And the more I look at it, the more I think there’s no way Miles would have spent six figures on a ring for a marriage that’s only going to last a season.
He might be rich, but one thing about billionaires is that they like to keep hold of their money.
On the other hand, maybe it’s an investment where he can make his money back.
That’s more like it, it’s aninvestment.
Which makes me responsible for it. To that I sayhell, no.
It’s the type of ring polo patrons’ wives wear while sipping cold glasses of champagne. It’s not for the player. I can’t muck out the horses wearing it. Hose them down. I’d be galloping up the field and praying it didn’t fly off.
It’s impractical, is what it is. It’sirresponsible.
Easing it off with a dab of soap, I lay it carefully in the little dish on the shelf above the basin, leaving only the delicate band of diamonds. I return to brushing my teeth and stare at my finger. I’ve been wearing that ring for less than twenty-four hours, but somehow, my finger feels empty without it. It looks empty.
So I slide it back on and make a deal with myself to only wear it around the house, like dressing up. Because when you boil it down, that’s all this is. Dress up. A make-believe marriage.
After running a brush through my hair, I tug on the only pair of sweats I own and quietly ease open my bedroom door. Looking left, I see Miles’s door open, which means he’s awake and likely downstairs. I hesitate on my first step, a wave of apprehension washing over me. What happens now? Is he waiting for me? Are we supposed to have breakfast together? To the outside world, we’re husband and wife, but within these four walls, we’re roommates who barely know each other.
I go slowly. My efforts at staying undetected are futile when the door hinges creak so loudly they’ve alerted Miles—and anyone else—to my presence, and padding down the floorboards, I realize this house is just one noisy step after another. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I duck under the low ceiling and brace myself. I expect him to call out as I get closer to the kitchen, but when I walk in, I come up empty.
“Miles?”
My call goes unanswered, even when I try again. I might have woken up married, but my new husband’s nowhere to be seen.
I’m alone in the house.
Immediately, a sigh of relief escapes. I’ve been told many times I’m not the most morning-y of people, and now I get to take my time calibrating to my new surroundings.
My first stop is the coffee machine in the corner, where I find a note.
Wifey,
I left early to take care of some business. Coffee beans are in the machine, milk’s in the fridge, and mugs are in the cupboard in front of you.
Meet me at the stables at 10 a.m. for your first lesson.
Your ever faithful and loving husband,
Miles
Iknow I said I didn’t like being called “wife,” but I smile nonetheless. I have the feeling I’m going to need to get used to it. I know this much already—Miles isn’t the type of person you can tell what to do, and the more I object, the more he’ll continue.
While I wait for the coffee to drip, I look around.
Instead of cookbooks, framed photos fill the shelves, along with trinkets and memorabilia. There’s a place for everything. I get closer, studying each picture—Miles and his family, Milesas a little boy, Miles with horse after horse after horse. Empty magnums of champagne have been placed next to photos of him as part of winning teams—at Cowdray, at the Argentine Open, the Dubai Classic.
The biggest frame, however, is reserved for a man who can only be Miles’s dad, with him as a little boy. Miles is sitting on a stable gate, held in place by his father, while on the other side, a huge black horse peers over. An unexpected surge of emotion rises up my throat, stinging my eyes until I’m forced to squeeze them shut. I turn, wiping away the moisture, and cast my eyes over the rest of the room.
There's a domesticity to this house that's heartwarming andsurprising.Even the dish towel has little ponies on it. There are piles of polo magazines, and I roll my eyes when I realize they all have Miles on the cover. Opening the cabinets, I find everything neatly stacked, lined up, and labeled, just like in the fridge when I fetch the milk. It’s also full, which means someone must have stocked it before we returned.
Carrying my coffee, I make my way through the rest of the house. It’s small, cozy, with more low beams that make me wonder if Miles has to walk with a constantly dipped head. More photos hang on the walls—all of family, horses, and dogs. None, I realize, of other women. In fact, any evidence women have been here at all rests solely in my imagination and the basket of products in the bathroom.
In the coziest-looking room, I find a huge TV, more polo magazines, more photos, and a stacked bookshelf filled with the type of books they made us read in school—boring literature about boring people. It’s in this room where the scent of Miles is the strongest—that leathery, cedar-y man scent, which sends a tingle down my spine. It’s already imprinted in my brain, along with that kiss, and a light fluttering starts up deep in my core that makes it hard to ignore.
There’s another picture of Miles and his dad, this time with Hendricks as well. I lift it off the shelf and study it. The twins are identical, but the longer I stare, I’m almost certain Miles is the one on the left. His lip curves up in the same way I’ve seen it do the past week—like he’s waiting to be proved right about something—and it’s an expression missing from Hendricks.
I’m putting it back on the shelf when there’s a loud knock on the door, and I startle so hard that the photo slips, clatters to the floor, and coffee spills everywhere.
