Chapter 15 #2
They look at each other and shake their heads.
"No, nothing has changed. Abs and I have been partners from the beginning.
Every year, we make changes to the routine, but this started three months ago, and the routine we are using is one we've been using for months with no issue, and then bam .
" Madison claps her hands, and Abbey flinches.
"He just starts slowing his speed three-fourths into my performance.
We're almost to the finish line, and he stops. "
"Well, let's do a run-through of the performance, and I'll see if anything stands out."
"Let's do it," Madison says, eager to perform, but it's Abbey's look of detachment that catches my eye.
It could be her poker face. All athletes must get in a zone before the game, but it's something to watch.
While Abbey isn't the one atop the horse performing, her ability to guide the horse is crucial.
If her mind wanders, Gypsy will sense it immediately.
Horses possess remarkable perception in that way.
It's one of the reasons why I chose this path: the nonverbal connection, the innate sense of being heard without judgment, and the bond formed purely through emotional resonance. It's grounding in a way few other experiences are.
Abby starts the performance, establishing a consistent, flowing canter using her line and whip to communicate with Gypsy.
He does about four circles before she pulls the line closer, and he follows the command effortlessly.
Then Madison runs up alongside him before springing into action, gracefully mounting his back in one fluid motion. It's impressive.
I'm just watching Madison stand on his back when I smell him seconds before I feel him at my back. His scent is earthy and warm, like soil after summer rain in Texas .
"If you're here to tell me to leave again, save it. I'm here for the summer."
My heart quickens. I hate how his scent engulfs me completely and how each inhale betrays me, his familiar fragrance still unlocking something inside of me that feels like home despite everything destroyed.
But what I hate the most is the invisible, relentless magnetism between us, some kind of cosmic joke that's determined to drag us back into each other's orbit, even though the same cruel universe already tore us to shreds.
"The other day at the wedding, what you saw between me and Madison?—"
"Save it. Whatever it is, I don't care."
Not exactly true, but the last thing I want to discuss with him after six years is his intimacy with another woman.
"It's not what you're thinking," he says, resting his arms atop the fence beside where I'm sitting.
Out of all the things he could say to me, this is the one he chooses to start with. I shouldn't be surprised. I'm the one who keeps believing that night shredded him the way it did me.
"Oh, don't give me that bullshit. The whole she's-not-my-girlfriend shit may have worked in high school, but it doesn't now. We're adults. Your mouth was on hers. That means you're with her. Period."
"Fine," he grinds out, jaw clenched as he yanks his hat lower. We sit rigidly side by side while Madison performs, the silence between us electric and suffocating before he finally adds, "I wasn't trying to hurt you."
"Just stop talking. I don't care to hear more lies."
"I'm not lying," he defends adamantly.
"You knew I was there, which means you knew there was a chance I would see."
"And what about you showing up in that yellow dress?" he's quick to snap back, his tone sharp and terse, letting me know my dress of choice hit the mark as intended. "On the arm of my brother, nonetheless. You aren't exactly a picture of innocence," he says gruffly.
"Are you implying I made you kiss Madison?"
I catch his face turning toward me from the corner of my eye, and I find the strength to meet it.
His dark eyes are hard, confirming he's mad I'm here, mad I wore that dress, mad I caught him kissing another woman, but as our eyes remain locked, I watch his anger fracture into something worse.
Those hard eyes soften into something more dangerous than rage—recognition, remembrance, possibility.
His silence hangs between us. A yes would be unexpected; it would be an admission unfitting of the new man he's determined to make me see, the one who no longer thinks about me.
But he also doesn't give me a no—a no that could finally set me free.
"Aren't you going to ask me why I'm here? Why I'm not in prison?"
I turn back to the performance I'm here to watch and grant him the silence he gave me.
Do I want his answers? Desperately. But saying so means admitting that I still think about him, that he still occupies the darkened corners of my mind I've fought so hard to reclaim.
I want all his words, ones I rightfully deserve, but not here, not while I'm perched precariously on this wooden fence, watching his new girlfriend defy gravity on the back of a thundering horse, her body executing remarkable feats that would be mesmerizing if I could feel anything beyond the suffocating weight of his presence beside me.
I pull air through my nose and roll my lips together as I search for the right response, when every possible word feels like walking onto a minefield.
It feels like a cruel competition to see who will surrender first, who still cares enough to shatter this brittle silence between us.
But then the backs of his fingers skim across my thigh, and even through my riding pants, there's an instantaneous, electric hum that follows a white-hot buzz surging through my veins like wildfire.
Just one touch, that's all it takes, and I'm drowning in him all over again, every carefully constructed defense crumbling to dust.
"Laney, I asked you a question." His voice wraps around my name like it has no right too.
Feeling the traitorous tears gathering behind my eyelids, I slam them shut. Damn it.