When I was eight, my mother left. I locked myself in the closet, because I didn’t want to face the truth. For an entire week, I slept there. Ate plates of food Dakota left for me. On day eight, my dad crouched down. I could smell the whiskey on his breath even through the closed door. He cleared his throat and said, “Cowgirls don’t cry, Fallon. They just get tougher.” That was the last time he ever got drunk in front of me. Or spoke about my mother. So, yeah, cowgirls don’t cry. But they sure as hell are ready to get the fuck out of Dodge. In twenty-nine years, I’ve never run away from
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