Page 30 of Breakup Games

MIRA

“This must be serious.” Zara slouches forward, coffee cup still in her hand even though we’re all on our horses.

“I don’t call 911 meetings for nothing,” Elsie says, turning her horse around.

“I think I know what it’s about.” Kat gives up and lets Loki graze even though he has his bit in his mouth and we’re supposed to be walking along the bridle path, warming up the horses before we have a group lesson.

“Fine,” I start, looking around at my little grown up Saddle Club. Taking my feet out of the stirrups, I let Thor grab a few mouthfuls of grass, too. “I’m working with the FBI to try and get some info out of Enzo Moretti that could help link him to the Bow Tie Murders.”

“The fuck?” Zara exclaims. “Since when?”

“Just like the last couple days,” I go on. “And I really shouldn’t tell you any more, but Elsie and I kind of had an incident last night.” We get our lazy horses to go forward, plodding along the path as we talk. “It’s fine. I’m just going to have dinner with him one more time and then I’ll become exactly the type of girl he doesn’t want to date and I’ll get him to breakup with me in a sense and then I’ll watch the news and wait for him to get arrested.”

“You really think it’s gonna be that simple?” Zara questions.

“No, because she left out the part where the FBI agent is a total hottie,” Elsie quips. “Think Dean Winchester pretending to be an FBI but he really is in this instance.”

“Okay, but what does the Bow Tie Murderer look like?”

“Not attractive,” I tell Zara and shake my head. “It’s work, guys, that’s all. I go out on fake dates all the time.”

“Yeah, but not with a known criminal,” Kat presses. “I think I speak for us all when I say you need to tread carefully here. I know you know, but I have to say it.”

“Mason seems to really know what he’s doing,” I say, thinking it will help quell their fears, but all it does is make all three of my friends squeal and I roll my eyes.

“Ohhh, first name basis,” Zara teases.

“Does he?” Kat wiggles her eyebrows. “Does he know what he’s doing?”

“You guys are so mature,” I deadpan, fully knowing I’m the ringleader with things like this.

“It’s a shame you didn’t see him,” Elsie goes on. “He showed up in gray sweatpants and I could see the entire outline of his dick.”

“You could not,” I laugh. “I know because I looked.” We laugh and then direct our attention to our horses. Loki and George are happy to just walk around but Thor is a little more energetic, and Elsie’s young horse, Mystery, is in a mood today. It’s a good distraction like always and our little mock show group lesson was so much fun.

“You two are doing well,” Brenda, our trainer, tells me when the lesson ends. “Are you considering going to a show this summer?”

“I am,” I tell her honestly. I will consider it, but if I actually go is a different question. I grew up showing horses with my younger sister, but haven’t been in a show ring in over a decade. I have no doubt Thor and I would do decently enough going over low jumps, and I can go and keep the pressure off myself by having an attitude of just having fun.

But I want to go just to prove to myself that I can do it. Because as much as I hate admitting it, sometimes I hear that little voice of doubt in the back of my mind. I didn’t always have it, but years of being with someone who very carefully crafted each and every mean thing they said messed with me. Complex-PTSD is, well, complex, as the name suggests. I’ve worked with many clients who suffer from it, and I know how truly difficult it can be to tell that little voice to fuck off.

“There’s one in August I want you to go to,” Brenda says. “If you go, I’m sure Kat will go.”

“That might tempt me.” I smile and take Thor back into the barn to untack. I pick up my phone off the saddle rack and see a text from Addison, my secretary-slash-scheduler. She manages my calendar and answers phone calls from clients looking to book appointments.

Addison: I penciled in a session at 2PM. Seemed urgent. New client: Mason H

“This place is pretty nice.”Mason shuts the door behind him. It’s exactly two in the afternoon and Mason was annoyingly on time for his appointment. “I did expect a couch so I could lay down and cry while I talk about my childhood traumas.”

“Hilarious,” I deadpan and lean back, crossing my arms. I’m seated behind my desk, which is in the corner of my high-riseoffice. I don’t usually sit at the desk while I have sessions, feeling like it’s too formal and not friendly enough, but for whatever the hell this is, I’m staying put.

It’s not because I want to put distance between us or anything. No, that’s not it at all, and Mason doesn’t look good in a suit. So help me god, he doesn’t.

Hah.

“How are you holding up?” He takes a seat in one of the chairs across from me.

“I’m good,” I tell him.

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