Page 55 of Maverick
He’s actually smiling. He’s not trying to gatekeep the compliment.
He really thinks I did amazing. I know he does, because we had an agreement about this. And I believe that he’s keeping it.
“Really?”
“Yes. Really. Really amazing.”
“Thank you,” I say. I feel breathless with the triumph of it.
I’m not used to somebody telling me that I did great. I’ve never had someone waiting for me at the end, looking proud. Not in the rodeo, not after a dressage routine. Never. This is a first. And it’s almost more intense than losing my virginity.
Something that I was missing even more than sexual experience. I just didn’t realize it.
“Did you really think so?”
“Yes,” he says. “Amazing. I’m not an expert, but I’ve learned a little bit over the years. And I think it’s amazing that he took to you as quickly as he did. He was very responsive to you.”
“He’s an amazing horse,” I say. “I understand why your wife thought he was so special.” It feels weird to say that. To mention his wife. To call her that. But he had a wife. Sadie. He loved her. She mattered to him. This was her horse, and that’s why I’m here. A little bit of salt to rub into the wound. A little bit of something to keep me grounded. To remind me of exactly what this is, and what it isn’t. It’s important, I think. Important that I don’t forget it.
But it doesn’t matter, because I’m not living in the past or the future. It doesn’t matter, because I’m living in now. Which means I can acknowledge her. Because she’s not going to take anything from me. Anyway, I think he needs me to. I can see that she is this sacred thing to him. Something he doesn’t tell anyone about, probably because he doesn’t want anyone to weigh in on that relationship. Tell him that he needs to get over it or anything like that. I’ve never gotten over a damn thing. I’m mad at my parents about something that happened five years ago. I would never tell him to get over losing a whole wife.
“Yeah. She had such a good sense of that kind of thing. She was like a talent scout for horses. She would help other people buy them. But this was the first time she chose one for herself. That’s what I mean when I say she didn’t see herself as an Olympic rider, necessarily. But she wanted to help other people get there. Wanted to help them find the right horses.”
“How did you meet her?”
It seems like the right time to ask. Or maybe less that then I don’t know if there’s going to be a better time. So, I just do.
“I actually met her at a veterinary office. She was a vet assistant. And I had ended up with an old ranch dog, who had belonged to one of my mentors in the bull riding program, and when he passed, I ended up with the dog. So I’m twenty-four, I’ve got this dog, the dog is old, and I don’t know anything about taking care of… Anyone besides me. Hell, I wasn’t even that good at taking care of myself. But then I walked into the vet’s office, and there she was. Beautiful. But it was more than that. She was soft. Caring. Then I thought… From the moment that I first laid eyes on her, I thought that if I could somehow get some of that softness into my life, into me, then everything might be different. I was obsessed with it. With her. And, thankfully, my dog had to stay there for a couple of days – I guess that’s kind of a weird thing to be thankful for. But I was able to get her phone number. I’d been able to get her to go on a date with me.”
“Wow. A date.”
He chuckles. “Yeah. Not a euphemism either.”
I feel some pain in my chest. Not because I’m jealous, not really. It’s just that part of me feels like we met at the wrong time. Except we didn’t, because I’m younger than him. And while he was doing all that, I was in middle school. Which really draws a firm line between the two of us. Shows how ridiculous this is, I think. I’m younger than him. He’s lived more life. And that’s fine for two people having a summer. Fine for two peoplehaving sex. I’m benefiting from it, after all, because he’s great in bed. And on couch. And in shower. And as somebody who doesn’t have sexual experience, that’s a gift. I realize it. But as for the rest? Well, it’s what makes us improbable. Beyond these two months. That’s why these two months are all there are. There’s no chance for anything else.
I tell myself that, repeatedly. And it does something to make the pain in my chest dissipate.
“I knew I wanted to marry her from moment one. But it wasn’t that easy. Because I was feral, and she was… Sweet. I knew I had to figure out how to be whatever she needed me to be. She was from a nice family.” He gets a distant sort of look on his face. “Yeah. She was from a really nice family.”
I get the feeling that he’s not. Based on a lot of things that he said. I don’t think you have to be great with context clues to pick that up.
“Do you still see her family?”
“No,” he says. “Nothing big happened or anything. When she died, we promised that we would keep in touch. But the reality is, eventually, you become so aware of the fact that your only connection is that someone you love is dead. You don’t have that person in between you anymore. And it’s sad. It’s just too difficult. Too hard to handle. So I don’t rightly know if it was them or if it was me, but we quit keeping in touch. We stopped making an effort. I remember that first year after she died, I went over for Christmas still. But it’s just fucking depressing. Because they’re used to seeing me walking with her, and I’m used to being next to her. It felt like it was better to let them forget. Maybe they felt like it was the same for me.”
“But you sort of lost your family.”
He nods. “Yeah. That was a side effect. But I’m used to not having a family. Nothing new there for me.”
He clears his throat. “Let’s go get Frank put away.”
I nod, he grips the reins, and I follow him out of the arena.
“So what about your family? You know about mine.”
“My mom is a meth addict.”
His words are bald, uncompromising. He doesn’t try to soften them.
