Page 25 of Run for the Money

Like a coward, I send him a thumbs up emoji, and then toss my phone back onto the duvet. I’m definitely not going back to sleep now, because if Nick is going to show up to my parents’ house looking that good, I have to step it up a little. I’ve been so worried about Nick wearing jeans and a sun-faded flannel that smells like hay, I’ve neglected all worry related to my own appearance.

By nine, I’ve tried on every article of clothing I own, and have subsequently lost all sense of perspective for what’s appropriate. I dig through the pile of taffeta, chiffon, lace, and tulle on my bed to retrieve my phone so I can text my friend Olivia for outfit help.

She’s arguably my closest friend, and despite being a trust-fund kid like me, she’s shockingly down to earth since her parents sent her to public school instead of prep school. She made college more fun, but it was after we graduated that I discovered she’s easy to talk to even when we aren’t at parties. I leaned on her a lot in the weeks after Paul dumped me, so I’ve been reluctant to reach out again, but I can’t think straight. I need guidance.

SOS. I need outfit help for dinner tonight.

Her reply reminds me immediately of why I was hesitant:

What kind of dinner?? Omg are you finally leaving behind the Lean Cuisine on the couch, pants-optional phase of your heartbreak? Does it have anything to do with the scrumptious new coach you’re all pressed up against in that photo?!?! I’m SO PROUD OF YOU!!!!

OLIVIA. PLEASE THIS IS SERIOUS.

My phone rings with a FaceTime call from her. I flop back onto the mountain of clothes on my bed with a groan, and answer the call. Her freckled face fills the screen, beaming, then she takes in the sight of my clothes-nest and panicked expression and her smile falters.

“Ooookay,what am I looking at?” she asks. “Are you…wearing a ballgown? Now you really have to tell me what kind of dinner this is. Is it a gala?”

“Uh, it’s dinner at my parents’ house,” I say. “With my new coach.”

“I’m going to go ahead and say no ballgown.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, well in that case, my problem is solved. Thanks so much for your insights.”

She laughs. “I’m kidding. Grab the navy-blue Ted Baker mini-dress your mom bought you last Christmas.”

I wrinkle my nose. “That’s the most confusing dress I own. How does it have a turtleneck, but also is too short for me to bend over in without showing the entire world my vaginal canal?”

“Was thatnotthe vibe for this meal?” she asks, all faux-innocence.

I raise my eyebrows at her.

“What?” she protests. “I picked something that meets your mom’s standards—ugly, vaguely Puritanical—and also shows off your assets for your hot, broody coach. It is the mullet of dresses, and since your mom bought it for you, she can’t be mad that your legs are out and about.”

“My legs don’t need to be out and about!” I argue. “I’m not trying to seduce my coach. What I need is a dress that says, ‘Hello, parents, this is my coach, who is definitely not my boyfriend, and there are no sexy feelings here at all,’ while still looking pretty.”

“Oh! I know! The black lace Anna Sui dress you wore to Kennedy’s birthday party!” she says, as though I didn’t say anything at all. “Throw a cardigan over it if your shoulders offend your parents. It’s knee-length, but the lace will still put all sorts of tantalizing images into the hot coach’s mind. Parentally approvedandsexy. I nailed it.”

“Who says I want tantalizing images of myself in Nick’s mind?” I say, wishing my blush wasn’t so obvious. Since I can see my own face in the bottom of the screen, I know there’s no way Olivia is missing it.

She snorts and holds my gaze, challenge in her expression. It’s a brief staring contest, because we both know she’s right.

“It can’t be anything but a crush,” I say finally, not bothering to hide the disappointment in my voice. “I might not get a third shot at show jumping if I mess this one up. I need him to be my coach, so I can’t risk that relationship. Plus, he owns the horse I’ve been competing. There’s too much at stake for me to be making moves on him. Not to mention he’s super bossy, and always annoyed with me.”

“Girl, please. I’ve seen the photo of that hug,” she says.

“You know what the photo doesn’t show? Him awkwardly putting me down, and then immediately returning to business as usual. I haven’t gotten so much as a smile since getting that trophy. Then on Monday, his head groom warned me that Nick has commitment issues,” I say glumly.

There’s also the matter of the woman who’snothing I need to worry about, but I don’t need to belabor the point. Other woman or not, Nick’s wrong for me. He’s not the kind, gentle type of man I usually go for, and I’m sure I’m not the kind of woman he’s drawn to, either. The women Nick likes are probably free-spirited and fun, not uptight and sharp.

“So? Let it be just a crush. It’s not like you’re on the prowl for a husband,” Olivia says. “Do you know what this means?”

I shake my head, confused.

“It means you’ve turned the corner on your heartbreak. You’re thinking about someone other than Paul, which is major progress,” she says, smiling again.

She has a point; I’ve been obsessing so hard over every interaction with Nick that Paul’s faded into the background, small enough that I’m starting to believe in a future where I don’t think of him at all. I’m not there yet, but it feels nice to be closer to that reality.

“Take the win!” Olivia encourages. “Flirt with Nick a little. Let him boss you around. It doesn’t have to mean anything or go anywhere.”

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