My Ellie (The Perfectly Paired #1)

Chapter 35

Ellie

Coward.

I’m a filthy fucking coward and I’m not sure I could hate myself more than I do right now.

I had so many things I wanted to say to him. So many things I’d been planning to say over the past couple of weeks, that I was sure I’d be able to get out when the day came for him to leave.

But they wouldn’t come to me.

All that came to me in the dim morning light, in his bedroom, were numb words and shitty feelings. I wanted to scream about the unfairness of it all, wanted to wrap him in a tight embrace and tell him everything would be alright, and perhaps never let him go... But what kind of a person would that make me?

He’s never made a secret of how important his family are to him, how important the ranch is—the ranch his father built, where his parents are buried, where his brother and Meemaw are waiting for his return.

There’s no question that he’s making the right decision. I just wish it didn’t feel so wrong, so unnatural for him to be driving away from me at this very moment. I would feel strange if he hadn’t chosen this, if he hadn’t felt compelled to drop everything and head out on the next flight. He’s needed at home and his priorities are important to him, as are mine.

But what are my priorities? I don’t even know anymore.

It’s a question I haven’t dared to ask myself directly, and my thoughts are such an incoherent mess right now, I’m not even sure I’ll get a definitive answer.

I know that he was becoming very important to me— had become very important to me. I cherished our time together, looked forward to seeing him with every fiber of my being. But surely it was too soon to consider him a priority?

The time we spent together last night was something I’ll remember for a very, very long time. I’ve never felt so emotionally and physically connected to someone before. He paid attention to every inch of me, every movement I made, he registered everything and made me feel a sense of elation that’s rarely even written about in works of fiction.

Did he make me a priority? When he made me breakfast every morning, when he learned my entire dressage routine, when he gifted me half the local art supply shop because he wanted me to have a way to unwind after practice.

I felt like a priority.

Maybe that’s why it feels like my chest is about to cave in.

I’ve had my back pressed to the wall beneath his window for the past thirty minutes, pathetic, breathless sobs escape me as I try and fail to collect myself.

He made me a priority and when the time came, I couldn’t even tell him how much I appreciate him— care about him.

I couldn’t walk out into the rain and articulate my emotions—my feelings.

“El?” A gentle knock comes from Colton’s bedroom door, and I lower my hands from my face to find Sanya standing in the doorway, “Team meeting.” She says quietly before approaching me slowly. She squats in front of me and holds a banana out in one hand, my three medication capsules in the other.

Wordlessly, I take the banana, peel it with slightly shaking hands and take a feeble bite. She raises her brows expectantly, prompting me to take another few bites before she hands over my meds. She reaches into the front pocket of her hoodie—Rory’s hoodie—and hands me a small water bottle, which I use to wash down the capsules.

“Ready?” She asks softly before tucking a piece of errant hair behind my ear.

“Ready.” I breathe, my voice raspy and foreign in my throat. She helps me stand and I take one last look around Colton’s room.

It’s so very empty, and though it wasn’t full of belongings before, it felt more alive—maybe that was just his presence. I slowly make my way towards the door, glancing down at the art supplies that lay strewn across his desk.

I don’t reach my hand out to graze my fingers over the papers as I once might have. The familiar feeling of indifference starts to sink in, and I’m almost certain those sketchbooks will begin to gather dust before I can even look at them again.

Sanya wraps her arm around me as we walk down the hall and Colton’s bedroom door clicks shut behind us, “You can always visit him.” She says softly, her voice full of hope as we trudge towards the stairs.

I turn my face towards hers, managing a feeble half smile as I shake my head, “You know I can’t.”

As if on cue, my mother’s voice carries up to us from the common room and every step I take down the stairs is more effort than the last.

“I’m not really in the right mindset for this.” I mutter just before we head into the common room.

My mind is a mess, and I feel a combination of everything and nothing—like I could break down into wailing tears and collapse into a silent heap on the floor at the same time.

“Finally, you both decided to join us.” My mother says from where she sits next to Coach at the front of the room. Other people are still taking their seats, one cross-country rider even enters the room after us, but we say nothing as we sit on one of the sofas near the door.

“Right,” Coach clears his throat as he stands to address us, “It has come to my attention that two of you left the estate yesterday and returned in the early hours of the morning.” He levels a look towards Sanya and I, and I feel my best friend tense beside me, but I can’t bring myself to care even as he continues, “The scout is going to be here in two days for what will likely be the last time before they finalize the Olympic team for next year.”

Some heads in the room follow his stare, their eyes landing on us. On any other day, this is something that would make me break out into a cold sweat, the unwanted attention combined with the icy, rage-filled glare my mother is pinning me with.

But I can’t focus on anything other than Colton, on the way I let him drive away without so much as a goodbye.

Coach continues, but his words don’t register, not even as Sanya lets out a shaky breath in her seat next to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my mother shoot up from her seat to stand next to Coach.

“Eleanor,” She hisses, I drag my eyes to where she stands next to Coach, her arms folded across her chest, riding crop tucked under one arm. “Are you even listening?”

I open my mouth to answer, but she speaks first, “Your Coach said he might pull you from the list of Olympic hopefuls, make you wait another four years to fight for your spot on the Olympic team.” I’m silent as she continues, as is everyone else in the room, “You were given strict instructions, and you disobeyed—both of you.” She shoots a sharp look at Sanya who seems to shrink further into the couch.

But I still don’t care .

“Four more years, Eleanor. What do you have to say for yourself?” Her voice grates on me, the way she says my name makes my skin prickle with the worst kind of goose bumps.

I don’t let myself think about the words too much as they fall from my mouth, “Maybe it’s a good thing,” My mother’s expression turns from rageful to blank, and my voice is void of emotion as I continue, “Maybe it’s what I need—I don’t know. Punish me, by all means, it was my idea anyway. Sanya didn’t have any choice in the matter. Is that all? Can we leave now?” I manage to sound just as unimpressed as I feel about this whole ordeal.

My mother takes one step towards me and the air in the room grows tense, Sanya would quite literally become the couch if she could.

“What did you say?” Mother breathes with deadly calm.

“I think you heard exactly what I said.” I let out a sigh, my mind still a muddle of conflicting thoughts as she takes another step.

“What the hell is going on with you?” She looks me up and down, just a couple of steps away from me as she continues in a quiet, calculated tone, “Have you been taking your pills ?” A public jab that might have left a bruise any other day. I know everyone in the room heard her, know they’re all watching this interaction. But it’s no secret that I’m on medication, it never has been. “Maybe we need to schedule you in with your shrink, Peter told me he thought you might be off your meds—”

The mention of his name, the way it rolls off her tongue with tenderness and care boils my blood.

“I meet with my therapist at least once a week.” I force a laugh, the emotions that were half asleep within me moments ago surge to the surface and I’m suddenly filled with a burning, incredulous rage. “And why the fuck would you trust anything out of his mouth?” I stand from my seat, catching the way Peter tries to sink back into his seat on the couch next to ours.

I’ve been taller than my mother since the age of fourteen, she always griped about her injury taking inches off her height, but the truth is she’s always been a petite woman. I stare down into her eyes, mirroring the rage I find there.

“Peter is a weasel, and he doesn’t know me, not in the slightest.” A terrifying clarity falls over me, echoing throughout my body as I give it breath, “You don’t know me either, you never have.” I want to sit with the realization, to come to terms with the revelation, but I continue, uncaring that we’re in a room full of my teammates and coaching staff, “Coach should take me off the list. I’d rather take some time to consider if this is really what I want, if I—”

She moves so quickly I barely have time to register what happens until my cheek begins to burn. Gasps echo around the room, my right eye closes a few seconds after the impact, and I raise my hand to my face as the burn starts to throb .

With my left eye, I see my mother’s flushed face, her clenched jaw, furrowed brows, and the raised riding crop in her right hand. The riding crop shakes from the force with which she grips it, and I look from it’s tip to her face as yet another realization sinks in.

I hear Sanya try to stand from her seat on the couch before Philippa and Charlotte’s hissed voices order her to stay out of it.

I lower my hand from my throbbing cheekbone, opening both eyes to discover droplets of blood on my fingertips. I blink a few times, working my jaw against the building pain in my cheek. If the riding crop had hit me half an inch higher, it could have taken my eye.

I lock eyes with my mother once more, and though my body is shaking, my voice is strong and steady as I say, “Take me off the list, Coach.” I turn and walk from the room, taking the stairs two at a time before racing along the hallway to Colton’s room.

I don’t know why I didn’t just go to my room and barricade the door, but my legs brought me here. The gray day casts a dim light into the room, and I slowly make my way towards the window I stood at this morning.

The art supplies on his desk catch my attention again, and this time I stop to place a shaking hand onto one of the open sketch books. It slides off the stack, sending the pencil sharpener clattering to the floor.

I bend to pick up the sharpener, running my thumb over the miniature stars and stripes before lifting my gaze to the sketchbook.

It’s half open, the low light from the window illuminates the handful of words scribbled on the first page.

Make time for the things you love.

I check my pockets for my phone, spitting out a filthy curse when I realize I don’t have it. I’m about to make a beeline to retrieve it from my own room when my mother rounds the corner, stepping into Colton’s room.

“Have you managed to compose yourself?” She spits, looking everywhere but at me as she approaches. “What on earth are you doing in here?”

“You hit me with your crop.” I say, keeping my voice level as she finally deigns to look at me.

“Yes, well,” Her eyes scan over my now-swelling cheek, “You were being hysterical, making a fool out of yourself—”

“You hit me with your crop as if I’m some animal to be corrected.” I take a step towards her, gripping the pencil sharpener in my palm as I continue. “I don’t even use a crop on Remi, most of the team don’t use them. Is that how little you think of me?”

“Where is all of this coming from?” Her voice is growing shriller, the rage seeping from her pores. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you—”

“You hit me in the face with your riding crop in a room full of my peers and coaching staff.” I take another step in her direction, “ Where is all of this coming from , you ask? Perhaps it’s coming from all the years you’ve spent living vicariously through me. Thrusting your unfulfilled dreams onto me because you were unable to achieve them.” I’ve never seen her face so red, her eyes so wide, “You took something that I loved and turned it into something that I now dread with every fiber of my being. Horses were my safe space, at school all I ever wanted to do was ride—and you took that with both hands and fucking suffocated it .” Another step, I’m just a few feet from her now. She opens her mouth to talk, but for the first time in years I’m seeing everything clearly and I’m not about to let her convince me that I’m the blind one. “For so many years I have lived as your puppet, without my own autonomy, but I don’t want to live like that anymore. You’ve projected your own dreams and failures onto me, without a second thought for what I actually want. And it’s been killing me, panic attacks, three different kinds of anxiety medications and I still feel like I can barely function some days. Mental illness is not a weakness, but it needs to be cared for and treated appropriately. It can’t be swept under the rug or belittled whenever I don’t act in a way you deem acceptable, and you can’t pretend that it isn’t happening because it doesn’t suit your narrative. I’ve been doing far too much sweeping over the past few years, and I’m done. I won’t do it anymore.” She’s shaking, vibrating with ire as I press on. “You’re a mother in the very loosest sense of the word. I meant what I said—you don’t know me. The nannies you pawned me off on, the mistresses at boarding school, all cared for me more than you ever have—and even then, they were paid, so it all felt very surface-level. You’ve never taken the time, made any kind of effort to learn who I am, what I like.”

But there are some people who really know me.

There’s one person who devoted almost an entire summer to learning everything he could about me.

One person who’s seen my many flaws and wanted to know me, to love me despite them.

One person who learned about one of my forgotten passions and gave me the tools and permission to rekindle my love for art.

“You,” She hisses, “Are going to march your sorry arse down those stairs and apologize to your Coach, apologize to the rest of your team members for your outburst, for being such an emotional mess. You love being on this team—”

“I’ll do no such thing.” I wish I could say I was shocked by her disregard for everything I’ve just divulged to her, “I loved the idea of being a part of something that might feel like a family, full of support and like-minded people. But it hasn’t been that at all, you’ve made sure of that with your constant meddling and attempts to humiliate me in public.” I take a deep breath, “I don’t want to ride in the Olympics.”

Once the words leave my mouth, I feel as if a metric ton of bricks have been lifted from my shoulders. I know it’s been the truth for some time, that I’m just allowing myself to truly feel it—to admit it to myself and to her that this has never been my dream.

She intakes a sharp breath, her head flinches backward as if I’m the one who struck her with a riding crop. “If you do this,” Her voice is quieter, less furious, “You won’t be welcome in my home and the financial support will end, do you hear me?”

“I hear you.” I echo her quiet tone, a smile playing on the edge of my lips as I continue, “But hear me when I say I don’t need your money, or the home that never quite felt like one. Father left me a trust,” I delight in the way her eyes grow even wider, brows furrowing in confusion, “His advisers were instructed not to inform you of it. I’ve been investing, growing the sum under their watchful eyes for the past few years and it’s become quite substantial. Perhaps father saw your true colors before he died, saw what kind of a person you really are and wanted to ensure that I’d have a way out if I wanted to get away from you.”

She lunges towards me, raising her riding crop once more but I see her coming this time. I raise my hand, intercepting the narrow shaft as it slices through the air. She grunts as I rip the crop from her hand and takes one step backwards as I snap it over my knee.

I let the broken pieces fall to the ground, letting her see the resolve in my eyes as I take several steps towards her. The shadow of my frame engulfs her body as I approach, and without her crop, she’s just a small old lady with a foul temperament and an equally foul expression to match.

Has she always been this small? This frail?

“You can expect a cheque in the post to cover the legal purchase of Remi. He’ll be under the care of Lord Chamberlain and his grooms until further notice, if you touch him, I’ll make your life a living hell.” I pause, bending down as I pass her, “The cheque will be blank, knock yourself out. Add a little extra on to the total so you can take Peter out on a nice date, a short holiday, perhaps.”

I stride for the door feeling like a new person as she calls after me, her voice smaller and higher in pitch, “And where exactly do you think you’re going?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” I admit before stepping out of the room, “But I’m making time for the things I love.”