Page 9 of Hidden Memories

When I started spending more time on my art, he told me being an artist was a “waste to society.” It wasn’t easy to convince him to pay for college to do something that wasn’t business or, since we’re Greek, medicine.

But I stuck to my guns on this one. I had to compromise and do my degree in art history, rather than fine arts. It was a degree Dad could imagine taking me on to curate at a prestigious museum or Sotheby’s. I don’t like it as much as creating, but at least there are open credits to do the courses I love best.

I’d thought it was a small victory for me when he agreed. But Dad always takes a little more than he gives, his negotiating skills are more ruthless than mine would ever be. That’s probably what prompted him getting Ares because at least he could brag about the occasional rosette I might bring home while I messed around with a “non-academic” degree.

Dad bought Ares for me and sold my best friend forhim. He blamed my beloved Bliss for not winning more. It was me, not her, who lacked capability. Nevertheless, just after college acceptance day back in May, with no warning at all, she was gone.

This feisty, flashy warmblood was in her stable instead.

It broke my heart.

That day I learned that if I don’t give my father what he wants, he will find some way of satisfying his whims even at the expense of my happiness. Ares was trained by the best and could win with a rag doll on his back, so, the next competitions were all mine to take.

I remember my last competition before leaving home, my father clapped at the arena fence, staring at Ares and not me.

I love Ares for what he is, but I miss Bliss every day.

After checking the zip on my backpack so none of my art supplies fall out—Ares is known to spook—I throw the sack over my shoulders, stretch my leg up to get my foot in the stirrup and swing myself over my dark bay. He starts toward the gate before I even give him a click.

I reflect on the fact I no longer have a human friend to ride out with. This yard is full of people who are in and out, a few trail riders, and two full-on retired horses whose only exercise is going to and from the pastures every day. A heavy boulder turns around in my stomach, and the knobby bits tear at my insides. Is this yard less about control and more about the fact I don’t need a competition yard anymore now that I’m at college? Dad abandoning all hope for me as a rider might be worse than his control.

I am sick in the head. Having my every move controlled should be far worse than being a mediocre rider, but I guess I’m just used to it… I’m used to treading on eggshells, not setting off my father’s temper. It’s strange howthatcan become normal, but I can’t get used to feeling like a disappointment.

Ares’ hooves kick up dust on the sand-colored trail, and he moves with the enthusiasm of a puppy dog out on a first walk. He’s seven now. In his prime. He deserves more than a rider who can only take him off-site twice a week. I feel bad for him. My father never thought about that. Bliss was perfect for me. She wasn’t too much horse or too little, and we were growing in perfect synchrony in our timelines of life. Now, she would be about twenty and starting to wind down. She would have welcomed the weekend rides and nothing more.

And she would have welcomed time at the tree.

Which is where I’m going today and have been going every Saturday and Sunday afternoon. In some ways, it’s better than having someone to chat with on a trail ride. The serenity of that tree has ignited my creativity more than any other place I’ve been with her with its whimsical leaves and perfectly curved trunk, tailor-made for my back.

I come up on the small beaten path, one not much wider than a human can fit and that appears to have been created by either humans or maybe is an animal track. As usual, Ares naps, not wanting his flank to touch the shrub, but as he was taught well before he came to me, he gives in, and we head onto the side trail.

I’m pretty sure it isn’t a horse trail. For weeks now, I’ve started to feel secure in my private sanctuary here. Just over the small hill we climb is an enormous valley with the most beautiful views, which is saying a lot.

I don’t know what it is about that tree, but my creative juices get flowing when I sit in its shade and breathe in the views. I sit there and draw every weekend for as long as Ares lets me. He’s more patient there than in most placesbecause under the canopy of my tree, the shade allows the grass to thrive. It’s a hue of green incomparable to Ares’ pasture, and the sweetness of it finds him grazing without so much as blinking for a long while.

It’s early spring and a soft, warm breeze blows across my cheeks.

As I get closer to our sanctuary, Ares’ ears prick forward and he picks up his pace.

“What is it, boy?” I squint, and under my tree, there are two shadowy figures.

A horse.

And a tall man in a cowboy hat leaning against my tree, staring out into the distance.

Shit. My secret garden has been discovered.

I could turn around but have a huge assignment due next week. I need to make progress. In fact, since coming to the tree, I planned this entire term’s project in my only drawing class to be landscapes. Namely the ones I could see from here. I only get one class I truly want to take every semester. This is important to me.

And I’m as entitled to be here as that guy is.

I’m sure he won’t be long.

I have to hold Ares back from trotting forward; he’s eager to see who’s eating his grass. When we arrive about ten feet from my tree, the man finally notices me. A deep, dark pair of playful eyes stare at me from under a Stetson.

The cowboy is one of those handsome, rugged men mothers and grandmas tell you to stay away from but animal magnetism draws you straight toward. He can’t be much older than I am and yet is so much more man than any of the boys I’ve met so far at college.

If I was interested in sharing my tree, it sure would be with a man who looks like him. A half-drunk beer bottledangles loosely from his tanned fingers. I don’t get an unfriendly vibe, but equally, it’s as if I interrupted some deep thoughts, and there is a dangerous glint in his eye. Not danger like ending up in someone’s basement. Danger like wind in your hair on the back of a motorcycle.

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