The others in the ring stared as if I just told him to fuck off. Which, in a way, I had.
I stopped Ginger and sat, hand on my hips as the others continued at a trot.
Hank approached, jaw set, stopping at my boot. “I’m sorry. Did you just say no?”
“I’m standing my ground. My legs are fucking tired and I’m done. You can take it out on me later?—”
He lowered his voice, “I swear to God, Bets, if this is you attempting to provoke me for a bit of fun, I’m not?—”
I made a face. “Fuck! Off!”
He recoiled, realizing I wasn’t flirting. Feeling judged and icky, I faded into tears. His reading of my rage as nothing more than a game wounded me, but his view that the only other explanation apart from rage he would accept was flirting made it worse. All I wanted was for someone to hug me and understand I wasn’t perfect and needed a minute.
Hank patted my ankle empathetically and didn’t push, bringing me back down.
“Hey, it’s okay. Just take your time, cool her down, and put her away. We will start again tomorrow at the clinic. Take the night to get your head in the game.”
I rode Ginger from the arena and down the lane behind the barn to an overlook. Cold sea air hit, waking us both from our peaceful, oblivious slumber. I turned back, gently trotted up the lane until I came to the arena, walking her in circles by the barn. With a good pat, I dismounted.
“I am sorry I was truly a fuck up,” I sighed.
She snorted in my face, as she couldn’t care less if she tried. A red mare was a blessing and a curse. Lore said they were hot-headed and opinionated. Both of those were true for Ginger. They were also smart. Ginger had only a couple years of experience over fences, but she could get me out of any sticky situation I stupidly put her in. She was Cici’s prospect first but became my new favorite toy once I swung my leg over her. And with her upcoming retirement, Ginger became mine.
I slowly tucked the mare in and chucked her a flake of hay to tide her over until feeding time. Then, like a coward and unable to talk about my feelings, I hid in her stall until the other riders packed off. I just needed a minute. I sat happily in the dim barn light as Ginger chewed quietly at the manger’s hay. There was little a horse couldn’t improve for me.
My mobile buzzed. I pulled it from my barn jacket to reveal the truth.
MARY
My band is dragging me to the mixer tonight. I want to apologize to you, but I am not sure if that is the venue. I know you are avoiding me.
Mary’s texts fell on deaf ears. I wrote her off, swearing to myself it would only be more awkward. In her eyes, she was trying. In mine, it was far too little too late.
ME
I didn’t plan to come, so you’re safe.
MARY
Because of me? Shit.
She typed. I ignored it.
MARY
Look, I was a bitch and I’m sorry. But I’d like to properly apologize. I just don’t want to make it worse. There really was a misunderstanding and I want to talk.
I let out a long, frustrated groan. Yes, I was avoiding her. I asked specifically to avoid the Brits yesterday. Brita made it work, even though she felt it was an inappropriate snub. I just couldn’t see Mary again. It hurt too much.
“What are you doing down there?”
Hank leaned on the stall door, looking at me.
“Nothing.”
“Bets, this isn’t doing you any good. Whatever is eating you, you need to come out with it.”
He opened the door, ignoring my protest, patted Ginger on the shoulder, and sat beside me. His quiet vulnerability in times like this where he went from gruff Virginian to sweet friend always led me to open up. There weretimes Hank reminded me so much of my mother—quiet in public but heart on his sleeve in private.
