Chapter 23
Story
It’s bittersweet to watch Hendricks walk away.
Bittersweet and fucking frustrating.
Sam’s still standing exactly where I left him. Of course he is, because where else would he be?
“Everything okay?” He takes a long draw of his beer.
“It will be.” I punch him playfully on the arm, the way friends do, the way he could infer no other meaning from. “Sorry to do this too, but I need to leave—”
“I figured.” He nods, his mouth pulling downward. “I never could compete. It was good to bump into you, anyway, Story. Let me know if you’re ever in London.”
I don’t bother with a protracted goodbye because Hendricks already has a minute head start on me. “Thanks, Sam. See you around.”
I rush out of the drinks tent, figuring he can’t have gotten too far, except I fail to account for the second match of the day ending. It’s the Foxleigh Park under 21s, and the grounds are flooded with late teens, big poofy hair tumbling down their backs, wearing too-tight everything.
“Fuck.”
I make a snap decision to head to the Burlington stand, though in hindsight, it’s the most likely place he’ll be.
Dodging around several groups of girls that bring back all forms of nostalgia, I rush past the presentation podium where the winning team is accepting their trophy.
Deciding to take a shortcut via the car park, I’m too busy wondering if this is a good idea to pay much attention to a first glance of a solitary figure sitting in the doorway of a fire exit, face blotchy and swollen.
Only a double take has me grinding to a halt.
“Clemmie?” She looks like she’s having a hard time focusing through the tears to realize who’s talking to her. “It’s me, Story.”
“I know.” She hiccups.
“What are you doing?”
“Hiding.”
Opening my purse, I pull out the pack of wet wipes I always carry with me. They’ve been in there such a long time that the packet is curled at the edges, the prints worn off, and they’re no longer wet, but I shove them toward her anyway. “Here.”
She’s skeptical, but phlegmy beggars can’t be choosers when it comes to nose-blowing paraphernalia. “Thanks.”
The doorway she’s sitting in is so small I debate squeezing in next to her, but I do it anyway. Sure enough, it’s tight.
“Who’re you hiding from?” I ask, freeing my elbow.
She pulls out a dry wet wipe and blows hard. “My horrid brother. Men in general, take your pick.”
Doesn’t exactly narrow it down. Though we can start with the four she’s related to. My money’s on Miles. “Miles?”
To my surprise, she shakes her head. “His evil twin.”
Given her state, I have to admit it takes me a second. “Hendricks? Hendricks?”
More surprisingly, she nods her confirmation. “Hey, d’you want to get out of here? I’ve had enough of polo players for one day.”
If we weren’t rammed in so tight to this tiny doorway, I’d slump. Who knows where Hendricks is, but getting out of here and away from polo players doesn’t sound like a bad idea at all.
“Yes. I’d love to.”
After some very unladylike maneuvering, wiggling ourselves from side to side before one of us frees, we find Clementine’s car and leave.
“Where shall we go?”
“The pub?” Clementine suggests. “Everyone’s at the polo anyway, so The One True Love will be quiet, and we can sit by the fire.”
She’s exactly right, and when we walk in, Eddie takes one look at Clementine—whose face is less wet than it was twenty minutes ago, but no less blotchy—and jerks his head toward the back room. We’re seated two minutes before he brings over two glasses of water, a bottle of wine, and glasses.
“You two look like you’re up to no good.”
“Yet you choose to fuel us with alcohol?” I quip.
“I can take it back.” He reaches for the bottle, but I snatch it out of the way before he can.
“No, no, we want it. We love you, Eddie. Thank you, thank you.”
“Hmm.” He peers over his bifocals at us. “I trust when you’re done, you’ll tell me who I need to ban from my pub?”
“Count on it. Thanks, Eddie.”
He heads back behind the bar, though I know he’ll be keeping an eye on us for as long as we’re in here. Picking up the bottle, I pour out two glasses, slide one toward Clementine, and take a too large sip from mine.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Her lips roll and unroll. Her fingertips run up and down the stem of the glass.
“I’m a virgin.”
Sitting back in the booth, I stare at Clementine, who’s still focused on the glass of wine. I must have misheard her, so I lean forward and ask, “Could you repeat that?”
“Never would have guessed, right?” She laughs, without humor. “Shocked?”
“No,” I reply truthfully. “But that’s not why I’m surprised it’s your answer.
I’m just not understanding why that’s what’s got you this upset.
” I gesture to her face, usually so stunning, perfectly clear, bouncy skin, bright blue eyes the same as all the Burlingtons.
Honestly, it might be the worst I’ve ever seen her look.
“Also, I’m not clear what that has to do with Hendricks. ”
“How long have you got?”
“Clem, I’ve just returned to a place I ran away from six years ago.
All my things are in Australia, I have no friends left here, and the only guy I’ve ever loved doesn’t want to know me.
I have all the time in the world.” I try to brush it off with a dry, merciless laugh, but it’s all true, and my throat tightens.
God, my life sounds bleak.
Clementine reaches across the table, placing her hand over mine. “I’m your friend, Story.”
I swallow down the surge of emotion from my brief pity party speech. “Thank you, but let’s get back to you.”
She downs her glass of wine and immediately pours another. It’s going to be that kind of night.
“A few years ago, during the summer after my first year of university, I went traveling with a couple of girlfriends. We went all the way through Central America together before I left them and went to meet Miles in Florida. He was playing polo there, and I was getting a ride home with him. He flies all his ponies private, so it was easy for me to jump on the plane too.”
I nod and sip.
“I watched the finals of the tournament, which he won, and afterward waited for Miles to get his shit together.” She takes a big sniff and a deep breath before her tears start up again.
“He was ages—like hours—but I had a book, so it didn’t matter.
But then this guy walked into the lounge where I was and sat down next to me.
It started small, what was I reading, did I watch the polo etcetera, etcetera, but then we moved onto wider subjects—traveling, school.
And we talked, and talked, and talked. I totally lost track of time until one of Miles’s grooms came to find me.
So I said goodbye, and he asked for my number.
I thought I’d never hear from him because obviously we live in different countries, but he already texted me before I’d gotten on the plane. ”
My chin rests in my palm, and I let out a dreamy sigh. “Wow.”
“The texting turned to phone calls and FaceTime. We talked about everything. He grew up in New York, but he’s half American, half Argentinian.
His dad left when he was young, and his mum raised him, so we have that in common.
When I returned to university, the biggest bunch of flowers I’ve ever seen in my life was waiting for me. ”
“Then what happened?”
“It went on for months, and even though we were talking every night, we’d only met that one time. I was stuck revising, so we decided he’d come to England for the weekend. It was clear things between us were going to progress to sex, and I told him I hadn’t done that before—”
“Okay—”
“The weekend he was due to come to England, Miles was playing in a friendly tournament in Palm Springs between England and America, as part of the preseason selection. He was involved in a terrible accident and placed in a coma. Hendricks and my mum flew out. The doctors weren’t sure he would ever be able to play again—”
My hand flies to my mouth as Clementine wipes away her tears. “I never realized. That must have been so scary. Fuck, poor Miles. Poor Hendricks.”
She nods, her jaw flexing as she tenses. “The other rider, the one that caused it, had been on a mission to get Miles after he got him fined for an illegal bump the summer before. This time, he was given a two-year suspension.”
“Shit. I never realized.” Not that I ever give Miles any thought at all, but he’s clearly been through a rough few years too. “Anyway, carry on with the dream guy—”
“Have you heard of a player called Santiago Torres?”
I shake my head. “I missed a lot in Australia.”
“When Mum and Hendricks flew to Miles, I went back to Burlington to be with Lando, Alex, and Max. He was only two, and Hendricks had only just been awarded full custody, but Miles is his twin, you know. They hurt together.”
I nod, knowing only too well of their connection.
“Lando and Alex were distraught, so was I. We did everything we could to keep Max’s life normal without his dad .
. .” Her eyes close. “Among all the early chaos, being kept up to date by the doctors while Hendricks and Mum were flying over, I didn’t ask details.
But later we were having dinner . . . and that’s when Lando and Alex told me what happened.
Santiago Torres had been crossing the line all match, which is illegal, but it was his foul hook that brought Miles down.
His pony tripped, Miles was thrown off, and his leg got tangled.
He was dragged up the sideline until his teammate caught him . . .”
Again, my empathy for what Miles has been through, what Hendricks has been through, what they’ve all been through, spills over, and I’m wiping away the tears just like Clementine. “I’m so sorry, Clem . . . what a fucking arsehole this Torres guy is. I hope he’s rotting somewhere cold and damp.”
“He’s not.” It’s so quiet I barely hear it, and she takes another glug of wine.
“Fuck. How d’you know?”
“I saw him—”