6. Nick
Chapter 6
Nick
M elanie texts just after dawn:
In the stables already.
I see it come in because I’m already staring at the text thread, debating whether or not to click the contact card she sent for Paul Walters. Melanie wasn’t exaggerating the pro bono thing; a late-night Google hunt unearthed a staggering number of testimonials from people he’s helped over the years, all of them glowing. There’s a real chance he could resolve my stolen identity problem without costing me a dime. But I’m having trouble getting on board with the idea.
I spent more time than I’m proud of looking into the guy’s personal life. All I came up with was a brand-new Instagram account with exactly three photos on it—all of them selfies with the new girlfriend—and an old wedding website for the brother Melanie mentioned. Like her, I couldn’t find any evidence of infidelity. I used all the tricks Edwin’s little sister taught me, and while I doubt I was as thorough as she could have been, I was pretty damn thorough.
A year deep into Paul’s brother’s wife’s mother’s Instagram, I realized I’d lost my damn mind, put my phone down, and went to bed. It’s none of my business what these people are up to, and it’s none of my business what Paul Mother Fuckin’ Teresa Walters does in his spare time. This is a professional inquiry, which I promptly resumed at five in the morning when I woke up.
Once I get Melanie’s text, I stop pretending I’m going to sleep any more. Within half an hour, I’m in line at a bakery a few miles from the show arena desperately trying to remember how she takes her coffee. I can summon dozens of mental images of her holding coffee cups, but none of them offer me any insight into the cups’ contents so I call Edwin.
“Hey boss, what’s up?” he asks.
“How does Melanie take her coffee? Do you know?”
“Any particular reason you aren’t asking Melanie this question?” he says after a beat.
“I think she’s getting ready for the final today, so I’m grabbing breakfast for her,” I say. “Do you know or not?”
There’s another short pause. “What do you mean you think she’s getting ready? Did you lose her? Mighty irresponsible. If you misplace women like her, cops tend to get involved.”
I suppress a groan. “I didn’t lose her. I’m next in line—can you just tell me her coffee order, and I’ll explain later?”
“Almond milk latte, unsweetened,” he says. “Can’t believe you don’t know that.”
I mute the phone while I order, then take everything back to my truck.
“Still there?” I ask.
“Yeah. No way I’m hanging up without finding out why you’re being so awkward.”
I throw the truck in gear and fill Edwin in on the past twenty-four hours while I drive to the venue—the call with Annette, the argument with Melanie, the silent treatment, barely making it to the final, and finally, the conversation in the hotel bar I’ve been turning over in my head for hours. I’m still talking when I park in the lot closest to the stables.
“Well, obviously you have to call the lawyer guy,” Edwin says when I’m done.
“Any other thoughts?” I prompt.
“No, that’s basically it,” he says. “It’s a silver-platter solution to our biggest problem. Why wouldn’t you call?”
“Why would I call that asshole?” I counter.
“Because he has a track record of offering free legal assistance to people like us,” Edwin says.
“He’s Melanie’s ex.”
“She literally offered to put you in touch with him. I doubt she minds.”
I don’t like the casual quality of Edwin’s tone, or how easy it is for him to suggest this. He’s gotten fairly close to Melanie over the past few weeks. He ought to care more about her feelings.
“You don’t get it—he broke Melanie,” I argue. “You didn’t see the way she was crying last night. Like, she was trying to push the tears back into her eyes or something, but they just kept coming. ”
“Ha! I knew it!” Edwin shouts, so loud I jump and nearly smack my head against the window.
“Knew what?” I ask, already regretting following this line of questioning.
“You have the hots for her,” he says triumphantly. “You can’t resist a damsel in distress. That’s why you’re calling me in a panic over her coffee order.”
“Bullshit,” I say, inexplicably thinking about the way her throat bobbed when she swallowed my beer, and how she flushed when I touched her face.
Aw, hell. I have the hots for her.
“Her coffee’s gonna get cold. I have to go,” I grumble.
Edwin’s still laughing when I hang up the phone.
I find Melanie in the stable with GT like last night, but this time she’s not hiding. She’s mucked out the stall, fed him, and button-braided his mane. His coat is glossy on one side, and she’s busy working the other with a soft-bristle brush. I watch her a moment, appreciating the slow, thorough way she’s taking care of him.
Okay, fine. I’m also appreciating the gentle slope of her shoulders as she moves the brush over his withers, and the way her riding breeches hug the firm curve of her ass. Which I should not be doing, since we’re barely on speaking terms, I’ve spent the last few weeks berating her, and I’m supposed to be coaching her, not ogling her. But there’s something unbelievably appealing about her standing there in muddy Frye boots with her hair falling out of a messy bun, knowing that in an hour or so she’ll be buttoned up and polished again, not a hair out of place or a speck of mud to be found. I stop short of picturing being the reason she gets unbuttoned again, and clear my throat so she knows I’m here.
She looks up from GT and smiles shyly when she sees it’s me lingering in front of his stall. Her cheeks are faintly pink. Lord help me if that’s from my presence and not the chill in the early November air.
“So you decided to compete?” I ask.
She nods. “I want to help you, and…don’t laugh, but…I want to make myself proud.”
“I’d never laugh at you for something like that,” I say.
Her mouth twists and she arches an eyebrow at me. “Maybe laugh a little. It’s weirding me out how nice you’re being.”
“I’ve said two sentences to you today,” I splutter .
“Neither contained a curse word or a disparaging remark. Plus you’re holding two coffees, so I’m assuming one is mine. I’m a little concerned you’ve sustained some kind of head injury,” she says.
Now I’m the one blushing. I’m going to throttle Edwin for making me aware of this…situation. Melanie’s finally committed to this competition, and now I’m distracted as hell and unprepared to work.
“You have to eat before competing,” I grunt. “Consider it a thank you for the lawyer recommendation.”
“Did you hear back from him?” she asks.
I hate the raw hope in her eyes almost as much as I hate stupid Paul with his boundless generosity and expensive suits.
“Haven’t reached out yet. But I’ll keep you posted,” I say.
I shove the coffee at her, way too aware of the way her fingers brush mine when she takes the cup. I tell myself not to watch her lips as she takes the first sip, but I’m not a good listener. Her tongue darts out to catch a bit of milk foam and I squeeze my own coffee so hard the top nearly pops off.
“I got you a bagel, too,” I say, pulling the slightly crumpled paper bag out of my jacket pocket. No one looks sexy eating a bagel. At least I hope not. I hold it out to her, embarrassed by how squashed it is. “Wasn’t sure what you’d want.”
Truthfully, I panicked when the cashier asked if I wanted any food, then jammed my finger toward the pastry case and let fate take over from there.
Melanie fumbles with the bag, the brush, and the coffee, and the brush slips through her fingers. I catch it, nearly dropping my own cup. If GT starts knocking things over, the three of us could give the Stooges a run for their money.
“Are you okay? Nervous?” I ask.
She shakes her head rapidly. “I’m not nervous. What do I have to be nervous about?”
“The competition?”
“Oh, right. Totally normal to be nervous about that.”
Jesus, what are we doing? What am I doing?
GT bites at the bag with Melanie’s bagel, then snorts in annoyance when she pulls it out of his reach.
“You have your own breakfast, my love. But don’t worry, I’ve got a treat for you for later,” Melanie says, gazing at him affectionately .
I have to get out of here, before I get jealous of my damn horse. My treat for later is a cold shower and stern talking-to about appropriate ways to think about the young woman I’m coaching, who’s clearly hung up on her ex, and is in no way, shape, or form a treat for me. My animal hindbrain takes this opportunity to remind me that the age difference between 28 and 36 isn’t all that large, so my higher reasoning has to reassert the hung-up-on-Paul and you-are-her-coach parts of this situation. The internal struggle results in a prolonged silence in the horse stall, where Melanie and I sip our coffee and try to avoid staring at each other. She does better than I do, which I know because I’m staring at her like a creep.
“Um. Did you…need something else?” Melanie asks after a while. “I have to finish getting ready.”
I hear the words, “I have some pointers for today,” leave my mouth, which is fascinating, because at this precise moment, I don’t remember a damn thing about show jumping.
Melanie nods, waiting for an answer. Her eyes are such a bright blue in here, surrounded by the thousand shades of brown and beige that make up the stable. But I need to stop gazing into her eyes, and think of some kind of coaching advice to offer her before she comes to the conclusion that I’m a fool and finds a new coach.
I try to guess what my mom would tell her if she’d watched yesterday’s race, and that clears the haze in my brain. I’ve got no idea what my mom would say, but I suddenly know exactly what Melanie needs. She wants to make herself proud? Her Junior career is something anyone would be massively proud of for the rest of their life. Pride’s a safe answer, not the real one. I think I know why she’s really here, even if she hasn’t admitted it to herself yet.
“Be ruthless,” I say. “Take all those fancy manners and shove ’em in the garbage. You have one competitor in this event, and only one: yourself. But not the you from yesterday, or the you from last week. Look fourteen-year-old Melanie in the face and tell her to eat your dust.”
Melanie arches an eyebrow at me, unimpressed.
“I mean it. Show that teenager how pissed you are that she took the high road and walked away from all this when she was so close to victory,” I continue. “Just because you did the right thing doesn’t mean you’re happy about it. Let it rip, baby. Show everyone in that arena it’s a mistake to underestimate you. You’ve got unfinished business. Let’s finish it. ”
I regret the, “baby” the second it’s out of my mouth, but I was on a roll, and it tumbled out before I could think better of it. If she asks, I’ll play it off like it’s part of the expression, as if I’ve never said, “Let it rip” without it. But if Melanie’s put off by the term, she doesn’t show it. She just looks stunned.
“Okay. Let’s finish it,” she says with a curt nod.
“See you in an hour in the warm-up ring,” I tell her, then I get the hell out of the stable before my mouth gets any more brilliant ideas.
Because of her nineteenth-place finish yesterday, Melanie’s slated to ride second today so she’s in the first warm-up group. By the time I get to the warm-up ring after my cold shower, she’s settled into competition mode. I’m grateful because it means we don’t have to make awkward small talk. Nothing I say at this point will be helpful, so I quietly watch her warm up, then walk with her to the holding area. She walks the course with the first group of riders, then rejoins GT and me. Her mouth quirks up in a smirk and she gives me one of her sharp little nods. She oozes confidence, and I’m cautiously optimistic.
Today’s course is trickier than yesterday’s, which is to be expected, but it works in our favor because it plays to GT’s strengths. The first three jumps are closer together than the others, so a slow start could sink a run before it’s even halfway done. But GT is always itching to run; he won’t have any problems getting up to speed in time or holding onto momentum. Melanie knows it. She’s usually fighting to hold back his power in the first half of a run. There aren’t any water jumps to spook him, and the highest jump is right in the middle of the course. Any rider who gets past the first three jumps without a penalty is in for an easy run to the finish, and then it’s all about speed. We’ve got a real chance to make the podium today, not just the top ten finish we need.
Melanie swings into the saddle while the first rider thunders onto the course and immediately knocks down the top pole on the first oxer. The crowd gasps in sympathy, the hum of conversations in the stands getting louder. It only gets worse from there. Little mistakes pile up, and the rider finishes with three points. Barring catastrophe, Melanie’s going to be in first place after her run. Whether or not she can hang onto the lead while the next eighteen riders jump is the question.
The bell sounds for her to enter the arena and I give her calf a squeeze, and like yesterday, she doesn’t react. I’m strangely calm, especially when I hear her whisper, “Let it rip,” right before she steps onto the course for her run. Notably, she leaves off the, “baby,” but I’m not going to let that bother me .
The buzzer sounds, and she’s off. GT puts on a burst of speed and soars over the first jump easily. I hold my breath and watch Melanie’s hips. She keeps her body low over the saddle, ready for the next jump. They clear it, too, and I can feel the energy in the arena sharpen. People are paying attention now, because a third clean jump is going to launch her into the spotlight.
GT’s over the third jump before I’ve finished processing the excitement of the second. He’s not slowing down, either. Melanie’s eyes are laser-beam intense on the course ahead of them. There’s a parallel oxer ahead, and I know before they take off they’re going to nail it. They’ve tapped into that magic slipstream where nothing can go wrong, and the whole arena can feel it, too. Each time they clear a new obstacle, the excitement in the arena inflates a little more; the usual whispers from the spectators quieting more and more the closer Melanie and GT get to the end, like they’re saving their breath for a final cheer. When they pass the finish line, no mistakes, under the time limit, there’s a roar from the stands that makes my heart swell with pride.
“Yes!” I shout, clapping louder than anyone else in the stands. They should all be whooping and hollering, but this isn’t the cheap seats at the racetrack; most of the bluebloods gathered around me wouldn’t be caught dead being that undignified. Instead, they give Melanie a thunderous round of applause that wouldn’t be out of place in a symphony hall.
Melanie smiles graciously at the crowd and the judges, but her energy is contained. Her name pops up on the leaderboard in first place, and there’s another cheer. I meet her at the exit that leads to the holding area. She passes me GT’s reins, then swings herself down from the saddle to land beside me.
“That was incredible,” I say.
She shrugs. “You know as well as I do I’m not staying in first place. Once the real contenders ride, I’ll plummet down the board like a stone.”
“Did you see your time?” I ask.
“No, but it doesn’t matter. It takes more than a clean run to win,” she says, proving she has no idea what she’s done.
“Fifty-seven seconds,” I say. “You ran a sixty-two second course in fifty-seven seconds, no mistakes.”
She whips around to look at the screen again. It’s right there in black and white: Melanie Archer, Score 0, Time: 0:57.35 .
When she turns to face me again, there’s a new sparkle in her eyes I’ve never seen before. She yanks one of her gloves off and presses two fingers under her jaw at her pulse point.
“Okay, I’m definitely alive. Am I dreaming? Is that real?” she asks.
“Not a dream, Miss Manners. You did that, and it was un-fuckin-believable. That’s a top-five finish, easy,” I say.
“Ah! Don’t jinx me,” she says.
Applause sound around us, and I glance at the leaderboard. The third rider didn’t come close to her time—a full sixty-eight seconds, and one point. I know the gap is going to narrow as more riders take their turns, but she’s got a strong lead.
“Oh God, I can’t watch,” she says. “I’m going to go get GT comfortable in his stall.”
“Find me after,” I say. “You’ll want to be here for—”
“Don’t you dare say, ‘for the medal ceremony,’” she hisses. “No. Jinxes.”
I pretend to lock my lips closed. She exhales slowly, her breath shuddering, then takes GT’s reins back. Once they’ve disappeared into the stables, I find a spot in the portion of the stands reserved for athletes and their teams. We’re not even halfway through the twenty riders for the day. I have no idea how I’m going to sit here through the rest, watching and waiting for scores to roll in. I’d rather hide in the stable with Melanie, but I have the sense she wanted to be alone.
Ten riders deep, I’m more convinced than ever she’s going to make the podium. She’s in second place, and the first place rider only has a one and a half second lead. There’s still a chance that two riders could score better and knock her down to fourth. But based on the way everyone’s riding today, it seems unlikely. Even if the three best riders from yesterday replicate their scores, Melanie’s score is still good enough for third place.
As the eleventh rider comes into the arena to start, Melanie slides onto the bench next to me. She’s carrying her helmet, so I know she’s been watching the scores, too. If there’s a tie for first, second, or third, the judges will call for a jump-off on a new, shorter course—and there could very well be a tie.
“I forgot how much I hate this part,” she says quietly. “In an ideal world, I’d ride straight off the course and never stop running.”
“We’ll start a petition for a rule change next season.”
She nudges my shoulder with hers, and I catch the edge of a smile on her face.
“Will you judge me if I vomit?” she asks.
“Aim away from my boots. I didn’t bring any other shoes,” I say mildly .
“I need you to freak out more. The more calm you are, the more jittery I feel,” she whines.
Because I’ve lost my mind, I hold my hand out to her, palm up. Then again, if she holds my hand, I will probably freak out a little more. I don’t get the opportunity to come to my senses, because she clutches my hand in both of hers like a lifeline. Neither of us says a word for the next five riders. Then we’re down to the last three—yesterday’s top-ranked athletes.
“No matter what happens, I’m proud of what you did today,” I tell her.
“If you jinx this, I will personally ensure you never know a moment’s peace, ever again,” she says darkly.
The meatball that’s taken over for my brain doesn’t think that’s a bad idea at all. A lifetime of Melanie harassing me doesn’t sound like a punishment, which isn’t a great sign in terms of keeping our relationship professional. And yet, I don’t let go of her. The meatball doesn’t know how to do that.
The eighteenth rider starts her run. She’s a seasoned pro, ten years older than Melanie. If any of the remaining riders are going to unseat Melanie, it’s her. When she steers her horse toward the starting line, Melanie shuts her eyes. I keep mine peeled, watching to see how this athlete handles the course. Her approach to the first jump is slower than Melanie’s, but she makes the speed up in the middle of the course, taking narrower turns than she needs to in order to shave off seconds. It works for her—she crosses the finish line a hundredth of a second faster than the first place rider, sending Melanie down to third.
“She’s first, isn’t she?” Melanie asks, her voice barely audible under the cheers from the stands behind us.
“Yep,” I say. “But there’s still a—”
“Shhhh, no,” she snaps. “No! Jinxes!”
“Think you can watch the last two riders?” I ask. “It’s good to know who you’re up against.”
She forces one eye open, then the other. It genuinely looks like a struggle. I tell myself that’s why I tug her closer by our joined hands until our thighs are pressed together and her chin is basically tucked against my shoulder. She doesn’t protest or try to move away. If anything, she leans into me.
We sit frozen like that as the nineteenth rider takes his place. From the moment he starts the course, I know he’s not a threat. He miscalculates the speed of his approach to the first jump, and by the third he’s lost momentum and barely clears it. It’s a close enough call to spook his horse, and instead of heading along the course, his stallion pulls left. He corrects the horse and gets back on track, but horse disobedience is a penalty. It doesn’t matter how fast he finishes—he can’t touch the top three scores.
The final rider steps up to the starting line. Melanie exhales shakily. I know better than to say anything this time; I just squeeze her hand. The wait for the buzzer to start is eternal. Time moves molasses-slow as the athlete urges her horse through the course. I see everything in fragments: hooves curving millimeters over bars; dirt flying outward from the force of a thousand-pound animal hitting the ground; black riding boots pressing into gray horsehair; the woman’s eyes, fixed straight ahead at the finish line.
She crosses the finish line and I see the clock: 0:57:3…but that’s all I can see. The last digit is blocked by the horse’s rump. I look to the screen over the arena, but the scores have disappeared while the judges calculate final places. Until it reloads, there’s no way to know if the last rider beat Melanie’s time.
Either she gets third place, or we go into a jump-off. I refuse to acknowledge the other possibility. Melanie’s nails dig into the back of my hand, her grip rivaling mine. I’m not sure she’s breathing, her eyes fixed on the screen. It blinks, and then the chart repopulates under the heading, “Final Results.”
Her grip turns lethal and she shrieks. I blink to make sure I’m seeing it correctly, but the words on the screen don’t budge. I think my heart might burst out of my chest. Acting on instinct alone, I pull her into a hug, straight-jacket tight. She sways with me on the seat, laughing in shock and joy.
“Third place,” she says, amazed. “Nick, I placed.”
“I’m so fuckin’ proud of you,” I say, loosening the hug to grin at her. “I knew you had it in you!”
“Oh my God, I didn’t know you could smile,” she says, shoving my shoulder with hers.
Her face is too close to mine. Too much of her body is in contact with mine. I can’t be this close to her or I’m going to do something stupid, like kiss her, so I stand up, pulling her to her feet beside me. I ease backward, cool air filling the new space between us.
“Go get GT and get up to that podium, Miss Manners. Time to show the world Melanie Archer isn’t finished—she’s just getting started.”
She blushes, her smile illuminating her whole face. I turn her toward the stables and put gentle pressure between her shoulder blades. She takes the hint and jogs off to retrieve the horse. I swipe a hand over my face, feeling the smile she just made fun of me for. I can’t believe I’ve never smiled at her before. That’s something I’ve got to correct, especially if a smile can make her blush like that.
I shake my head, like I could knock the thought out. That’s dangerous territory. I need to remember what this relationship is—professional—and act like it. Even if I can still feel the phantom weight of her body against my side.
My hand is numb for the duration of the medal ceremony, tiny half-moons pressed into my skin from her nails. Every time I get a glimpse of the marks, I grin again. Melanie stands on the podium, a polite, gracious smile on her face as she leans forward so an official can loop a medal over her neck. GT stands just behind her, his long face peeking out from behind her, a modest floral wreath around his neck. It’s an image I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
After the official portrait is taken, someone shouts for the winners to come collect their paperwork from the jury table. I step forward to take GT’s lead so Melanie can go, but she’s not paying attention to the officials—her eyes are locked onto me. Instead of passing me the horse’s lead, she leaps into my waiting arms. I catch her as easily as if I were expecting it—hoping for it, even. Then like some corny-ass romance movie, I twirl her around, our cheeks pressed together. I don’t even mind that the edge of her helmet is pressed against my skull. She clings to me, laughing, and I’m pretty sure this is the greatest moment of my life. I never want to set her down.
I am so royally fucked.