Page 82 of Hats off to Love

The noise is buzzing around us, my head is pounding, and he lets out a defeated sigh. When he leans down to kiss me, I jerk my head to the side so his lips land on my cheek. His mother, my mother, and Molly are all watching, but none of them says anything. I’m certain they too can read the room and know I’m about to lose it.

“Text me and let me know how you are,” he says. “I’ll check in as soon as I can.”

“Great.” I give him the fakest smile. “Good luck to Ace.” I wave to those around us, and then I’m gone.

I was wrong about this weather—it isn’t nice at all. It’s overcast, damp, breezy, and bordering on cold. It’s crazy how mental health can change people’s perceptions. We see what we want to see, and whereas this afternoon I thought this weather was near perfect, now it just feels miserable.

29

Ace lost.

Well, he came in second. It was a photo-finish win, the other horse literally beating him by a nose. I didn’t make it home to watch it live, but I had set it to record. Stupid me just wanted to get to see the family clip. Instead, I watched the race on repeat. Every single time, my heart ran with him until he crossed the finish line, and even though I knew it wasn’t him, my adrenaline spiked, wishing for the outcome to be different.

Just like with my life.

He still won six hundred thousand, which isn’t too shabby for two minutes’ worth of work, and if he does well in the next two races of the Triple Crown—and I can’t imagine he won’t—he’ll still get incredible stud fees.

I’m happy for Birdie and for Grayson.

After the race, Stokes called me several times, but I never answered. There are always a ton of parties to attend, and I knew he needed to make the rounds. He texted a lot, and then late last night he tried to stop by, but I didn’t answer the buzzer from downstairs.

Proactively, I texted Molly right after I got home to let her know I was fine, just not feeling well, and I was shutting off for the night and going to bed. That way, if Stokes reached out to her, she’d already have my alibi.

He must have spoken to her at some point, because his messages were never urgent, just said he was there if I needed him.

Yeah right.

Or they weren’t urgent because the truth is he just doesn’t care.

I am such an idiot. I knew better . . . I really did.

Walking through my shop, I find myself sitting at one of the tables in the center. Even though I turned the music on to break up the silence, it’s still very quiet. There’s a white noise in my ears that feels hollow, and it echoes deep throughout my body and into my soul. This is supposed to be my happy place, but I don’t think there’s anywhere in this world that could accomplish that right now.

I thought today would feel different. I thought I’d feel relief that my biggest day of the year is behind me, excitement about the hordes of social media comments the shop has been getting and in general the overall success of the season, but I don’t. All I feel is sad.

Incredibly sad.

If melancholy were a color, for me it wouldn’t be just black—that’s too simple. It has to be a dark shade of gray with a tint of purple. It’s not because I’m feeling blue, even though I am; it’s just that purple feels more severe, more tragic, more me.

A knock on the shop door startles me, but I don’t move to answer it. I’m closed today, the curtains are pulled, and I am not in the mood for people.

On the table, my phone buzzes.

Stokes: I’m outside the shop. Let me in.

Of course he knows I’m here. Then again, where else would I be? Anger about the last eighteen hours starts to heat under my skin.

I run my hand over my face and groan at the conversation that’s about to come, one I’m not ready for. I don’t want excuses. I don’t want to hear his reasoning. In fact, I don’t want to hear anything from him at all.

The damage, my damage, is done.

Do we really need to do this? I just want to fade into the background and pretend I didn’t fall madly in love with him. What was I actually loving? If he was faking it, who knows.

Which is why no one needs to know about this. I’ll let this disgrace remain private and let him off the hook the only way I know how: chin held high and as soon as I can. I’ll give him his out, and he won’t even have to break a sweat. There’s zero need for him to fake it anymore.

If he wants fake, he’s going to get it—Oscar-worthy fakeness.

Walking to the door, I look down and see I’m wearing the worst outfit possible: an old college hoodie and black leggings with a hole in them. I have not a stitch of makeup on, and my hair is in a knot on top of my head. I shouldn’t care how I look, but unfortunately I do. I’d love to have an “eat your heart out” moment here, a “this is what you’ll be missing,” but then again, he’s never cared. I’m just his little sister’s annoying best friend.