Page 83 of A Photo Finish
I’m intensely grateful that she’s not just throwing me under the bus, telling me to chill out. Instead, she’s helping me, something most people don’t do. Especially people I’ve been as growly with as I am with Billie.
“You guys!” Violet shoves my hands off and sits up, frustrated. “If I tell you I’m fine, I’m fine. I don’t need to be handled with kid gloves just because I’m the same size as one.”
I flop back, sitting on my heels as Violet brushes herself off and comes to stand. She places one gentle hand on my shoulder before offering the other to pull me up.
“Cole. Babe. It’s nice to see you. But I’m working right now. I’m coming to your place when I’m done. Billie, let’s go again.”
Her tone isn’t cruel, but it is matter-of-fact. She’s not in shock. But I think I might be, even though she’s fine. I feel my hands tremble. I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. Like every square inch of me is numb.
Except for my heart.
That part of me aches. I can feel it, see it. The damage there, like an inconsequential ding from a rock that quickly splinters the glass and spiders out across the entire windshield uncontrollably.Ruined.
I stand and nod, keeping my eyes trained on the ground as I move away from the gates.
“Cole! Wait up!” Vaughn calls after me, but I wave him off and pick up my pace.
I flee.
Everyone saw me freak out. That goddamn spotlight I avoid is on me.They all know.
But I can’t focus on that right now. My mind is reeling with two thoughts:
I need to be alone.
I can’t be with someone who does this for a living.
25
Violet
“I don’t thinkyou should be mad at him, Violet. You didn’t see him. He was . . .” Billie trails off with a faraway look in her amber eyes. They pinch at the sides. “I think it would have made him feel better if you’d just taken a minute to show him that everything was in working order.”
“Why?” We’re wiping down our tack together, and I rub the saddle soap covered sponge over the reins of Pippy’s bridle roughly. I’m aggravated. “I’m doing my job. I don’t need him here micromanaging me and telling me what to do. Can you imagine if I waltzed into his office and did the same?”
“I know. Iknow.” Billie squeezes the water out of her sponge with a loud sigh. “But sometimes, when we care about someone, we make their priorities our own. You didn’t see him, Violet. He sprinted. I thought he was going to hurl right on the track. I don’t think Cole’s priority is to micromanage you—it’s keeping you safe. Your safety is important to him. So, throw the guy a bone and just, like, wiggle your toes and catch your breath next time before you jump right back on.”
“Didn’t know you were on Cole’s team.” I instantly hate myself for saying that. Childish.
“I didn’t know you were twelve.” Billie arches one shapely brow at me, successfully chastising me without saying more. She squeezes my shoulder and drops a sisterly kiss into my hair. “See you later, tough cookie.”
But as soon as she goes, the sentence that runs through my head as I finish my chores in silence is the one about shared priorities. I’m still mulling it over when I pull up to his house, knowing that we need to hash some things out. Because if I’m going to make his priorities my own, he needs to make mine his, too.
I’m about to open the door and walk in when nervousness hits me. Had I been too hard on him? Snappy? I was miffed I fell off because I wanted to give Pippy the best experience possible, and that didn’t happen. I was being hard on myself, and I think that spilled over into being hard on Cole. Based on Hank and Vaughn’s faces, I feel like I might have been harsher than necessary. Unintentional as it might have been.
I opt to knock instead, feeling the distance between the two of us already, and not wanting to intrude.
“Come in.” His voice is ragged, tired sounding.
I twist the knob and step into the pretty farmhouse. So light and airy, painted in whites and blues. It reminds me of delft pottery—the kind my dad still keeps in a china cabinet in the dining room from my mom’s family in the Netherlands. I remember pulling them out as a child, running my sticky little hands over a plate or a bowl and making up stories in my head to go with the scenes painted on the sides.
Cole is in the corner, sitting in the cushy armchair where we first made love, looking like a dark shadow. Pure turmoil. I must have missed how insanely handsome he looks today when I was laying in the dirt. Gray dress pants with a bit of a sheen to them, black dress shirt with beautiful pearl cufflinks. His elbows are braced on his knees and his head is dropped, his eyes fixed on where he spins one cufflink near his wrist.
He doesn’t bother looking up at me. He’s always looking at me like I’m the sun and he’s been living underground for years. The way he looks at me warms me to my toes. I want him to look at me like that forever. So, this—him avoiding me altogether—stresses me instantly.
“Hey,” I say cautiously, unzipping my paddock boots and setting them neatly on the mat by the door. He likes it tidy.See? Here I am. Sharing priorities.
He mumbles something in response but doesn’t change position.
