Seven - All My Secrets
SEVEN
ALL MY SECRETS
I STEP BACK a few paces from Ruin, making sure I’m dead center in his line of sight.
Both my arms go up, palms forward—the universal signal to back up.
He reads it instantly. One hoof after another, massive shoulders roll like dark waves pulling away from shore on my command.
His eyes stay locked on me, expectant, waiting.
No stiff ears. No head toss. This shit is second nature now.
“Good man,” I murmur, stepping forward into the space we just made between us.
He lets me approach like there’s no difference between me and the breeze lifting his mane—excuse me, his goddamn stunning braids.
After four weeks and four times redoing those, I’m now the guy who browses mane hairstyles before bed.
Endgame is a running French braid, because my big black monster deserves to feel like a princess too.
“Don’t you?” I ask him, massaging his jaw. “Yeah, you do.”
It’s been quiet, undramatic progress. Took more patience than I knew I had, but now this trailer-smashing behemoth not only takes cues but accepts the temporary saddle like a champ.
And he doesn’t flinch when the leather creaks, or when the stirrups tap his sides.
Seemed impossible when I first laid eyes on the darkness behind that trailer partition.
A lot of things seemed impossible. But impossible things usually live in the future. In the what-ifs and not-yets that give weight to fears we sometimes can’t even name.
They’re still all there, of course, in the back of my mind. They still keep me up at night, still T-bone me out of the blue and speed off without calling for help.
But not during the day.
During the day, we’re just a guy and a horse.
Silent mornings in the humbling expanse of Riverlight, surrounded by living things—birds and critters and flowers and trees—that breathe and give you breath all the same.
And I know there’s a deadline out there somewhere, behind the mountains on the horizon, but there are days I don’t even remember what day it is, how much time is left.
I’m not even wearing a watch right now, left my goddamn phone back in the tack room—in silent mode!
And in those days, I don’t even recognize myself. Which is the point, I think, the purpose of this place.
Because changing felt impossible too. Yet here we are, me and this dapper gentleman in all-black, going through the basics in the round pen. Waiting for our date.
No. No, not a date.
Even as a joke, I need to keep things in check. What’s happening is that Eli is coming and we’re training—period—like we do every day. Casual but professional.
There’s a key on our door now. A big, shiny bisexual key. And if I keep slotting it into the lock, I may accidentally turn it, and then what?
No, can’t risk that .
With one last pat on his neck, I hold onto Ruin’s lead and get us busy again, moving through the round pen. For the added challenge, I have us tracing over the figure eights already marked in the sand from our previous runs, just to see if we keep straight, keep the balance right.
My guy doesn’t let me down. I pat his neck.
“Let’s try that yield,” I say, angling my body just behind his drive line.
His ears flick back, tracking me, but his head stays still.
I reach the right spot, hold the pressure there.
And there’s always a second where I feel he’s gonna ignore the cue and tell me to fuck off, as he would, in the beginning.
Like I haven’t yet outgrown that feeling that this will fail, that he won’t want me around, or that I won’t understand what he needs from me.
But he does it. He always does. His weight shifts, engaging that back without just swinging it out, pivoting on the forehand, stepping under and across with the inside hind.
I zero in on the signs Eli taught me to watch out for—if the neck keeps that soft bend down to the body, if the head isn’t twisting.
Smooth as butter. Fuck yeah.
I reward him with movement around the pen before I shower him with cuddles for being so good. I scratch under his jaw, right where he likes it. His head dips into my hand, eyes going soft and heavy-lidded.
We’re nailing the groundwork, but there’s still a whole checklist to go through before even considering competition runs. I didn’t even mount him yet.
It’s been forever since I was last on a horse. Hope it’s like riding a bike.
I glance at the mounting block by the gate—a three-step plastic thing we’ve spent literal days just walking up to, and then standing beside it, and then me just stepping up and down while he watched. Leaning over his back, adding weight to the stirrups.
Forget baby steps. We’re full out embryonic.
At least we’re never actually struggling, just splitting simple things into five rudimentary ones and doing that . But it’s been worth it so far—I think it has.
Then Ruin rests his chin on my shoulder, and I know it has. Definitely.
“You piece of shit. How dare you?” I whisper, scratching behind his ears while my throat contracts and my eyes swell up. I get my arms around him, shift closer to hug his head, gently. “Get the fuck off me. Fucking hate you.”
I let him go before he gets restless, softly patting his neck and trying to scrub this damn smile off my face.
It’s smacked off me when I glance away and Eli is leaning over the fence, proud grin, soft eyes shaded under the brim of his hat, just watching us.
And while my clown of a heart does its usual circus act, Eli walks into the pen, a different mounting block dangling from his hand—taller, wooden, fancy.
I half-expect a frilly monogram engraved on it, but that’s not how Riverlight rolls.
I don’t think they even have a logo or banner—never saw one, at least.
“How’s he doing today?” he calls, and I try but can’t look away. That smile could melt through steel ribcages and stone hearts. It’s a miracle I’m still standing.
I scratch Ruin’s neck. “Solid. Always.”
Eli grins wider as he drops the block on the way, not too close to Ruin. He’s already eyeing the thing, watching out for teeth or claws. But like in a chill, clinical way.
I watch as Eli’s eyes run a whole circuit over Ruin’s legs, body, neck, face. When he’s closer, his steps slow down, hand extended, palm up. Ruin stretches his neck, sniffing Eli’s fingers before allowing a brief touch along his jaw. “Morning, big man.”
Eli never skips the gentle pats, the jaw massages. Every day, every horse he’s with, that’s the first thing he does, no exceptions. It’s one of the million things I’ve learned here—horses never forget how you make them feel, and every interaction counts. And Eli makes them count. Every time.
But honestly, does sunlight really have to shine directly on him every time his hand is on a horse? For fucks sake.
“More mounting block work today?” I ask, kicking those thoughts away before they escalate.
“That’s the plan.” Eli nods, sticking his thumb over a shoulder. “Wanna try the new one?”
I nod and tug Ruin toward the thing, feeling the familiar tension in the lead rope as he registers the new object. His head rises slightly, nostrils flare as he takes in whatever scent that thing produces.
“Easy,” I murmur, not pulling, just maintaining consistent pressure. “Just a different color, bud. Same deal.”
We stop not too close, then gradually get nearer. And I feel he understands it—that this is yet another random thing humans use for whichever reason. And more importantly, that these humans wouldn’t fuck with him. Not these two.
When we’re right beside it, I ask him to halt, keeping the lead loose but ready. Ruin does as asked, ears flicking between me and the block a few times. He stays alert but not tense, just as he should.
“Good man,” I say, rewarding him with a stroke down his neck. “Good, steady man.”
Eli nods. “Solid, I agree. Go ahead with the sequence.”
The sequence, as we’ve defined it, is all the steps in order to mount except the mounting itself, so it’s just edging with a safe-for-work name. The comparison hangs on my lips yet again, and I know Eli would laugh because it’s true, but I don’t share it. Never do.
Joking around leads to comfort. Making it about sex leads to flirting. And whatever is after flirting is too scary to even imagine.
Which is stupid because I’ve imagined it all before, and now I miss the fantasies. I miss hearing him laugh and know I did that.
I miss when it was impossible between us. When it was safe to daydream.
I focus on getting Ruin into position, aligned with the block.
He stands square and steady, so I hand Eli the lead and climb up, both feet on each step for a few seconds before moving onto the next.
On the third and last tier, I’m waist-level with the saddle, and Ruin’s reaction is a simple flick of an ear in my direction.
Since the block is brand new to us, I’m calling it a win.
Gently, I place my hand on his withers. I stroke down his shoulder, then back up, letting him register my touch from this new position. His skin twitches once, then settles.
“Good,” Eli says quietly, his hand resting lightly on Ruin’s jaw. “He’s with you.”
I lean my torso against the saddle, gradually letting more of my weight settle on it. The leather creaks softly as it takes the pressure, and Ruin adjusts his stance, balancing the weight distribution without sidestepping or pulling away.
“That’s it,” I whisper. “Nothing to worry about.”
After a moment, I straighten up, then step down from the block. Eli hands me back the lead, and I walk Ruin in a small circle to reward him for a great job before bringing him back to the block from the other side.
We repeat the process—me up on the block, touching, leaning. This is the side I usually mount from, so this time I lift my leg, tap gently against the stirrup, making it sway against his barrel. Ruin’s ear twitches, but his hooves stay planted.