Chapter 9
Hendricks
“Easy, boy. You’re okay. You’ll feel better soon.”
Chester’s big hooves paw at the concrete yard floor, and he snorts his disapproval.
Stroking down the white blaze on his face and along his soft, whiskery muzzle, I lift it gently so I can check his gums. He cracked a back tooth a couple of weeks ago, and we decided to remove it, which seems simple enough.
But when you’re dealing with half a ton of animal, things become slightly more complicated, and it requires said horse to be fully tranquilized.
As a result, he’s been on stable rest and a limited diet since, something he’s been increasingly irritable about. Even the five-star service Miles gives all his ponies—including daily equine massage—doesn’t seem to have helped his temperament.
“You’re such a brave boy,” Miles coos, stroking down his neck. “Uncle Hendricks will be done soon.”
Chester’s ears move from almost flat to perked upright.
I feel along his jawline for swelling or any abscesses that may have developed during his recovery, but don’t find anything of note.
“Okay, we can sign you off,” I say, pulling off my rubber gloves and patting him down. “He can go back to exercise, but you need to watch around the bit. It might take a little time for him to adjust—”
“Hear that, sweetheart? We can be a pair again.” Miles smacks a kiss to Chester’s muzzle.
“And stop giving him lemon sherbets.”
The pout Miles gives me is identical to the one Max pulled this morning before school when I told him he needed to brush his teeth. “But he loves them. They’re his treat at the end of the day.”
“Milo, c’mon, no lemon sherbets. He needs to learn to like apples.
Or better yet, carrots.” I point at the huge bucket of carrots by the main doors to the stables.
It’s topped up every day and is there for all the horses to be given one whenever they want.
“See. Not to mention he’s supposed to be an athlete. ”
Miles gently fits a halter around Chester’s muzzle. “Uncle Hendricks sure is grumpy today.”
I refuse to take the bait. It’s exactly what Miles wants. I bide my time instead and pack up my surgery bag.
“He can stay on the anti-inflammatories for another few days, but I’ll lower the dose. Let me know if he has any issues. Just gentle exercise for the next week, a bit of stick and balling, nothing strenuous around his mouth.”
“Got it.” Miles salutes me and kisses Chester again. “Hear that, Chessy? We can do some exercise.”
Chester nudges him in response, and whickers loudly while he drags his hoof along the concrete floor of the stable block, telling us both that he’s raring to go.
Four large heads poke out of the end stables nearer the far doors, all nosy enough to see what the commotion is, and they stay there because if someone is walking down the central path, then it’s likely they’ll be given a carrot or three.
Grabbing a handful from the bucket, I snap a couple in half and hand them out as we pass.
“So are you going to tell me what happened with Story the other day?”
Wiping a saliva-covered hand on my jeans, I hand over another carrot. This time to Clover, one of Miles’s newer ponies. She’s incredibly speedy, not to mention fearless. And Miles has never failed to score while riding her.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“I think there is.”
The sigh I let out is deep. Enough that Miles knows Story coming back to Valentine Nook is messing with my head more than I ever expected.
“I saw her, we had a quick chat, then Max fell over and I left to bandage him up. That is literally the entirety of what happened.”
“Did you take Max to school today?” he presses.
“Yes—”
“And—”
“It was fine. Same as it is every day.”
The last carrot goes to Soldier, a sturdy Welsh cob who never seems to tire, hence the name. He’s so gentle when he takes it, and I stand there, stroking his muzzle and trying not to think about how I caught Story watching me this morning at drop-off.
But I agreed not to talk to her, therefore I didn’t. She never said anything about not looking at her, however. I tried to concentrate on Max, and only Max, but every couple of seconds I’d be drawn to where she was standing, only to catch her brown eyes flicking in the opposite direction.
It happened enough that when her back was to me, I used the opportunity to kiss Max goodbye and slip away with a final glance and a wide grin.
Returning to the car, I sat there for a full ten minutes while I tried to make sense of the thoughts turning my brain into a vortex.
When I didn’t get very far, I came here hoping that Miles would help me, but now that he’s asking, I don’t want to talk about it.
I don’t want to talk about Story full stop.
It only makes everything more confusing than it already is.
Reaching around Chester, his hand claps the back of my neck and squeezes gently. “The offer still stands if you want me to do drop-off.”
“I know.” I nod, but the problem is I want to take Max to school because I want to see Story.
I want to see her as much as I don’t.
“She’s still in love with you, Hen. It’s obvious.”
I stay silent. I don’t even know where to begin in response, and Miles knows it. He wasn’t expecting me to reply. He just wanted to remind me. To jolt me into admitting I feel the same.
“Let’s go out for a drink tonight. In fact . . .” Miles stops Chester walking. His brow arches sharply, a sure-fire way to know he’s plotting something. “Let’s go to London, blow off some steam. Give you something else to think about.”
I’m tempted. More tempted than I’ve been in a long time.
Since Max came along and my partying was curbed overnight, I choose my nights out carefully and wisely.
If you don’t count our family’s New Year trip to Aspen, it’s been months since I’ve had a night free to do what I want, and a morning when I haven’t inevitably woken to a five-year-old snoring next to me.
Outside of Miles dragging me into the city like he’s trying to now, my sex life is nonexistent.
I’ve never had a girlfriend, I’ve never introduced Max to anyone, and that’s how I plan to keep it until he’s old enough to understand.
Until I’ve met someone worthy of introducing him to.
He’s already had one woman leave him who was supposed to stay forever. I’m not planning on any more.
I’ve never been able to prove Max’s mother is the devil incarnate, but why else would her name—SIENNA—be flashing on my screen right as I’m thinking of her?
It was EVIL BITCH for a long time, thanks to Miles, but now that Max is learning to read, I thought it should be something a little more suitable for the woman who birthed him.
Even if it’s true. Because as much as I hate her, she gave me Max, and for that, I will always be grateful.
My twin, however, is much less compassionate. The second he sees my phone screen, his mouth drops.
“What the fuck does she want?”
We stare at it in my hand, both of us willing it to stop.
“Why’s she calling? When did you last hear from her?”
I shrug because I can’t actually remember. “A few months ago. She wanted money to invest in that Ayahuasca retreat.”
“It should be studied how she manages to blow through so much cash.” Miles snarls, adding something under his breath that sounds a lot like “Gold digging bitch.”
It’s possible Miles hates her more than I do.
Because Miles was with me when I was going through it all, when I was living on autopilot, trying to figure out what to do, how I was going to be a good father.
But even before Max was born, it was clear I was trying to make it work with a woman I didn’t like very much.
It’s one thing to spend time together between the hours of 1 a.m. and 4 a.m., when talking isn’t really the priority. It’s another being forced into an inescapable situation.
I should have paid more attention to the fact she wasn’t particularly interested in being pregnant, beyond the shopping and the pregnancy clothes she could model on Instagram all day. That the only affection she ever showed me was when it was benefiting a post.
Because Sienna refused to move to Valentine Nook, my time was split between Oxfordshire and London, driving the two hours back and forth. Exhaustion didn’t take long to set in, especially on the days I had to be at the practice or had a full day of school.
I hired a nanny to help us both. Me, so I could continue studying for my veterinary exams, and for Sienna so she didn’t feel too overwhelmed. I’d come home desperate to see my son, and Sienna would be desperate to go out to the newest club or bar, using my name to get in.
But it wasn’t enough.
The final straw was her shipping Max and the nanny off to Burlington when he was nine months old so that she could go to Ibiza for a week.
The custody solicitors had drafted up terms by the time she returned home.
Miles comforted me while I sobbed long into the night after a grueling day of school and taking care of Max while he battled through teething or his first cold, wondering how I would do this alone.
He was next to me as I read through the latest round of demands from Sienna’s solicitors—a bunch of cut-throat city guys who sniffed out big money from a hundred yards away.
In the end, I gave her whatever she wanted, as long as I had Max full-time, no contest. She got a flat in central London, a monthly stipend, and a settlement figure.
For the first year, I didn’t hear a word from her. She never checked in, didn’t wish Max a happy birthday, no presents, nothing.
When Max was eighteen months old, she called to ask for a larger monthly allowance. When I said no, she threatened to take Max, knowing full well the law favors mothers in any custody situation. So we drafted new terms, and she got more.