The Shabby Old Cottage (The Irish Escape #3)

Prologue Vanessa

Sometimes it’s hard to be friends with Natalie and Samantha.

They’re always kind. They think about others all the time, especially their friends. They’re both glamorous, effortlessly, and they’re also sophisticated.

It’s not hard to be their friend because I want to slap them, or because they annoy me, or because they treat me poorly. It’s actually the opposite. They’re so shiny, they’re so polished, and they’re so interesting that by comparison. . .

I always fall short.

It’s hard to feel like the loser of the group all the time.

I know they never think of me like that, but my feelings all started really early. We rode together for years, in the same lesson almost every week, and they were always the far stronger riders. As we progressed, the differences became more noticeable.

At shows, it was always Samantha who won grand champion and Natalie who won reserve. I’d fall somewhere near the middle of each class. I was never the worst. But with the same instructors, the same classes, and a very talented horse, I was also never, ever the best.

In fact, although Natalie occasionally defeated Samatha, winning the big blue, red, and gold ribbon for grand champion, and Samantha often defeated Natalie, I never once beat either of them.

Not even taking third while they took fourth or fifth in a bad round.

Even when I had a good round now and again, theirs was always better.

They never mocked me for it.

They never allowed anyone else to say anything negative, but sometimes it felt almost strange that they never made an issue of it. And certainly, whenever I was alone, I knew.

Of the three friends, I was by far the shabbiest.

Those feelings have stuck around, even though I know they’re stupid. If Natalie or Sam knew how I felt, they’d surely argue with me, telling me all the great ways I make them happy. They’d tell me all my strengths. They’d build me up.

That’s what friends do.

But it doesn’t change the real truth, that by comparison to them, I’m not really all that great.

Most days, it doesn’t bother me. Most days, I know that it’s okay to be a little less shiny than the people who love you most in all the world.

Most days, I’m insanely grateful to be living here in Ireland, surrounded by people who care about me and lift me up.

In quiet moments, though, especially when things have gone wrong, I sometimes feel my own shabbiness.

And it makes me feel very, very small.