12. Gage
GAGE
Three weeks after Bonnie leaves, Tawny tells me what we are going to say about her.
We are behind the sponsor tent in Denver. I rode the bay this morning and won my division. The interview should be easy. Ten minutes about the horse, the campaign, the championship next spring.
Then Dewey brings over the host’s questions.
“Family update,” Tawny reads. “They want something about Bonnie.”
“She’s fine.”
“I know. What are we telling them?”
Dewey looks at his phone. “They’re ready in five.”
He leaves us beside the clothing cases.
Tawny leans against a table. “She’s taking a maternity break. You planned it together, and she’s pleased the season can continue.”
“She isn’t pleased.”
“They don’t need to know you’re arguing.”
“She left.”
“Do you want to tell everyone that?”
Through the tent wall I can hear a child asking when the horses come back. Someone laughs. I have never minded a crowd when I know what I am supposed to do in front of it.
“No.”
“Then we keep it simple. She wanted you to have a full season. I’ll say it if you don’t want to.”
Bonnie’s last message is still on my phone. Cleo’s cottage outside Pueblo. Don’t come unless I invite you. She did not answer mine about how many things I was supposed to cancel. I can see her in a kitchen I don’t know, deciding not to write back.
“Beryl says she’s still teaching,” I say.
“So we say a break from traveling. It’s what she’d have done anyway, isn’t it?”
Not exactly. There were dates for us together on the kitchen calendar. A winter circuit clinic, then an appearance before the final. Bonnie wrote the second one in red because she ran out of blue ink. Tawny has both dates now. I approved them.
I put the question sheet down.
“Don’t make it sound as though she’s ill.”
“Of course not.”
The sound man clips a microphone to my shirt and leaves the cable looped against the buttons. Tawny straightens it. Her fingers rest a moment at my collar.
“There. You look like yourself again.”
“Did I look that bad?”
“You looked tired.” She smiles. “I like this version.”
I catch our reflection in the dark window of a parked truck. Her white shirt, my charcoal one, the silver buckle. She is holding the hat with its crown. We look like people who have somewhere to go together.
Dewey waves us toward the pen.
The host starts with the morning’s run. I can answer those questions.
The bay is improving at the second turn.
I tell him how the ground changed after the drag and what I wanted from the horse.
A boy at the front asks whether men can enter every barrel race.
I tell him this circuit is open to us and he should check the rules where he wants to ride.
Then the host turns over his card.
“We’re used to seeing Bonnie with you. How is she enjoying a little time off before the baby?”
I feel Tawny shift beside me.
“She’s taking a well-earned maternity break,” she says. “Bonnie’s worked so hard to get this team here. She wanted Gage to have a full season while she concentrates on their little girl.”
She looks at me. I know what comes next because we agreed it behind the tent.
“That’s a good partner,” the host says. “And she’s excited about the campaign?”
“Yes. We planned for this.”
The words come out easily. There is no pause for the host to fill, no question I have to refuse. He smiles and asks about the next event.
I am relieved. Then I think of Bonnie watching this, hearing me tell a stranger she wanted the thing she left me over. I keep my eyes on the host and let the interview move on.
Tawny takes that one. She says we have been working toward the spring together, then touches my sleeve when she mentions how much the invitationals mean to me.
I let her finish. People applaud.
In the tent afterward, Dewey says the segment looked good.
“Get a photograph of Gage and Tawny together for the sponsor’s release,” he tells the photographer.
I stand where the man points. Tawny comes close enough that her arm presses against mine. The photographer asks us to look at each other, and she laughs before I have said anything.
It’s easy to smile back.
When he leaves, I pick up a bottle of water.
“What if Bonnie sees the interview?” I ask.
Tawny folds the question sheet. “Would she prefer you told them she’s moved out?”
“She’ll say we made the decision for her.”
“She made a decision without you too.”
I twist the cap off too hard and spill water on my hand.
“Don’t send Bonnie the interview,” I tell Dewey when he comes back.
He glances at Tawny, then nods. “I wasn’t planning to.”
Tawny takes a napkin from the table and hands it to me. “You can’t let every good day depend on whether she’s going to be angry.”
I wipe my hand.
“We have the launch dinner next month,” she says. “We can still enjoy that.”
“It’s work.”
“It can be both.”
I look at her. She is smiling less now. Waiting.
Dewey asks whether I want to watch the next division before loading the bay. I say yes because I don’t know what answer Tawny expects and don’t want to make the afternoon difficult.
Outside, a woman congratulates me on the baby. She says it is lovely that my wife supports my career.
“Thank you,” I tell her.
I keep walking until I reach the trailer. The groom has the bay in the shade. I take the rope and spend a few minutes with the horse, checking his legs even though the groom has already done it.
My phone has an old photograph from Bonnie beneath the feed instructions.
Mercy standing square, one of Bonnie’s boots at the edge because she never remembers to crop things.
It was April. She sent it while I was at another arena, and I called to tell her the mare looked good. We talked all the way back to my hotel.
I want to call now. I want her voice without the first ten minutes being about Tawny.
I miss you. This has gone on long enough. Call me.
I send it and hold the phone while the bay noses my sleeve. Across the yard, Tawny lifts her hand to ask whether I am coming to watch the next run.
I put the phone in my pocket and go with her.