"Eleanor's fault," he adds. "She kept us apart. Kept all of us apart from Savannah. Too busy turning her into content."
The bitterness in his voice catches me off guard. I've spent years hating the Ashbys as a unit—one solid wall of privilege and disdain. Never considered they might have their own fractures, their own wounds.
"I never understood my mother," Cash says, eyes still on the arena. Then he turns, fixing me with a stare that feels hot. "But you did, didn't you?"
The question hangs between us, dangerous as a lit fuse.
I'm not afraid of Cash Ashby. Even injured, I figure I could take him if it came to it. But there's something in his tone that isn't confrontation. It's almost... resignation.
Maybe I do owe him some kind of explanation. Not for his sake, but for what lies between us. For Savannah. For Mercy, who's laughing now as she tries her best to post the pony's trot.
"Yeah," I say, lookin' down at my boots. "I did understand your mother. There was a time there… when I think… I was her best friend."
Cash's jaw tightens, then releases. "Did you fuck my mother?"
The question is so blunt, so unexpected, that a laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Not amusement—more like disbelief that we're having this conversation while watching a nine-year-old's riding lesson.
"Even if I did," I tell him, meeting his gaze directly, "I'd answer that question with a lie."
Something flickers across his face—anger, confusion, maybe even respect. Hard to tell because I don’t really know him.
I've said all I'm going to say on the subject.
Eleanor Ashby's ghost doesn't get to haunt this moment too.
I turn away from Cash, slip between the arena rails, and cross the perfect sand to where Savannah stands with Madeline. My boots leave heavy prints in the carefully groomed surface.
Savannah's smile when she sees me approach feels like the only real thing in this artificial world they've built.
I stand beside her, close enough that our arms touch, and watch my little sister ride circles around all the things we're not saying.
