“Clem, I’ve just returned to a place I ran away from six years ago. All my things are in Australia, I have no friends left here, and the only guy I’ve ever loved doesn’t want to know me. I have all the time in the world.” I try to brush it off with a dry, merciless laugh, but it’s all true, and my throat tightens.
God, my life sounds bleak.
Clementine reaches across the table, placing her hand over mine. “I’m your friend, Story.”
I swallow down the surge of emotion from my brief pity party speech. “Thank you, but let’s get back to you.”
She downs her glass of wine and immediately pours another. It’s going to be that kind of night.
“A few years ago, during the summer after my first year of university, I went traveling with a couple of girlfriends. We went all the way through Central America together before I left them and went to meet Miles in Florida. He was playing polo there, and I was getting a ride home with him. He flies all his ponies private, so it was easy for me to jump on the plane too.”
I nod and sip.
“I watched the finals of the tournament, which he won, and afterward waited for Miles to get his shit together.” She takes a big sniff and a deep breath before her tears start up again. “He was ages—likehours—but I had a book, so it didn’t matter. But then this guy walked into the lounge where I was and sat down next to me. It started small, what was I reading, did I watch the polo etcetera, etcetera, but then we moved onto wider subjects—traveling, school. And we talked, and talked, andtalked. I totally lost track of time until one of Miles’s grooms came to find me. So I said goodbye, and he asked for my number. I thought I’d never hear from him becauseobviouslywe live in different countries, but he already texted me before I’d gotten on the plane.”
My chin rests in my palm, and I let out a dreamy sigh. “Wow.”
“The texting turned to phone calls and FaceTime. We talked about everything. He grew up in NewYork, but he’s half American, half Argentinian. His dad left when he was young, and his mum raised him, so we have that in common. When I returned to university, the biggest bunch of flowers I’ve ever seen in my life was waiting for me.”
“Then what happened?”
“It went on for months, and even though we were talking every night, we’d only met that one time. I was stuck revising, so we decided he’d come to England for the weekend. It was clear things between us were going to progress to sex, and I told him I hadn’t done that before?—”
“Okay—”
“The weekend he was due to come to England, Miles was playing in a friendly tournament in Palm Springs between England and America, as part of the preseason selection. He was involved in a terrible accident and placed in a coma. Hendricks and my mum flew out. The doctors weren’t sure he would ever be able to play again?—”
My hand flies to my mouth as Clementine wipes away her tears. “I never realized. That must have been so scary. Fuck, poor Miles. Poor Hendricks.”
She nods, her jaw flexing as she tenses. “The other rider, the one that caused it, had been on a mission to get Miles after he got him fined for an illegal bump the summer before. This time, he was given a two-year suspension.”
“Shit. I never realized.” Not that I ever give Miles any thought at all, but he’s clearly been through a rough few years too. “Anyway, carry on with the dream guy?—”
“Have you heard of a player called Santiago Torres?”
I shake my head. “I missed a lot in Australia.”
“When Mum and Hendricks flew to Miles, I went back to Burlington to be with Lando, Alex, and Max. He was only two, and Hendricks had only just been awarded full custody, but Miles is his twin, you know. They hurt together.”
I nod, knowing only too well of their connection.
“Lando and Alex were distraught, so was I. We did everything we could to keep Max’s life normal without his dad. . .” Her eyes close. “Among all the early chaos, being kept up to date by the doctors while Hendricks and Mum were flying over, I didn’t ask details. But later we were having dinner. . . and that’s when Lando and Alex told me what happened. Santiago Torres had been crossing the line all match, which is illegal, but it was his foul hook that brought Miles down. His pony tripped, Miles was thrown off, and his leg got tangled. He was dragged up the sideline until his teammate caught him. . .”
Again, my empathy for what Miles has been through, what Hendricks has been through, what they’ve all been through, spills over, and I’m wiping away the tears just like Clementine. “I’m so sorry, Clem . . . what a fucking arsehole this Torres guy is. I hope he’s rotting somewhere cold and damp.”
“He’s not.” It’s so quiet I barely hear it, and she takes another glug of wine.
“Fuck. How d’you know?”
“I saw him?—”
“I’m so sorry. And what happened to the sexy guy? Did he still come over?”
She shakes her head. “No, I blocked him from everything—social media, my phone, everything.”
I frown, maybe I’ve had too much wine, because Ifeel like I’ve missed a key part of the story. “Clem, I’m not following?—”
“The guy I met in Palm Beach, the man I had fallen in love with through our calls every night, is Santiago Torres, the player who nearly killed Miles.”
