Seventeen - The Last Real Thing
SEVENTEEN
THE LAST REAL THING
NOT ELI’S CHEST , but not gonna lie, it’s a sound second best.
My cheek presses a bit too hard against Ruin’s neck, but it’s so warm, I can’t help it.
I feel his breath down my back, head wrapped over my shoulder like he’s enjoying it too, and wants to keep me close.
My body sways just for the movement, hand up and down his shoulder just for the touch.
His coat is incredibly soft. I just want to set us down on the shavings and sleep right here, draped over him.
If I could sleep.
Every time I close my eyes, I hear the knock, my limp hand on Eli’s door. Or his voice, the ache in it. I understand.
It’s been five days. When will it stop hurting so much?
The stall is quiet except for Ruin’s breathing.
It’s way past midnight, so there’s no one around, nothing going on.
And I like that, like how silent it is and the weightlessness of not having to pretend I’m okay, pretend every heartbeat isn’t a stab, every breath isn’t the bare minimum before I’m drowning again.
Not having to make posture adjustments or care about my hair. Or if the cameras are catching me from a good angle, if I’m not smiling too hard but enough, and only at an appropriate time.
Gotta get used to it again. Need to. Soon.
My cheek presses harder. Ruin sighs.
Then I jolt. Are those footsteps? At this hour?
Shit. Who the hell…?
I slither from under Ruin’s head, dash to the far wall where I keep a brush handy but out of the way. In a few seconds, I’m next to him again, brushing his flank like that’s all I came here to do.
Not for the horse hugs. Not for warmth because my bed was too cold. All my days have been too cold.
The steps get closer and closer, echoing along the corridor. It’s not Eli—I know that much.
“Thought I might find ya here.”
Rey. Of course.
Standing on the other side of the stall gate, like she’s been expecting this very scenario. Her vet kit hangs from one shoulder, face shadowed by the barn’s night lights.
I spare her a glance—just one, unaffected, unsurprised. I can fake that much.
“You were looking for me?” I ask.
“Nope. But he does the same. Restless nighttime grooming. ‘Cause fuck therapy, right?”
He. Eli. Of course he does.
I frown, eyes on Ruin because I’m focused, remember? “Can’t a guy just brush his horse?”
“At” —her bag rustles as she checks her watch—”one-seventeen?”
“I thought horses weren’t on a schedule here.”
“This ain’t his schedule, Fancy Pants. It’s yours .”
My hand stops, brush locked on Ruin’s withers. Just a second or two, then I will it to ignore the jab and keep going. Yeah, I’m forcing my neediness on my horse. But he’s all I have left, so what am I supposed to do?
She drops her vet bag, a thump on the floor. Then unlatches the gate and steps inside. My gut clenches. Why the fuck is she coming in? Last thing I need is her getting close, analyzing, reading what I don’t want to show.
Her hand lifts in front of Ruin and holds. She lets him sniff her before touching him, right between the eyes. Consent, even before affection.
Just like Eli does. Every time.
“Why are you even here?” I mutter. And keep brushing, harder. Ruin doesn’t mind.
“Work. Colicky one down the aisle. You?”
“Work.”
Her answer is a snort. Which, on her, means a laugh. Which in turn means I’m not getting rid of her.
So I sigh and tell her, voice low, “You know why I’m here.”
“Yeah. Emoting in the dark. Classic Golden Boy behavior.”
The name makes me flinch. Haven’t heard it in so long, I almost started to believe that maybe…
My brush hand drops to my side, the free one rubs my eyes so hard I see stars.
Golden Boy. That’s somehow even worse than The Perfect Riding Machine.
Because the latter is purposeful, defined by a whole team of specialists to strengthen my brand. But the former… It’s organic, born in the media and adopted by fans, built up from childhood ever since I was an actual boy.
Boy-me loved the title. Boy-me was shinier, too.
The only thing golden about present-me is my hair. The rest is fake, fool’s gold.
Worthless.
“Please don’t call me that,” I say. My arm is heavy. I don’t feel like brushing anymore.
“Why not? It’s who ya are, ain’t it?” Her voice is flat, her eyes set on Ruin.
“I mean, I get the confusion. For a while there, you were just Cassian—swell guy, five stars. But now ?” She shrugs, lips curved in that whatever, I don’t care , and I knew you’d fuck up mix that makes my guts boil. “Almost had me convinced.”
A scowl forms on my face. “You’re doing this? Right now? For real?”
“What? Is now not a good time to call ya out on your bullshit?”
Inhale. Exhale. It’s just Rey. You like Rey. Most times. “Fine. Bullshit acknowledged. Called me out real good. Could you maybe fuck off now?”
“No.”
My jaw clenches. “Focus your energy on your best friend. He needs you more. Saw him with AP the other day, and he’s not—”
“Not what?” she interrupts. “Say it.”
“Not…okay.”
“No. He ain’t. But he ain’t the one who fucked up. You were.”
Why is she being like this? Goddammit, this is hard enough as it is. “I did what I had to do. It’s not that easy.”
“Ain’t that hard either.” She steps closer, right in my space. “This place didn’t change ya. It showed ya who you were already. Ya just got scared.”
“Fuck you,” I snap. Who the hell does she think she is? Fine, just give her the soundbite she’s hounding for. “Yes, you’re right. I got scared. I’m a big failure and I’ll die alone. Happy?”
“Do I look happy? ”
I keep staring at her. She stares back. No, she doesn’t. Not one bit happy, just angry and frustrated and hurt. Like the rest of us.
“He never laughed before you. Did ya know?” she says quietly, scowl wavering, a fraction of a second. “Smiles, yeah, little chuckles. But always tight, always contained.”
I shake my head, resuming my strokes along Ruin’s hip only so I don’t have to look at her face.
So we’re making shit up, now? Is that it?
Eli laughs all the time—not currently, but that’s situational.
That rich, warm sound that rumbles up his throat from somewhere deep and genuine. From the first day, he laughed.
It was one of the things that made him... him , for me.
Attraction is one thing, and God, does he check all my boxes. But his laughter is what got me the most. And his eyes, but what they hold more than how they look.
“You’re lying,” I tell her.
“I really ain’t,” Rey says. “Let that sink in.”
In the silence, it does. It sinks in deep and keeps going, keeps adding weight and plunging, settling on my stomach.
He didn’t laugh before me? And then, from the first day on, what—he just…he just did?
That’s stupid. It’s not… That can’t be right.
“Was in middle school when I met him, a little thing, just out of preschool,” she goes on.
“He learned ‘bout horses from my granny. She sold him the first plot of land for this place.” Her eyes never leave my face, monitoring my every reaction.
I keep her in my periphery, but her contained wrath is too hard to brush off.
“The weird kid, the quiet one in the corner.” Her head shakes.
“No one gave a shit ‘bout him ‘til he started being useful, but I knew, before he even learned how to ride a horse. Got my ass through vet school ‘cause I knew, and I knew the world’s vultures would abuse him if I weren’t here for him. ”
She takes a step closer—too close. I step back, the brush instinctively up between us to block her off.
“So I protected him ‘til he could do it for himself. And I’ll keep doing that until I can’t do jack shit no more.
” Her voice drops low. She stabs the air with a finger, aiming at my chest. “So believe me when I stand right here and tell the guy who brOKE him—”
I flinch at the volume. Ruin too—along with a few other horses, rustling in nearby stalls—his massive body jerking slightly against my side.
Rey pauses, breathes in and breathes out, eyes pressed shut. When she opens them again, their intensity is even more insane. “Ya broke his heart. And still, I’m standing right here instead of loading a shotgun ‘n hunting ya through the woods.”
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly desert-dry. My eyes are stretched taut, on high alert, locked on hers. Breaths too, on hold because she’s serious and the air doesn’t feel safe yet.
“And I’m doing that,” she adds, softer now, tired almost, “’cause you’re worth it. ‘Cause without even trying, ya were exactly what he needed.”
Hot pressure builds behind my vision, my throat, as if it’s been ready to burst for days. Because he was just what I needed too, and I’m so damn aware of it that every time I remember, the vise around my chest turns too much, too hard to ignore.
But I need to. I need to ignore it and forget there’s such a thing as a person that completes another. Need to forget him.
No. No, it may hurt forever, but I won’t. I refuse.
My memories are mine. Even if nothing else is.
Rey’s hand is gentle as she strokes Ruin’s muzzle—an apology for spooking him, raising her voice. “Ya made your choice,” she tells me, eyes on him. I barely deserve her words, let alone her gaze. “But don’t lie to yourself ‘bout what it cost. ”
And that’s it, nothing else. She turns around, gets her bag, and leaves.
And I breathe. Finally, but too much. Fast, loud.
I didn’t need that. Nothing she just told me. I already know how fucked up this all is.
I didn’t need to be told how much Eli cares— cared —for me. She thinks I don’t know? That I don’t feel it— felt it—with every look, every word, every touch?
I know! I fucking know, okay?
Ruin snorts beside me. When I look at his face, he’s looking back.
And I don’t know why, that’s what breaks me.
“I know!” I tell him, tears building around my eyes. “You know I know.”
He just looks at me, soft eyes, calm ears. How is he so calm? In this tight stall where the walls are too close, and the air is wrong, and there’s no room to even think.
The thought barely materializes, and I’m already out the door, brush dropped somewhere, stomping so hard down the aisle my shins rattle, heels pang. I kick the tack room door open. It slams against the wall, explodes in my ears.
Does she enjoy sticking her nails into my bullet wounds? Punching my ribs, knowing they’re already cracked? Does she think I ended things because I don’t care about Eli? She has no right!
I rummage the tack room in the dark, fight the urge to thrash everything because it’s too neat, too fucking perfect.
Saddles on racks, bridles on hooks, blankets folded precisely in half.
Everything exactly where it should be and how, and I hate it too much.
I get what I always get and stomp out again, not double-checking like usual, not careful with handling.
Why do I have to be the one to be careful? Why do I have to double-check everything? Why can’t I just be free to fuck up, like everyone else? Forget important shit without my entire career being on the line for it? Huh?
I don’t want to waste twenty years of my life so far, so I’m biting the bullet and getting back in line. Why can’t she just respect that? Fuck!
Ruin watches me return, his massive head sticking out from the gate I left open. He tracks my movements as I drop the heavier tack and slip the bridle on him, hook the reins in place. Then tug him out of the stall and saddle him.
Don’t know why I’m doing this, riding at night when I should be letting him rest for our training tomorrow. But I need it. Need the movement, the cool night air. But not alone—can’t alone, too raw. The night will get me. Somehow. It’s how it feels.
Outside, it’s too dark, the wind too harsh, cutting my face along the streaks of my tears. I wipe my face against my sleeve. Too hard. It cuts even worse.
I position Ruin next to a fence and climb it, like I usually do when there’s no mounting block nearby. Hand on the reins, the other on the saddle. Leg up, foot in stirrup, ready to swing over. My weight shifts to mount.
Ruin sidesteps.
Not a spook, just a deliberate shift away from me, enough that he’s out of reach and I have to drop from the fence.
“Really, man?” I mutter, repositioning him. “C’mon. It’s too late for games.”
I try again. Same result. He doesn’t move far, just enough that I can’t get on. His ears flick back, then forward again, and I know he’s trying to tell me something, but I don’t want to hear it. Can’t we just go? Move, leave, pretend everything is fine?
Can’t he just do this one thing for me?
…
What?
This one thing?
I step around, face Ruin. My hands cup both sides of his jaw, framing his deep, knowing eyes.
This one thing? After all he’s already done for me?
This horse who wouldn’t let people near, let alone touch him. This horse who everyone in the circuit flagged as something he isn’t—probably never was, simply shoved into a box from a foal and forced to comply. He never had a chance.
This horse. My horse.
The most real thing about me.
The last real thing about me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, pressing my forehead against his. “I’m so sorry.”
He huffs. I sigh.
“I just want to feel real again.”
My eyes feel heavy, tired. Fresh tears spill over, and I don’t bother fighting them.
I may abandon my heart here in Riverlight, but if I’m taking anything with me when I leave, it’s this absolute stubborn conviction now running in my blood.
That Ruin will get all the real I have left to give.
If I have to scrape residues of me off secret corners, hide us from cameras, give us a moment to reconnect. I’ll do it.
“I won’t lose you, too,” I tell him, so quiet it’s almost lost in the night air. “No matter how many burgers I’d have to flip.”
Ruin hears it, understands me somehow. Again, always.
Because it’s never been about the words.
He lowers his head slightly, pressing harder into my palm. Then, slowly, deliberately, he takes a step closer to the fence beside us, positioning himself perfectly for me to get on.
“You’re the best horse in the whole world,” I murmur after a sigh, smiling and stroking his neck.
This time, when I put my foot in the stirrup and swing my leg over, Ruin keeps steady beneath me. I nudge him forward with the lightest cue, and we move off into the night. No destination in mind. No purpose other than movement, connection.
We end up in one of the circular paths around Riverlight—one we both know by heart, so it’s safer. The rhythm of Ruin’s stride sets a tempo that my breathing gradually syncs with.
The moon is dim, but the stars are bright, turning familiar landscapes into something dreamlike and new. Even the air—same scent as always, dry and fresh, pine wood that’s natural, not bottled, not engineered.
But tonight, it feels like mine, custom-made. The trees feel mine. This dirt feels mine.
Nothing has changed since yesterday, since this morning.
But at least I can breathe.