17. Georgina
— ? —
Georgina
Max looks at me over the bay’s ears, and I realize I’ve made a face.
I’m leaning on the arena rail, supposedly watching quietly while he works one of the young estate horses. He asked a few days ago whether I’d mind him spending some time with the bay. I said I wouldn’t, then somehow found a reason to be in the yard when he brought him out.
My coat is hanging under the stable overhang, my phone forgotten in its pocket. I meant to stay for ten minutes.
It’s the fourth afternoon since I first walked Sovrano around this arena. I’ve ridden him twice more, briefly, and on the second occasion I had to stand on the block for so long that I began to wonder whether the first day had been an accident. I got on eventually.
Today my thighs still ache, and I chose to leave him in his paddock rather than turn this into a test I have to pass every morning.
The bay comes toward the corner in an enthusiastic trot, then loses his balance through the turn. Max brings him back to a walk before looking over at me again.
“Go on.” He lets the horse stretch his neck. “You’ve been biting your tongue for the last five minutes.”
“I was being polite.” I fold my arms on the rail, watching the bay look hopefully toward the gate. “You might try giving him a little more room through that corner.”
“I was trying to keep him from cutting it altogether.” Max guides him past me at a walk. “He has strong views about unnecessary distance.”
“Then ask him to walk before the turn. Give him a chance to do it properly before you make it harder.” I lift my eyebrows when Max smiles. “What?”
“Nothing.” He looks ahead again, still smiling. “You lasted longer than I expected.”
He used to say that when I watched him train. I could stand with a cup of coffee going cold in my hands, determined to leave him to his work, and somehow end up arguing with him about a horse who had no opinion on either of us. It was one of the things I loved about our mornings.
He might disagree with every word I said and still want to hear the next one.
I haven’t stopped missing that. Having a little of it back makes it difficult to remember that I only came to watch for ten minutes.
“Try it once,” I call as he takes the bay away from the rail. “You can tell me how wrong I am afterward.”
Max asks for trot along the long side, then brings the horse back to a walk well before the corner. This time he gives the turn more room, and the bay comes through without the awkward scramble of his hind feet.
“Better?” Max looks over when they’re straight again, waiting for my verdict.
“I thought so.” I let myself smile at him. “Although you’re welcome to come up with a reason it was your idea.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.” He pats the bay’s neck and lets him walk on a longer rein.
For a few minutes I forget to keep track of how comfortable I am.
There is a horse to watch, a question to answer, a husband who looks toward me because he wants to know what I think. The bay tries to drift toward the gate again, and I am about to accuse Max of negotiating badly when the light changes over the sand.
The pale clouds that have been passing overhead all afternoon have given way to a darker bank beyond the hills. I straighten from the rail, suddenly aware of how cool it has become.
The first gust of wind takes us both by surprise.
A canvas cover over the stacked jump poles outside the rail snaps loose. The bay jumps sideways and takes several hurried strides before Max steadies him. My stomach drops with the movement. I grip the rail, waiting until horse and rider come to a halt before I trust myself to breathe properly.
“Easy, boy.” Max keeps his voice low, stroking the bay’s neck as he settles. “There you go.”
The bay stares at the cover, breathing hard. Max has halted him at the far side of the arena, well away from it, but another gust sends the loose corner cracking against the rail. I look from the horse to the cover as the first drops hit my face.
“Can you get the cover?” Max glances toward me without turning the bay back toward it. “I’ll keep him over here, then bring him in.”
I move along the outside of the rail, catch the loose corner and pull the cover tight over the poles.
The fastening has worked free. It takes two attempts with wet fingers to secure it, and by the time I finish, rain is running down the back of my neck.
Across the arena, the bay lowers his head a little as the flapping stops.
“Done.” I straighten and make my way to the gate. “I’ll get this once you’re down.”
Max swings down from the saddle, landing lightly despite the wind, and leads the bay toward the gate. The rain is coming harder now, heavy drops that splatter against the sand and darken the horse’s coat.
I open the gate and stand well clear as Max leads the bay through, then secure it behind them.
The groom is waiting at the stable entrance.
Max leads the bay inside and hands her the reins, staying while she brings him to his stall.
I follow far enough to see the horse stand while she loosens his girth.
He looks much less concerned now that there is a roof over him, and I find myself smiling at the speed of his recovery.
“He’s all right,” the groom says, watching him investigate the hay waiting in his box. “I’ll see to him.”
Max thanks her and takes off his helmet. I step back under the covered recess beside the doorway, shaking water from my hands before reaching for the towel by the wash area.
“We should have stopped sooner.” He hangs his helmet on a spare hook and looks out at the yard. Water is already streaming toward the drain.
“The sky could have given us a little more notice.” I pass him the towel, then wince when a gust sends the overflowing gutter spilling over the edge of the roof. “Max, move.”
He steps the wrong way. Water catches him squarely at the back of his collar, and his whole body goes rigid.
“Porca miseria.” He jerks away from the edge and looks over his shoulder, as though the gutter has done it deliberately. “That’s cold.”
I press my lips together. It doesn’t help. His expression is so affronted, and he is holding the entirely inadequate towel so far away from himself, that I start to laugh.
“Don’t.” He points the towel at me, which only makes it worse. “I saw you considering it.”
“I tried to warn you.” I have to put a hand against the wall, laughing harder when he pulls the sodden collar away from his neck. “You stepped straight into it.”
“I was following instructions.” His mouth begins to curve despite the water running down his shirt.
“Badly.” I reach for the towel when he offers it, dabbing at my face. “Perhaps I should have talked you through the turn.”
He laughs then, and I feel it somewhere deeper than the joke deserves. I’ve heard that laugh so often in rooms where I was waiting for him to look toward me.
Having it here, with his attention entirely on my face, makes me want to keep him standing beside me until the rain stops. Longer than that, if I’m honest.
“You’re enjoying this far too much.” Max takes the towel when I hand it back, then wipes water from his eyes.
“You’re very funny when you’re offended.” I reach up to move a wet strand of hair off his forehead before it falls into his eyes again. It is such a familiar gesture that I don’t think about it until my fingers touch his skin.
Max lifts his hand toward mine, then stops. I could draw back easily. Instead, I let my fingers linger against his temple.
His smile fades slowly as he looks at me. He puts the towel on the bench without turning away, and the quiet between us feels impossible beneath all that noise.
Rain is hammering the tiles inches beyond the shelter. I can hear water rushing through the drain, a horse moving in the stable, everything except whatever sensible thing I should say before I touch him again.
“Elle.” He says my name softly, his gaze moving over my face, and I recognize how carefully he is waiting.
I could take my coat off the hook and go inside.
He would move out of my way. Knowing that makes it harder to leave, because I don’t want space from him at this moment.
I want the familiar touch of his hand against my jaw and his attention close enough that I don’t have to wonder where else he’d rather be.
I slide my fingers to the back of his neck and kiss him.
He answers with a gentleness I can’t bear just now.
I have spent too long being touched carefully, too long wondering whether he sees his wife or someone he might hurt by wanting too much.
I catch the front of his shirt and pull him closer, and the sound he makes against my mouth sends a sharp, familiar ache through me.
His hand settles at my waist. For a moment I let myself feel the strength of it, the certainty with which he draws me toward him. Then I remember how often I have mistaken being wanted for being understood, and I turn my face before he can kiss me again.
“This changes nothing.”
Max stills. His breath warms my cheek, and I can feel how much effort it takes him to give me that little space.
“I heard you.”
“I mean it.” I make myself look at him. “I’m still angry with you.”
“I know you are.” His hand loosens at my waist without leaving it. “You don’t have to stop being angry to tell me what you want.”
I wish he had known that months ago. I wish I could hear him say something right without remembering all the times I tried to get him to listen. The thought makes my eyes sting, and I tighten my fingers in his shirt because I refuse to spend this afternoon crying into it.
“You,” I say. “Right now. That’s all I know.”
He looks at me for a moment that feels much longer than it is. Then he lifts his hand to my face, his thumb catching the rain beside my mouth.
“Then that’s all you’re telling me.”