Stick Around

1. Sparklehoof

Sparklehoof

Quinn

I ’d never thought my life would hit rock bottom at a hobby horse competition, but here I was.

“It’s right through here!” April squealed, pulling me by my hand through the hallway of a Las Vegas hotel’s basement-level convention center. “This is going to be the most amazing thing ever. Trust me.”

Those words should have been my warning sign.

Post-breakup decisions rarely made sense, but accepting this adventure with my best friend might have been the worst in my twenty-eight years on this earth.

And that was saying a lot considering I’d been engaged to a man who’d been sleeping with various women on a hookup app.

The thought of my ex made my jaw tighten at the memory of his parting speech after I’d confronted him about cheating on me.

He’d had the audacity to look wounded while explaining how I didn’t understand his needs and how he was wired differently.

As if infidelity were some sort of evolutionary advantage he’d developed.

Three years together, and apparently, I was the unreasonable one for expecting basic decency. To make matters worse, he’d also claimed I had no professional drive while I was still in my teaching clothes with glitter stuck to my sweater from an art project.

Did teaching pay a six-figure salary? Of course not. But to say I had no drive because I’d chosen to go into teaching? It had taken everything in me not to drive my foot where he’d really understand just how driven teachers were.

Before I could continue down a thought path that helped no one, we were stopped at a table where a woman handed me a clipboard and pointed to two X’s on an official-looking form. Her glittery eyeshadow matched the sparkly unicorn plastered across her T-shirt. “Sign here and here.”

“Oh, absolutely not.” I tried to hand April the clipboard, giving her my best teacher stare. “I thought we were going to the buffet and then going to the spa for manis and pedis!”

April’s eyes sparkled with the distinct glee of someone who had orchestrated chaos and was now watching it unfold. “This is better than a nap or a spa! This is immersion therapy.”

“Immersion into what? Delusion? I can live without riding a stick with a stuffed horse head, thanks.”

April sighed dramatically. “Quinn, you’ve spent weeks crying in your apartment. You’ve watched The Notebook three times, and you hate that movie. You even ordered a custom voodoo doll on Etsy.”

The woman who’d handed me the clipboard gasped. “Who hates The Notebook ?”

I shifted uncomfortably under her accusatory stare.

“I only hate it because love like that doesn’t exist in real life.

It’s false advertising wrapped in attractive cinematography.

Nobody rows boats through swan-filled lakes without being brutally attacked or stands in the rain declaring undying devotion without catching pneumonia.

” Romance was officially dead, buried, and decomposing at this point.

“And don’t act like the voodoo doll was my rock bottom.

You were the one who suggested adding his actual hair to it for maximum effect. ”

“Look.” April grabbed my shoulders, her expression softening. “This is silly and ridiculous, and that’s exactly what you need right now. You’ll bounce around on a stick, we’ll laugh our asses off, and then go get those yard-long margaritas you wanted.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Are you entering too?” The clipboard felt heavier in my hands with each passing second, like it was slowly transforming into a contract with the devil who was wearing glitter eyeshadow and promising emotional healing through public humiliation.

“I’m your coach and photographer. Someone needs to cheer you on from the sidelines.” She grabbed a pen from the table. “You can have the rest of my rum from my purse flask, and I’ll pay your entrance fee and for anything you need to compete.”

“I’ve never even ridden a horse.” I snatched the pen from her. “You’re paying for the margarita, the buffet, and my mani and pedi too.”

I signed the form because apparently my dignity had been buried somewhere beneath my hangover and the hollow ache that had taken up residence where my future plans used to live.

After handing the clipboard back to the woman and getting a participant bib, April grabbed my hand and pulled me into the convention hall before I could protest further.

The scene inside could only be described as what would happen if a six-year-old girl’s birthday party collided with a competitive sport.

Actual grown humans with full-time jobs and presumably mortgages were prancing around on stick horses like they were actual horses. Some wore riding boots and breeches. Others had gone full fantasy with unicorn horns and rainbow manes attached to their stick horses.

April looked like she might explode with excitement as she pulled me toward a booth draped in pink tulle and fairy lights at the far end of the hall.

“What fresh hell is this?” I groaned, rubbing my temples where a headache threatened to bloom. I’d expected Vegas to be weird, but this brand of weird felt like it was specifically engineered to test my already paper-thin emotional resilience.

“Embrace the chaos, Quinn. It’s cheaper than therapy, and there are probably snacks.” April stopped at the booth where a woman stood with a T-shirt that read “Stick With It.”

She beamed at us. “Welcome to Hoofin’ It Designs! Are you looking to rent or buy? We offer both options.”

April rubbed her hands together in glee. “My friend here needs to rent a mighty steed.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Can I rent some dignity instead?”

The woman behind the booth laughed like I’d told the funniest joke. “Everyone feels that way at first.”

I grimaced. “I’m only here because I’m emotionally compromised and easily manipulated by promises of alcohol, food, and pampering.”

The lady smiled, completely unfazed by my distress. “It’s seventy-five dollars for the premium rental.”

“Seventy-five dollars?” My voice hit a pitch only dogs could hear. “For a stick with a stuffed head?”

“It’s not just any stick.” The woman looked offended as she turned to a display of stick horses and grabbed one. “This is Sparklehoof.”

It appeared to be the Rolls Royce of hobby horses, with a white plush head adorned with rainbow streaks in its mane and rhinestones on its bridle. I stared at the craftsmanship that had gone into this ridiculous creation. The eyes were realistic glass ones and seemed to stare into my soul.

April squealed. “It’s perfect!”

I’m glad one of us was enthusiastic. “Why don’t you enter the competition instead of me?”

“I’m afraid of horses, real or stick,” April said, because that made perfect sense.

“So am I!” I threw my hands in the air. “This whole trip was supposed to be a breakup recovery, not a mental breakdown accelerator.”

Ignoring me, April handed her credit card over and gleefully paid. She was officially the worst best friend ever.

The rental lady handed me Sparklehoof. “Don’t worry, the competition is beginner-friendly. Clear the jumps in order and try to maintain good form.”

“Good form? On a stick?” I gaped at her.

“And remember to keep your eyes up and a smile on your face!” she cheerfully called after us as April dragged me away.

“You can’t possibly expect me to?—”

“Here.” April pulled a silver flask from her purse. “Liquid courage.”

I took the flask without hesitation, checking to make sure no one was watching before taking a generous swig. The rum burned going down my throat. “There’s not enough alcohol in the world to make this okay.”

April took the flask back and tucked it into her purse. “Look at it this way: no one knows you here, and what happens in Vegas?—”

“If you finish that phrase, I’ll beat you with this horse.” I waved Sparklehoof for emphasis.

“Save that energy for the competition.” She guided me toward a staging area where other competitors were stretching like they were preparing for the Olympics. “There are prizes.”

“Prizes?” That caught my attention, but before I could ask her more, a voice came over the loudspeaker.

“The novice division begins in five minutes. Competitors, please check in at the starting gate.”

I took another drink from April’s flask while she was busy adjusting the participant number on my shirt. The rum was starting to work its magic, the edges of my mortification softening just enough to make this seem marginally less catastrophic.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, our novice competitors!” the announcer’s voice boomed across the hall.

I stood next to a man in his fifties wearing rainbow knee socks and a tweed coat. He turned and nodded to me with complete seriousness, like we were about to participate in an actual equestrian event. “First time?”

“First and only.” I wondered if it was too late to fake a medical emergency.

“I said that my first time too. Lost my fantasy football league and had to do an event. That was a few months ago.” He smiled and petted his horse like it was a living, breathing creature. “Good luck out there.”

I watched others go before me, the crowd cheering them on with unsettling enthusiasm. Half of these people were moving their feet in a way that mimicked actual horses by lifting their knees high, pawing at the ground before takeoff, even making little whinnying noises.

Was this an actual competitive sport or a mass delusion I’d been dragged into?

I bit the inside of my cheek hard to stop myself from laughing hysterically or bursting into tears. At this point, either reaction seemed equally likely.

A young woman ahead of me misjudged a jump, face-planting onto the ground. She popped right back up with a cheerful wave and finished her round while the crowd roared their approval.

Somehow, the possibility of falling hadn’t even crossed my mind until now. My stomach lurched as the announcer called my name.

“Number thirty-seven, Quinn Porter!”