least until they broke up and they needed to get a little more creative with the places they met up. "I feel like I should be wearing my bathing suit right now." They'd often go to their secret beach and spend the day, often to get away from the world and be alone. "It'll take a few seconds to go get it." Selin teased as she looked him over and then around his truck, almost feeling nostalgic like she'd be able to flip his visor and find polaroids of her that she put there for him.
Wes glanced over when she climbed in, the passenger door creaking in that familiar way that made him think about replacing it.. even though deep down, he knew he never would. Her words drew a quiet huff of laughter from him, shaking his head before smiling over at her. "Yeah, well, some things don't change, I guess," he said, his voice rough in that kind of way it always got when he was feeling something he didn't know how to name. Or to voice. Her mention of the bathing suit nearly pulled a full grin from him, but he bit it back, glancing at her from the corner of his eye before looking out the windshield, the engine rumbling beneath them like a memory. "Don't tempt me, Sel," he drawled, drumming his thumb once on the steering wheel before shifting it into drive. "You know damn well I'd wait."
He caught the way she looked around the cab, her eyes flickering toward the visor, and for a moment, the years between then and now shrank into nothing.. almost as if he could feel it. "Ain't gonna find those polaroids up there anymore," he said, a small wistful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he flicked down the visor to prove it, before letting it snap up. "But I remember 'em." As if he didn't have them tucked away in a box in his room.. idiot. "Still think about that look on your face when you'd catch me finding one you hid." His eyes flicked back to her. This night held so much weight in a way for him.. it wasn't exactly a date, but it wasn't exactly not a date either, in some way, right? They were two old friends, who shared a lot more than just.. being friends, going to a simple thank you dinner.
“By the way, you look…” Wes started, then stopped, his jaw tightening slightly as he searched for the right word. His eyes said it before he did, as always, lingering on her with that quiet, unguarded softness he couldn’t quite hide. “Beautiful.” A small breath left him as he shifted, back to looking straight ahead. “As always.” He cleared his throat, fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel. “You, uh… you ready to go?”
