Page 37 of Unstable

“WHERE DO YOU WANT me to start?” I flop onto the couch, deflated and already slinging insults at myself in my head. But astonishingly, I’ve decided I’m gonna tell him—everything he can stand to listen to. Because not only does Gatlin give off an irrefutable vibe that you really can tell him anything, but if I don’t unload soon, I’m going to self-combust.

“You were identical twins, right?” He sits down, leaving a comfortable gap between us.

“Not according to Keaton,” I snicker ever so slightly, and wince in guilt just as quickly. “But yes, we were.”

“And she passed away, young?”

“Damn,” I snarl at him. “Go right for the gullet much?”

His expression immediately becomes somber. “I apologize. Never mind, let’s—”

“Oh no, you can’t reel that shit back in,” I say loud and tartly. “It’s out there now. Yes, she died when we were seventeen. I killed her,” I confess in eerie calmness.

“Then why aren’t you in jail?”

I cut a razor-sharp glare at him. “You gonna try to be a tough-love therapist, tossing out self-discovery questions or let me talk?”

He waves a hand out in a “go ahead” gesture and then acts like he’s locking his lips.

“My sister rode in the Grand Entry at the rodeos. She set the flag pivots, her and Whiskey. Do you know what that is?”

He nods, lips a tight, sealed line.

“Well then you must know, there are horses and riders flying in and out from both directions. They’d done it a hundred times before, and I always stayed in the background, helping her get ready. Checking her mount.” I inhale sharply, the scene flashing in my mind just as it has so many times before, retracing my steps and scrutinizing down to the exact moment where I went wrong.

“She got onto me that night, said I was overdoing it with all my fussing and spooking Whiskey with my nerves. But something just felt “off.” She wouldn’t listen and shooed me away to find a seat. Not that I’m blaming her, at all,” I clarify in a weak whisper. “So, I didn’t do one final check, and the girth on the saddle must’ve been loose, that’s the only explanation.”

I can't take it and jump up, pacing the room like a caged jungle cat. My hands tug at my hair and my chest aches. A chill zings up my spine and I shiver, lowering my arms to wrap them around myself.

“The saddle must’ve slipped to the side and when she tried to overcorrect, Whiskey veered out of his lane, colliding head on with another horse and rider.”

I feel myself start to fall, but am helped gently to my knees instead.

“The other rider had some broken bones and a concussion, but Hadley,” the horror bubbles up in my throat, and though I swallow several times, it won’t go down, so I choke out the rest past it, “Hadley’s head and neck injuries were too severe. They couldn’t save her.”

“Sshh. It wasn’t your fault, Henley. Accidents happen. Freak accidents, even when every precaution is taken. It wasn’t your fault. Tell me, if it had been you, would you have blamed Hadley?”

I snap my head up and speak clear and adamantly now. “God no, of course not. She was the other half of my soul. She’d never, ever put me in danger. She’d have died for me. And I her.”

He says nothing, letting his arched brows and communicative eyes do it for him. He waits, for me to say it…but I won’t, and I don’t. So he gives in with a loud sigh and speaks. “Henley, twins share a connection that only they can truly understand. If you are so steadfast in your belief in Hadley, why’s it so inconceivable to you that she felt the exact same way about you?”

“Both the horses had to be put down.”

“Okay. That’s awful, but I asked you a question, about you and your sister.” He keeps his voice even and void of any emotional maneuvers.

I again ignore his question; he and I both know the answer he wants to hear, I’m just not sure I can truly acknowledge it yet…although I know he’s right. My sister had a heart of gold. Instead, I say what I’m comfortable doing so, errant thoughts spilling out.

“I didn’t deal with it very well, so my mom sent me to an impatient therapy center in California. I never talked to her again, I couldn’t. I took her daughter away from her.”

“The only daughter you took from her was you.”

“You know, the counselors at the Healing House weren’t quite as brutally blunt as you are,” I snip.

“And you stayed gone, sequestered in your own inflated, misplaced blame, for eight years. Forgive me if I’m calling bullshit on their effectiveness. Henley, you’re not God, or some witch. You don’t have the power you give yourself responsibility for. Things happen. By no one’s doing or fault. Is it my fault my dad died, ‘cause I didn’t get there sooner?”

“No,” I mutter.

“And Hadley’s death isn’t your cross to bear anymore, either. You can be sad. You can be mad. But the fucking pity party has got to end.” He’s talking louder, a bit like a scolding, and it’s damn sure effective. “Nobody likes a martyr, so knock it off.”

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