Page 75 of Hats off to Love

I scoot to the edge of the bed, moving closer to him. His feelings are hurt, like really hurt. This is an old wound, and if I’m hearing him correctly, it’s the reason we were not friends all these years. This right here, this is the reason, the beginning of it all. A lump forms in my throat.

“Stokes.” I say his name gently to get his attention and to diffuse some of the emotions coursing through him. “I do remember that. I remember you coming to my house and being so excited that you were there and had asked me. Trust me when I say I was crushing on you hard, but when have you ever seen me on a horse?”

The two little lines strike between his eyes, and his lips flatten as he thinks about my question. He thinks about it but doesn’t answer.

“All these years, you hated me because you thought I was somehow snubbing you that day?” I shake my head in disbelief, my eyes flooding with tears.

As much as I don’t want to get emotional over this conversation, my heart is breaking into a thousand pieces. Years—years he hated me, and all this time I had no idea what I had done to earn his perpetual scorn. Slowly the tears spill over.

“I mean . . .” he stutters, shaking his head too. “I thought it was me you didn’t want to be with. At fifteen, my feelings were crushed, and I just . . . I thought it was me you didn’t want. Why don’t you ride horses?” He’s completely dumbfounded by this revelation.

“Because I’m afraid of them,” I say bluntly.

Shock and confusion flit across his face. “Why?”

I pull on the sheet around me to see if I can tighten it a bit, even though it’s already pretty secure. It’s as if I’m using it to hold me together when I feel like I’m about to blow apart. “Stokes, do you know how my dad died?” My voice is unsteady. Even after all these years, it’s still hard to talk about.

He runs his hand over his face then back through his hair before he drops it to his side. His wary eyes find mine. “Yes, he had a heart attack like mine.”

Does he really not know?

“He did, but he went into cardiac arrest after being kicked in the chest by a h-horse.”

His jaw drops then snaps back up. The scowl I know so well shifts his expression and replaces his shock. “How have I not ever heard this story?”

“I don’t know.” I shake my head in perplexed confusion. “My dad was an electrician. He was out at the Kingsleys’ farm working on some wiring in one of their barns for something, I don’t even know. He was walking toward Mr. Kingsley, who was standing next to a groomer who was holding a horse, and the horse got bit by a horse fly. It was a complete freak accident.”

“Horse fly,” he states and questions at the same time, dread laced in his tone.

“Yes.” I can feel my chin quivering, and I see the moment he sees this too. The anger and turmoil he was shrouded in just moments ago have evaporated and, with them, my resolve. I start crying, for so many different reasons.

I’ve learned a lot since his accident. Most horses don’t like horse flies. They are large insects, about the size of a thumbnail or bigger, and almost all horses kick out and try to run when one lands on them and bites. Talk about the wrong place at the wrong time. Ten seconds, five paces—so many variables that could have been different and given us a different outcome.

The emergency room doctor told us being kicked by a horse is the equivalent of getting hit by a car going twenty miles an hour. It’s enough to shatter bones and inflict massive trauma to soft tissues, and it is common for someone to go into cardiac arrest afterward. They tried to save him, but the damage was too much.

“The horse kicked him?” Moving forward to sit on the bed beside me, he places his hand on my leg.

“Yes.” I’m watching him, and tears are now falling rapidly. I wasn’t the one kicked in the chest, but mine feels so tight and so sad right now. I just close my eyes and drop my head.

Oh, Stokes.

All these years. This one thing, and all it’s done is snowball into something bigger and bigger until it was bigger than us. Why have we never talked about this? How did he not know I’m afraid of horses? Why hasn’t he ever mentioned that day, even in passing as a passive aggressive comment?

“I didn’t know,” he says as he pulls me into his arms and against his chest. “I’m so sorry, Rosie. I don’t know what to say right now. I’m just sorry for all of it, for what happened to you, for what I didn’t know . . . how I perceived that moment, how I’ve treated you . . .” He groans into my hair. “I’m so sorry.”

And I am too. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never asked him once why he didn’t like me. Would he have told me? Maybe, maybe not, but I could have tried harder. I cling to him with utter sadness for a lifetime that could have been different for us. I didn’t know I had hurt his feelings so much that day. That was the last thing I ever intended—I wanted that friendship with him so badly.

At least now we know. It’s out there, in the open, and, hopefully, forever over.

27

Driving Stokes’s big SUV is a dream. I thought I would be nervous to navigate it due to its size, but surprisingly, over the last two days, I did all right. The boxes fit perfectly into the back, and both yesterday and today, I only needed to load it up once, which saved on time. I donned a Rosie May T-shirt and a matching fascinator and headed out to each of the hotels. The valets let me double park to unload, the concierges were more than accommodating and took the boxes from me, and I was even stopped a few times to take a picture. I’m certain Molly will be over the moon when she sees me out and about and tagged in photos.

Once I was finished, I refilled his tank with gas and headed back to the farm to pick him up. He was waiting for me outside his house when I pulled up, and my insides fluttered. Repeatedly, I’ve thought of our conversation from yesterday morning, him opening up to me and his confession as to why he hated me all of these years, and having an answer has made me feel lighter, freer. For the first time since I realized I want more, want him, I feel like it’s a real possibility.

A smile splits his face, and I can’t help but marvel at the change in him over the last couple of weeks. He’s not as rigid and stiff as I’ve always known him to be, and although I still think he’s an old man in a young guy’s body, I can appreciate how he has classic tastes and values simplicity.

Opening the driver’s side door, he leans in and kisses me. “You might look adorable driving my car, but when I’m here, you sit over there.” He points to the passenger side.