8. Georgina
— ? —
Georgina
The warm-up arena is emptying when I reach it.
I push through the last cluster of spectators near the entrance and scan the ring for Max’s familiar posture, for Dante’s dark coat, for any sign that I’m not too late.
But the arena holds only a groom leading a bay mare toward the far gate, and the steward near the entrance is already directing people toward the main stands.
“The pairs exhibition.” I step into the steward’s line of sight before he can follow the departing horses. “Has it started?”
He points toward the passage between the arenas. “They’ve already been called through to the main ring, signora. You can still find a seat if you hurry.”
Already called through. A few minutes earlier and I might have caught Max before he entered, might have asked him about Sovrano while there was still time to do something other than watch. I turn toward the main arena, my heels catching on the uneven ground.
The stands are nearly full when I reach them.
I find a spot at the edge of the lower section, close enough to see the arena clearly but far enough from the main seating that I won’t have to make conversation with anyone who recognizes me.
The crowd is still settling, programs rustling, voices rising and falling in anticipation.
From here I can see the riders’ entrance.
I reach for the rail as the microphone crackles overhead.
The announcer’s voice carries across the stands, warm and practiced. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this year’s legacy pairs exhibition. This event celebrates the tradition of partnership between riders and horses, honoring the families who have shaped our sport across generations.”
I know this introduction. I’ve heard it before, standing at the arena entrance with Max while we waited for our names to be called.
I remember the way his hand found mine just before we mounted, the quick squeeze that meant we were in this together.
He trusted me to hold my side of the pattern.
If he lost his timing, he knew I’d be there to bring him back into it.
“This year, we’re pleased to present Maximillian Costanzo, continuing his family’s legacy in this event.” The announcer pauses for the crowd’s applause, and I watch the arena entrance with my heart hammering against my ribs.
Max rides in first on Dante, his posture perfect, his face composed in the focused expression he wears during competition.
I recognize the confidence that annoyed me the morning we met in the woods, before either of us knew the other’s name.
For one absurd moment, I almost forget why I’m standing here with my hands cold and my chest tight.
Then Giselle follows him into the arena on Sovrano.
I knew. Marco told me a few minutes ago, and I’ve been carrying that knowledge through the corridors and the crowd. But knowing and seeing are different things, and seeing my sister on my horse beside my husband hits me somewhere beneath my ribs where I wasn’t prepared to be hit.
Sovrano looks beautiful. His coat gleams in the afternoon light, and he carries himself with the quiet confidence I remember from every ride we took together.
His ears shift toward the applause before settling forward again.
I know that small movement, the moment he notices something new and decides he can carry on.
“Riding alongside him today is Giselle della Rovere, Maximillian’s sister-in-law.
” The announcer’s voice fills the arena, pleasant and informative, explaining me to people who used to know my name.
“As many of you know, Georgina Costanzo is unable to ride this season while she continues to heal from her injury. In her absence, her sister has generously stepped in to honor the family tradition and keep the legacy alive.”
In my absence. I’m close enough to hear Sovrano’s hooves against the ground, and they’ve already found the words to explain me away.
My fingers tighten on the rail until I can feel my knuckles straining. I watch my sister guide my horse into position beside my husband, and the crowd murmurs around me, voices I can’t quite separate into words.
Somewhere to my left, an older woman tilts her head toward her companion and says, loud enough for me to catch, “Such a shame about the wife. She was quite talented, wasn’t she?”
Was talented. Past tense. As though I’ve already become someone people remember instead of someone standing right here.
Max raises his hand to acknowledge the crowd, and the exhibition begins.
The pattern is simple. I can see that immediately, can see the way it’s been adapted for a newer rider, the movements kept basic and the timing generous.
Sovrano is doing what he knows, responding to familiar cues, carrying Giselle through the pattern while she focuses on staying balanced and keeping her hands quiet. She’s trying hard. I can see the concentration in her shoulders, the way she’s thinking through each transition instead of feeling it.
Max rides beside her with the focused attention of a coach, adjusting his position to match her pace, turning his head to check that she’s keeping up.
When she falls behind, he eases Dante back until they’re level again, giving her time to correct herself. He found the hours to practice this with her, to prepare her for an audience on my horse, while the day he promised me kept sliding into next week.
I think about his fingers easing the hairpin from my hair at dinner, the relief of being noticed without having to ask. He can be so careful with me when he remembers I’m there.
How does someone who knows where my hairpins pinch decide I don’t need to know my own horse is being ridden in public?
Sovrano completes the turn, and Giselle brings him alongside Dante as the crowd applauds. Max gives her a small, approving nod. I can’t tell whether he’s heard every word of the introduction, but he agreed to be here with her.
Nobody had to take him away from me. He arranged this himself, and now people are clapping for how generously my family has helped me out of the way.
My fingers have gone numb around the rail, and when I try to loosen them, I realize how hard I’ve been holding on. I came here hoping to find him, hoping we might share a few minutes in a place that used to be ours.
Instead a stranger is explaining my place in the family while I stand here with no part in what he’s saying. The applause swells again, and I step back from the rail because I cannot stay here and pretend this is something I can witness.
I turn toward the exit and work my way along the row, my silk skirt brushing against people who have no reason to look at me.
The announcer is still talking, something about tradition and family and the bonds that connect generations of riders, and I let the words blur into noise as I push through the door into the corridor beyond.
The bathroom is empty when I find it.
I lock myself in the last stall and lean against the door, pressing my palms flat against the metal until I can feel the cold seeping into my skin.
My breath is coming too fast, my chest tight, and I realize I’m about to break down for the first time since the accident.
For a year, I’ve managed to get through the pain and the questions without doing this. Even alone, when I wanted to cry, I couldn’t seem to begin.
Now a tear slips off my chin and lands on the silk of my dress. I watch the small mark darken, and the next breath breaks before I can draw it properly. I press a hand over my mouth, but there’s nobody here I need to be quiet for. That only makes it harder to stop.
I fumble for my phone and scroll through my contacts until I find the name I need. Deus, my cousin, mentioned in his last message that he’d be at the grounds today, something about a young horse someone wanted him to see.
I didn’t think I’d need him. I’d thought we might find each other later and argue about whatever horse he was considering buying. I press his name before I can decide to manage this by myself instead.
He answers on the second ring. “Georgie?” I hear the shift in his attention, the background noise of a crowd fading as he moves somewhere quieter.
“Deus.” My voice cracks on his name, and I press my free hand against my mouth. “Are you still at the grounds?”
“I’m here.” The crowd noise on his end cuts off, and I hear a door close. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
“I’m not hurt.” I take a breath and try to make the words come out in order.
“I came to surprise Max, and I just watched him ride the pairs exhibition with Giselle. On Sovrano. They announced it like I was already gone, like I was someone who used to ride here, and I found out about the horse from the groom. Max never told me.”
I wait for him to ask whether I’ve spoken to Max, to suggest there must be something I haven’t understood. Instead, my cousin asks, “Where are you right now?”
“Bathroom near the main arena. Off the east corridor.” I lean my forehead against the stall door. “I want to leave. I don’t want to have this conversation with him here.”
“I’ll be there in two minutes.” I hear him moving, footsteps quick against hard ground. “Stay where you are. I’m coming to get you.”
The line goes dead, and I stand in the stall with my phone pressed against my chest, listening to my own breathing.
Through the walls, I can hear the distant sound of applause, the muffled roar of a crowd appreciating something I’m no longer watching. The exhibition must be ending. I can picture Max smiling as he leaves the arena, pleased with the ride.
Does he still think I’m at home, having the restful day he decided would be better for me? I look at the locked door until the thought passes and I can breathe without swallowing against another sob.
When the applause fades, I unlock the stall and move to the sink.