Page 48 of Total Jane Wreck

“Oh, Jane . . .” Mom’s tone turns gentle “. . . he’s getting ninety thousand for her. This isn’t about punishing you.”

“Is it about punishing Betty? Because polo horses get worked until they break.”

Just like hearts. Just like promises.

“I realize it’s not ideal,” Mom says. “But it’s how it’s got to be.”

“We’ll see about that.” I wipe away my tears with the back of my hand. “Mom, I have to go. But you can tell Reed that he’ll hear from me.”

“Well—”

“I’ll talk to you soon.” I hang up—there’s nothing more to say—then toss my phone onto the bed, where it bounces off the edge and clatters to the trailer floor without a hint of drama. My vision’s swimming, but I know what I have to do.

I run.

Out the trailer, across the gravel lot, past the hayfield shimmering in twilight, and straight up the drive to Chet’s house. We haven’t spoken since this morning, during Theo’s visit. My bare feet, still healing from their burns, skip and sting on the stones. But all I feel is the nausea.

Chet opens the door before I’ve even raised my hand to knock. He must have seen me barrel up the walk. Or maybe he knew somehow, the way dogs know when an earthquake’s coming.

“Jane.” Chet blinks at me. “What’s wrong?”

He’s in sweats and a ratty tee with faded letters—some tech conference in Seattle, 2012.

“Only everything.” I hiccup. “Sorry. I’m being dramatic. And I’m about to make things even more awkward between us. It’s not about Mason or Grace or if you and I are a bad idea . . .” I sniff back more tears. “It’s about my family, and my horse, Betty.”

Chet takes me in—my dirty feet, blotchy face, the hair I must have wiped snot into twice on the way over. Then he steps back and makes space for me. Like he’s clearing a runway.

“Come inside,” he says. “Let’s talk this through.”

He leads me into the living room, gesturing toward his couch. I sit, and Chet moves to the built-in bar. I’m hugging myself, half frozen in place. He hands me a double bourbon. I drain half in one go, then inhale so sharply it hurts.

“Thank you.” My voice is tight as a stretched rubber band.

Chet waits, patient, arms crossed. His eyes are wary, but not cold.

“I need a favor.” The words scrape out. “And you have every right to say no, but I can’t pretend that this isn’t happening. Chet, I’m desperate.”

He nods, one of those slow, deliberate dips of the chin. “Just tell me.”

I stand. Drain the rest of my bourbon. Then I pace, not knowing where to start or how not to sound like a lunatic. “Betty’s my favorite horse. I raised her from a foal, and I’ve been saving up, thinking I could buy her, but I was deluded. Because my brother just sold her to some Palm Beach freak who’ll break her on the polo field.”

Chet says nothing.

“Polo horses don’t last long,” I tell him. “They race them, play them hard until they snap—” My fingers make a quick, brittle snapping sound. “And Betty, she’s trusting. A gentle soul. The wrong people will take advantage of that, and when I think about her getting whipped by some pencil dick trying to shoot a wooden ball into a goal—well, it’s enough to make me lose my mind!”

“I understand.” The way Chet says this, it’s more like he’s breathing than speaking.

“Do you? Do you understand? I mean, I know it’s ridiculous, but—” my throat clogs again “—if I don’t do something, I’ll never see her again, and she’ll break herself for a man who treats her like less than a toy, and—” Out of words, I rub my forehead. Suddenly, the contents of my stomach threaten to come up. I double over.

Chet’s by my side like a shot. He rubs my back in slow circles, murmuring, “Breathe, Jane. It’s going to be okay.”

I don’t trust myself to meet his eyes. “Buy her. Please. I know I have no right to ask, and even though I’m too upset right now to feel humiliated, tomorrow the shame will come. But I don’t care. Betty’s too important. She needs me.”

He nods. His face is etched with concern. “Of course she does, Jane. Don’t worry. We’ll fix this.” Chet kneels in front of me, wiping my tear-stained cheek with his thumb. “Whatever the pencil-dick polo player has offered to pay for Betty, I’ll double the price.”

“Then you’d be paying almost two hundred grand—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Chet answers. “I mean it. Once you’ve made your first billion, it seriously doesn’t matter. My money’s invested, which means passive income. In the last few minutes, just standing here, I probably accrued as much as we’ll spend on her.”