My Heart
IF I STAY perfectly still, maybe it’ll go away.
I don’t move, swallow the cake in my mouth without chewing. Feels like cement going down, heavy, clinging and scratching along my throat.
“Your mom?” Eli asks, voice a low rumble under the ringtone. One he also recognizes, apparently.
My eyelids fall closed. And I nod, almost nothing.
“You should take it.” A statement, not a suggestion.
“I don’t want to,” I whisper.
“It’s your mom. You gotta answer.”
“I already know what she’s going to say.”
“What?”
“Something about that stupid photo.” Maybe it’s gone global. Those five to seven days haven’t passed yet, but predictions miss sometimes.
“The photo ain’t stupid. It’s beautiful. Precious.”
Yeah… Exactly. I think it but don’t say it, because I know that deep down, he feels it’s absurd that this is even an issue. That I represent something that can’t be beautiful, that can’t project preciousness because the concept isn’t strong enough, isn’t champion material .
A concept that would choose psychological warfare toward a child over reality.
What would he think of me? If he knew this is my brand, what my name stands for. That the idea was ever on the table during our conference call, that it would ever be up for consideration.
Worse—that I didn’t fight it.
If it wasn’t for Mom…
My phone is still ringing. Slowly, I slip it from my pocket, stare at the screen. Stare desperately at the red icon while my thumb hovers over the green one.
Eli covers the plastic container with the lid, takes it from me. Then he smiles. “Answer it. Nothing good in delaying the inevitable.”
The inevitable.
Certain to happen. Not able to be avoided, prevented, or ignored.
Is that what I’ve been doing? Delaying? Mocking hope with a version of the future that’ll never happen?
Yes, that must be it. From the moment I set foot in this place.
I press to answer.
“Hey, Mom.” My voice scrapes out of my throat. I clear it.
“Hey. I’m at the ranch. Where are you?”
I glance at Eli. “At the stables barn.”
“Okay, I’ll come over. See you soon.”
Then she hangs up, but I keep the phone on my ear. Why is she here? Last time she came was, what, three months ago? When Eli physically inserted himself between us because what he saw reeked of abuse.
And I never went deep enough into that, didn’t follow through with analyzing it because I didn’t feel I could be reliable, memories too foggy to understand intent, to extract anything helpful from. Or maybe I just refused to go there, scared of what it might mean.
Right now is the first time… My body feels…
Like I need to hide, need to run. From my own mother. That I’d be safer in a corner under darkness, in a closet hearing her steps, not breathing so she doesn’t find me.
But I can’t. It’s my mom. All my life, she’s been my everything.
Until here. Until my everything expanded.
Until Eli.
“She’s here?” Eli asks. My eyes snap to his, hand snapping too, finally yanking the phone down—fucking ridiculous. What am I, a kid?
Then I stand, nodding, sliding the phone into my back pocket. My palms are sweaty. I wipe them against my jeans. Then keep wiping.
Eli stands too, sticks a thumb over his shoulder. “I should…”
Go. He should go. “Yeah. It’s…” Best that he’s not around. I don’t know how to operate around both Eli and Mom at the same time.
He hands me the plastic container with the rest of the cake. I take it with both hands like expecting something heavy when I know it’s the exact opposite.
I’m not careful this time, so our fingers brush—mine over his, pressing his skin just for the contact.
Then our eyes too. And all I want is to hide behind his back again.
So I look away. Down before I say it out loud and make things even more complicated between us. It’s already a shitshow as it is. I produce other words instead—any others, right now. I lift the container, tell him, “Thanks for this.”
He smiles. “’Course.” Then he starts to turn away but pauses, looks at me over his shoulder. “Ain’t going to Momma’s tonight, if you wanna...hang out.”
I smile too. Just hanging out, for real sounds like perfection. Anything with him. I miss the peace, the calm. “Yeah, for sure.”
“Cool. See you then.”
“You too.”
He turns around and walks down the aisle, toward the farther end of the barn.
And I watch him, clamping the cake against my stomach until he’s out of sight, and then a few seconds after that.
Eventually, I manage to drag myself from his after-image, eyes crawling the opposite way toward the closest barn door, on the lookout for Mom.
And I flinch.
Because she’s already there.
She smiles and waits where she stands, just outside. I take a breath, leave the container on the hay bale, and step over to meet her.
“Hey, sweetheart,” she says when I’m close enough, hugging me momentarily. I try to match her, try to hold her against me just as lovingly, but her usual perfume is nauseating today. Like the May rose got thorns, the jasmine grew invasive down my lungs. Hauling my stomach up my throat.
“Hey,” I manage to say. “Wasn’t expecting you.”
“I told you I’d come over in a week.”
Four days is not a week. I don’t debate her. “Ruin’s really doing fine. Thriving, actually. We’re starting with proper arena setups soon. Full courses.”
“That’s good.” She nods like she’s not that interested. Which is…odd. Why did she come here if not to check in on progress?
Then she asks, “What about you?”
And I stiffen so hard for sure something cracked .
“What… about me?”
She holds my arms, gives them a squeeze. Her eyes are soft enough to relax my muscles. Almost too much, but I catch myself before slouching, knowing she loathes it. At least I can breathe without my sternum aching.
Those are my mom’s eyes, not my manager’s. God, I needed those today.
“What they suggested in that call...” she says, frowning a bit. “You know I wouldn’t let that happen, right?”
I nod immediately. Yeah, I know, I really do. She wouldn’t condone having me painted as some sort of villainous douche bag who takes advantage of little kids just to get ahead of the competition. Even if it would fit the brand.
“So I’m gonna ask you again, and I want you to tell me the truth. Okay?”
My stomach clenches. Her hands too, tight on my arms so she’s sure I’m here, grounded, listening.
Then she asks, “What about you? Are you okay?”
I try to whisper no. Immediately, miserably. No—no—no, I’m not.
But I can’t. My head says it for me, shaking side to side.
She nods. “It’s this place, isn’t it?”
My head again, nodding too, with her. Not just this place, but everything it represents.
Things I didn’t know were possible, so things I never wished for or dreamed about.
Things like closing your eyes and facing the sun just for its warmth.
Things like matching your breathing with a horse’s, and just being there, with them, doing nothing by schedule, with that specific intent.
Smiling out of time. Laughing out of tone. By design.
Out of the lines. On purpose. I understand it now.
Riverlight magic.
Or it just feels like magic because it doesn’t feel like me, like something I could have.
But I can. I could, couldn’t I?
Somehow?
“You’ve always been stellar,” Mom says, finally dropping her hold on me.
It feels cold where she let go. “Every day of your life. Perfect rider, the perfect professional. The perfect son.” A smile, the one I love on her.
Then a snort. “Maybe too perfect. What rebellious teen years? I mean, you sailed right through them, didn’t you?
” She chuckles. I mimic how she sounds—too weird to do it for real.
“So a place like this, that forces you to stop...” She pauses. And it itches. That pause, on my skin, my muscles… What is she saying? “I get it. How a place like this would mess up your wires.”
Mess up my wires? Yes, I… I guess that’s what happened.
“But it’s a honeymoon, sweetheart. You know that, right?” she adds, taking my hand, caressing my palm with her fingertips. Her nails scratch. “It’s a fantasy. And fantasies don’t fit real life, of course.”
Of course.
Yes, of course. That’s why they’re fantasies, right?
Her eyes drop to my hand, nestled in hers. My left one. I look too, down too.
And all I see is the faded heart on my wrist.
“Isn’t it best for everyone,” she continues, voice too soft, too quiet, “to end the fantasy on your own terms? Gather your strength, build up your defenses against it, you know? So it’s easier when time’s up and it’s over?”
Best for everyone. My own terms. Strength. Defenses.
Time’s up.
Over.
She lets go of my hand, cups my cheeks. And forces her eyes on mine—both silver, deep-set, metal sharp. A mirror of my own face that’s telling me things I’d never say.
“You’re a champion. The best of the best. And champions don’t delay the inevitable. They face it, chin up, chest out. Like you always have. Your entire life, sweetheart. You can do this too.”
Yeah. My entire life. I can do this too. Right?
“Yeah,” I whisper. Yeah, it’s… What she’s saying. I think it’s correct.
Mom smiles and nods. She’s happy, so it’s good, right? “Good,” she says. Then takes my left hand again, lifts it between us.
Wrist up. Scar up.
Heart up.
“Clean slate, yeah?”
Thumb to her lips. Wets it on her tongue.
No. What is she doing?
Presses it on my wrist. On my heart.
No. No, please.
Mom, please.
One wipe. Another. And another.
Erasing the ink. Erasing my heart.
And I let her.
And it’s gone.
“There. Much better.” She lets go of my hand.
I don’t feel it dropping. Might as well be dead.
“You have plenty of time for fantasies later,” she tells me, tracing that same thumb over my cheek. Softly, kindly. “It’ll taste even sweeter when you retire, I guarantee.”
Retire. In my forties or fifties. Maybe sixties.
I’m twenty-six, right?
Yes.
Yes, it makes sense.
I just don’t feel it.