Page 44 of Run for the Money

“Okay,” she says, then she leans over to kiss my cheek.

I blow by her exit and something in my chest settles. We’ve cleared another jump. I don’t know how many more stand between us and the finish line, but I’m not giving up this momentum. From here on out, it’s eyes forward, mind the turns, hope like hell. There’s nothing else I can do.

Chapter 14

Nick

Ipull Melanie closer in increments every day. She’s comfortable in my space already, so I keep inviting her over for dinner. After training, she goes back to her place to shower and change before coming back. It’s an absurd charade, because dinners always become sleepovers. A few days before her third competition, I suggest she pack her bags early and stay with me the rest of the week to save herself the trips back and forth. She doesn’t need to pack for the competition since it’s practically local, and not overnight—a few hours south in Pueblo—but she agrees anyway. After she dumps her suitcases on the floor of my closet, we spend the rest of the night testing the spring force of my mattress. Melanie calls it “important stamina building.” I call it bliss.

She places third in Pueblo. Not only does that ease my anxieties about our relationship splitting her attention, but it also shoots her confidence into the stratosphere. Her focus is better in training the following week. She listens to me more, talks back less, and rides cleaner as a result. The day after Pueblo, she floats the idea of staying at my place for the rest of the season. She claims it’s so she has more time for training. I lay her on the living room couch, pull down her leggings, and edge her with my tongue until she admits it’s to spend more time with me.

The real magic happens two days later after a particularly good training session. Melanie is grooming GT while I get his dinner ready when Edwin comes into the stable to unload a hay delivery. He stops short, staring at us.

“Okay, I’ve been very patient,” he says. “But Melanie, your car hasn’t moved in three days, and Nick, you’rewhistling. I have to know what’s going on here.”

“Is it a crime to be happy?” I ask, embarrassed because I didn’t realize I was whistling.

Edwin cocks his head to one side like he’s giving his answer serious consideration. “For you? Maybe. Melanie, blink twice if he’s holding you hostage.”

“She’s my girlfriend, not a hostage,” I grumble.

Edwin’s jaw drops, and I realize a little too late that Melanie and I haven’t actually discussed labels yet. To my immense relief, when Edwin looks to her for confirmation, she grins.

“If anyone’s the hostage here, it’s Nick,” she says.

“Way to go, broncobuster!” Edwin shouts, startling four of the horses.

I’m too happy about the girlfriend thing to worry about whatever the hell he means. As long as Melanie’s happy, I don’t really give a shit about anyone else’s opinions anyway.

The only fly in the ointment of my new life is Paul. He sends me regular updates on the situation with my father: the process server tried to deliver the notice of the lawsuit; my father ran from the process server; Paul hired a private investigator to find my father; the P.I. served my father with the lawsuit; my father tried to fist-fight the P.I. in a bar and got his ass handed to him, then got hauled off to jail on assault charges; Paul paid my father’s bail; my father reluctantly agreed to take responsibility for his debts; Paul paid the fucking debts so now my father owes Paul; Paul’s putting all the payments my dad makes toward supporting a gambling addict recovery program in California, which Paul also somehowgot my father to agree to participate in; Paul’s the fucking savior of the universe. Et cetera.

Paul’s last email is both a relief and a headache:

I’ve spoken to Annette at Rockies Bank & Trust. While we’re in agreement that technically you’ve always been the legal owner of the property because the mortgage your father took out was fraudulent, it’s a lot less paperwork (and fewer court appearances) if we treat the mortgage as valid. Since I’ve paid it off, I’ll transfer the deed back to your name, and that’ll settle things. There shouldn’t be any adverse impacts on your credit—though let me know if there are, and we can tackle that. I don’t imagine your father will have the gall to attempt anything like this again anytime soon—and certainly not with any major financial institutions. I’ve spoken to a few colleagues and friends, and there isn’t a bank in this country that will extend him a line of credit for any reason until he’s completed his course. Even then, it will be significantly more difficult for him to operate as he has been. If you suspect he’s used your identity again at any time, feel free to reach out. These sorts of cases are, unfortunately, rather lengthy and complicated. But rest assured, I’ll always be willing to help you; any friend of Diana’s is a friend of mine. I’ll bring a copy of everything to you after Thanksgiving so you’ve got it all for your files. It’s been a pleasure.

From any other person, the message would be a miracle. But it’s Paul—the man who broke Melanie’s heart. I suppose I should be grateful to him for that, since Melanie wouldn’t be mine if he hadn’t let her go. It’d be easier to be grateful if I were confident she’d let him go, too, though. Since I’m too much of a yellow-bellied coward to bring him up in front of her, I can’t do much more than guess at her feelings.

My plan, as much as anyone could call it a plan, is to avoid talking about Paul indefinitely. Once he drops off the copy of my dad’s file, there’s no reason we’ll have to interact with each other again, possibly for the rest of our lives. Realistically, I don’t think my dad’s going to change his life just because Paul asked, but I know better now. I’ll keep a closer eye on my affairs, and I won’t let myself land in another situation where Saint Walters has to bail me out, and Melanie never needs to know about this latest feather in his cap.

She’s got enough to worry about as it is. Her fourth competition of the season—and second to last—is the weekend of Thanksgiving, which means she has to decline her mother’s invitation to their annual catered dinner. I’m horrified by the idea of anyone needing an invitation to go over to their parents’ house for a holiday, but Melanie informs me this is normal for her. She’s received an embossed invitation on heavy cream card stock for every Thanksgiving since she turned eighteen.

“Are you upset about missing the holiday?” I ask as we drive out toward North Platte, Nebraska on Thursday morning.

“Am I upset about missing a stuffy, formal meal where my parents will sling thinly veiled insults at me under the guise of listing the things they’re grateful for this year? Hardly,” she says.

Her eyes are sad, though. There’s a heaviness in her shoulders and she’s fidgety.

“I guess what I’m upset about is missing out on the kind of family I’d want to spend the holidays with,” she says finally.

“You can always make that kind of family,” I say.

Instantly, I wish I said something else because what I really mean is,You can always make that kind of familywith me, and I’m terrified it’s obvious. Nudging her into moving in with me two weeks into a relationship is already a bold move; I don’t need to follow it up with declaring that I want to have kids with her, even though it’s true.

“I could. With the right person,” she says. “He’d have to love horses. I don’t care if the kids do dressage, or steeple chase, or—heaven help me—rodeos, but I strongly suspect my kids are going to be horse people, so their dad has to be one, too.”

“Obviously. I wouldn’t expectanything less.”

The look in her eyes when I glance at her nearly stops my heart. It’s hope. Unvarnished, unfiltered hope.

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