Virgin
ONE SHIRT.
BUTTON down, slim fit, smooth poplin. Prussian blue, like my color analyst demanded for most of my wardrobe.
I’ve brought one shirt to Riverlight, mainly for conference calls or when I know Mom is coming. The rest is mostly t-shirts, stretchy and soft, my go-to when training and exercising, when I can afford to be comfortable, not constrained.
So why am I wearing my one shirt to what’s essentially just Kellan mourning his own absence? With alcohol? And dramatic sing-alongs to upbeat pop hits?
Okay, so he’s leaving, but it’s not like I’ll miss his stupid face and that smile that burns the eyes. None of this is my-one-shirt worthy. Except maybe as an act of self-preservation because he’d be insufferable if I didn’t make an effort.
Ah, fuck it, it’s already on. Not gonna change.
Now these tan chinos are a different story. I slip the shirt hems down and zip these babies up. No belt, so it’s clear this little waist needs no cinching, that this perfectly round ass holds them up just fine on its own. Not that I’m aiming to show off to anyone .
Nah, I can’t keep up that lie.
I grin at myself in the mirror, at how ridiculous I sound as I roll the sleeves up to the elbow, making sure they look like I gave the process zero thought. It takes me a full five minutes but worth it.
Makeup takes me less than that. Black-brown mascara to show I actually have eyelashes, and velvet lip tint for definition; a little reminder for a certain someone that the lips he was devouring in the tack room a few hours ago are still as tempting, in case he wants to do something about it.
Then a splash of bergamot perfume, and my high tops because dress shoes are contraptions from hell, and I refuse on principle. And I’m out the door.
The always peaceful courtyard has turned into a house party under the stars, a soft makeover transforming it entirely since I last saw it after dinner. String lights not only around the big tree now, but also between posts along the wrap-around deck.
Over two dozen people spread across the grass, standing by the fire pit or sitting on the ledge of the deck or on the grass, some even lying on it.
Some laugh in big groups, others chat in more private ones, while music drifts from portable speakers, bringing all voices together into one cohesive layer.
The song currently on is that one from Last Boys about being unapologetically loud, which seems so fitting for Kellan, I can’t help but hack out a smile.
I step down from the deck, immediately spotting the man himself by way of his ridiculously bright Hawaiian shirt.
He’s standing on the two-seater log bench by the fire pit, drink held high as he tells what’s surely some over-the-top recount of a bland story loosely based on his life.
Rey’s stretched out in a recliner not too far, eyes closed but definitely not sleeping, a half-smile on her lips as she listens to whatever absurdity his fantastical mind is coughing out this time.
As I weave between groups, I catch sight of Lena hunching over the picnic table that’s been commandeered as tonight’s bar.
Under her hands, glass glints in the string lights, reflecting every shape, every color of the rainbow—which was surely Kellan and Lena’s entire strategy when shopping.
It all culminated in this small fortune in bottles, but fuck it, there’s no calculators in Riverlight.
I contributed too, out of…uh…rider solidarity.
Never thought they’d be this crazy, but that’s on me—I knew who I was associating with. No way was all of this gonna fit in the small tiki bar, though, that’s for sure.
My eyes drift to it, to the solitary corner with the high counter and the stools. Completely empty.
Apart from Eli, sitting there under the soft lights.
He hasn’t noticed me arrive, too engrossed in the stack of folders and papers spread across the bar top.
Even at a party, he’s working—after the day he had, no less.
His profile is sharp against the warm glow, all clean lines and a cute sort of focus, one hand absently fidgeting with a pen as he mouths along whatever he’s reading.
Just the view of him feels warm and liquid, filling up my chest. He looks so comfortable, even after a hellish day, even deep into his paperwork. The noise alone would have me flipping tables if I had to focus on reports, of all things.
It’s why I don’t move to him, don’t slide onto one of those barstools and just sit near, doing nothing while he works. Just to be close, while the kids make a mess behind our backs.
My longing can wait. He’s making an effort to be present, in the periphery but here, working but not closed off. It matters more to me that he’s relaxed within reach than on high alert by my side, weathering hurricane Kellan.
People are social in all sorts of ways. Being on the sidelines doesn’t mean they don’t care. Eli does, more than many.
I smile, tucking the moment away, slithering the opposite way toward the fire pit where Kellan has finally stepped down from his log bench pulpit. I slide onto it.
“To my impending absence!” Kellan announces, the drink in his hand glowing blue and ominous. “May your nights be cold and your mornings even colder without me!”
A few ranch hands cheer him on, clinking glasses. His ever-loyal sister in chaos whoops the loudest from the drinks altar, six different bottles surrounding two very scared empty glasses, as she prepares something I know I’ll regret trying.
Kellan swoops into the bench beside me. “My dearest Vale, knight of my heart, showjumping over us pawns as is love—LOVE!—in its L-shaped glory that moves you.” Oh boy… Here we go. “What shall you miss most after I’m gone?”
“The silence,” I deadpan. “Oh wait.”
Rey snorts loudly without opening her eyes, a hand lazily raised in appreciation.
“I miss good hair and bad jokes!” Lena declares, appearing with two violently green drinks that should come with radiation hazard stickers.
I take one, eyeing the contents for any movement, as you never know with toxic waste.
When I take a sip, it tastes exactly as it looks—something citrusy like battery acid, with maybe a hint of dishwashing liquid.
I don’t ask what’s in it. She made them so fast, I’m positive there was a lot of dumping, zero mixing involved.
“As you should, little one,” Kellan tells her. “Though we shall meet again, as destiny could never take apart what destiny has brought together.”
“That makes no sense,” I say.
“Indeed.” His nod is so slow and solemn, I have to bite my lips not to laugh. “As life makes no sense, but ‘tis the senseless living of a life that gives sense to a life not sensed.”
My brain spasms. I don’t even try to understand it. “Indeed,” I tell him before I make it worse .
“Indeed!” he hollers triumphantly, throwing an arm around my shoulders and pulling me in for a cologne-soaked teddy bear side-hug situation. “Fear not, dearest rival. I shall visit you in dreams—in fantasies! Yes! Catch yours truly peeping behind Horse Daddy’s shoulder as he—”
I shove him off the bench. Don’t know where that trainwreck shitshow was heading, but it’s stopping right there.
He sinks to the floor with a yelp, one leg still hooked on the bench, glass aloft like it’s the Olympic torch. And a perfectly safe blue concoction, not a single drop spilled.
Lena laughs hysterically. Rey does this slow-clap-nod-pursed-lips thing I’d be mimicking if I wasn’t so shocked.
“Not gonna lie, that was fucking impressive,” I admit after a beat.
“Years of practice,” he says, not bothering to get up. Instead, he stretches out more comfortably, cheek slapping down against his hand, elbow sunk into the grass. “Perfect landing. Nine point five.”
“That is eight, friend,” Lena says. “You forgot pretty toes.”
Kellan stretches his lifted foot into a near-flawless point, fitting of the ballerina he is. “Nine point five,” he repeats, quieter, prouder, nodding like he nailed it.
And I honestly have no notes.
After a moment, he grunts his way to a stand and drops onto the nearby recliner.
At the same time, Lena walks away, and her mission-driven gaze is something I’ve learned to fear on instinct, so I keep my eye on her.
My heart lets out an acid fart that has nothing to do with the drink I keep sipping, but because she’s on a collision course with the tiki bar.
With Eli.
A few steps off, he notices her, puts on a sweet smile, and reaches into one of his ears, taking out…an earbud? No, too tiny. Probably a plug. Lena slides the same toxic creation she ga ve me in front of him, then twirls, arms up, beaming like she’s presenting the elixir of life on a game show.
Can’t hear what they’re saying, but it’s obvious—Eli’s polite head shake, that little apologetic squint.
Then Lena’s arms falling theatrically, slapping against her hips, followed by a full-body hunch that makes her spine curve unnaturally—something out of a horror movie.
It lasts a second, though, before she takes the drink back and returns to the fire pit, slumping to the ground like the world itself has rejected her, her head dropping onto Kellan’s lap with an overly loud sigh.
“Horse Daddy Boss Man is no fun,” she whines, dead eyes staring into the flames of the fire pit. “No drink for him.”
Kellan gasps. “Oh no. Did you do the big puppy eyes?”
Lena nods.
“The boob squish?”
Lena nods.
“Not even the boob squish?!”
Lena shakes her head.
“Eli doesn’t drink.”
All our eyes snap to Rey, hers still closed, body still limp over the recliner, even as her casual words sink into me like a pebble into a pond, plunging into the depths while rippling through my skin.
And as Kellan and Lena massacre her with follow-up questions, I get lost in a memory—that one, in Ruin’s stall, when Eli taught me how to braid.
Alcohol Poisoning.
After the thing that set us free.