Page 33 of Run for the Money

Logistics takes us through twenty more minutes of stilted conversation. Afterward, I turn the playlist back up. I’m not smiling, but the agony’s suppressed enough that Ican breathe properly, and catching sight of him in my peripheral vision doesn’t send me spinning. We even manage a lunch stop where we discuss GT and GT only.

It’s all wrong. We’re scrupulously polite. He barely curses and doesn’t call me Miss Manners once. I don’t whine or throw insults at him—nothing that could even approachbiting back.The whole meal is a pathetic pantomime of two people who get along with each other.

But it’s not until after lunch that things really start to fall apart. Wrung out from the past twenty-four hours, I fall asleep in the front seat. I don’t know how long I’m out, but when I wake up, Nick is talking. My neck is at a weird angle and my mouth feels crusty, but I stay still, eyes shut, so I can shamelessly eavesdrop.

“Really? Still in Carmel Canyon?” he says, sounding surprised. “I’m impressed he hung onto a place that long.”

“Well he didn’t, exactly. He was evicted, but then the apartment complex changed hands, and I suppose the new owner was willing to give him a second chance, because he moved in again after a year away. But he’s definitely there now. I spoke to him this morning,” another voice says.

It’s tinny, because it’s coming through speaker phone, highway noise and the rattle of the horse trailer hitch muffling it. But I’d know Paul Walters’ voice anywhere. I knew there was a chance Nick and Paul were in contact; I’m the one who suggested it, after all. But hearing them talk to each other on the heels of Nick’s rejection feels worse than I expected. Their conversation is clearly about Nick’s dad, not me, but the fact that they’re talking at all—and that Nick didn’t tell me about it—hurts. It’s an unofficial meeting of the We Don’t Want Melanie club.

“You spoke to him?” Nick asks.

I hate the way the distress in his voice makes my heart twinge.

“Nothing substantial,” Paul reassures him. “I called to confirm the mailing address, and his identity, but didn’t reveal the exact nature of the reason I needed his address. I told him I was part of the maintenance crew, scheduling time to service his water heater, and he bought it. The process server will be there tomorrow. In my experience, the threat of legal action is usually enough to open up negotiations.”

“Oh, okay,” Nick says, audibly relieved. “I’m out of town for a couple of days, but will you keep me posted?”

“Of course. I can email updates if that’s more convenient,” Paul says.

“Thanks. I…I don’t know what else to say but thanks.”

“It really is my pleasure,” Paul says, so earnestly I feel tears prick at my still-closed eyes.

Paul’s investment in helping Nick should make me feel good. It’s what I wanted—to get Nick out of the sticky situation with his dad and the bank. But the reminder that Paulcanbe invested, that he has so much capacity for caring about other people and I stopped making the cut, is one I could do without.

“I’ve got to go, but I appreciate the update,” Nick says.

“Of course. Talk soon.”

The truck goes quiet, but I keep pretending to sleep. I need a moment to collect myself. It’s not that I want Paul back anymore. When Olivia asked if I wanted to hear gossip about him and I realized I legitimately didn’t, it was freeing. But that doesn’t mean I relish being irrelevant to him. For four years, I knew I mattered tosomeone. I had someone in my corner, ready to support every hope and dream that fluttered through my mind. It was easier to stand up to my parents when I knew Paul was right behind me.

I’m still going to do it—still going to ride, even though they disapprove. There’s no way I’m giving up my dreams again, just because my parents are embarrassed by the proximity to a scandal from fourteen years ago. Nick was right—it wasn’t my fault Diana got hurt. It’s annoying, actually, how frequently he’s right. Which brings me right back to the issue ofhisrejection. Do I need Nick to achieve my dreams? Technically, yes, because there’s no way I can win without his horse. But I don’t need him to want to kiss me. I can win races whether he’s into me or not.

We bump over a pothole in the road that jostles me badly enough that I fling my hands out to brace myself. My eyes fly open, and any hope of pretending to sleep for the rest of the journey is gone. Nick grimaces, eyes on road ahead.

“Sorry about that. It was either go over the pothole or swerve into a semi-truck,” he says.

“Good call, then,” I say stiffly. “I should probably stay awake anyway so I can sleep tonight.”

He nods but doesn’t say anything else. I sit up and take stock of our surroundings. A giant green sign hanging over the highway tells me we’re closing in on Salt Lake. Thank God. I’m beyond ready to put some distance between us. Tonight’s hotel room could be a shack in an abandoned mining shaft and I’d run to it as enthusiastically as if it were a five-star luxury resort suite. I need time away from Nick to shake off last night’s lingering disappointment.

“I miss anything while I was out?” I ask, unable to resist poking at the Paul-shaped elephant in the truck.

He shakes his head. “Just a couple hours of mountains and highway.”

And a phone call from my ex-boyfriend, but I guess that’snothing I need to worry about.

We lapse into silence, the road disappearing under the tires and carrying me closer to relief. The final hour of the drive lasts an eternity. The late afternoon sky dims quickly this time of year, the mountains blocking more of the sun than the clouds do. I’m itching to get GT settled in the stables so I can bury my head under a pillow and sleep like the dead.

The parking lot is buzzing with activity when we finally pull in. The info packet wasn’t lying—everything’s right here. The hotel is on one side of the lot, and the arena and stables are on the other. Nick finds a spot closer to the arena, and we make short work of unloading GT into his designated stall. I handle the competition paperwork while Nick feeds and grooms GT, giving us a welcome break from each other.

My shoulders are lighter and my stomach is finally unclenched when we walk into the hotel lobby to check in. Then I see the line snaking through the room, and my body locks up again. There are easily sixty people in line, and there’s not a single smile among them. Three people are working frantically behind the reception desk, and a refrain of “I’m so sorry for the wait,” echoes from them again and again. Judging by the smell of hay and horses permeating the air, the cause of the logjam is the flood of competitors and their teams.

“This can’t mean good news,” Nick grumbles beside me.

“We’ve got nowhere to be but here,” I say wearily, even though I’m just as frustrated with the circumstances.

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