‘I’m going to take Hermes inside,’ I tell Rod quickly, before anyone can notice anything. He nods, still laughing as Tali excitedly proposes they try every animal noise under the sun to get Genny’s horse to come over to them.
I walk Hermes into the stables, and once I get the beautiful stallion into the barn, I press my forehead to his.
I let the tears fall freely for the first time in years.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Happy Little Trainwrecks
Rod
The second that Marley slides our beers across the bar, Benny and I snatch them up, perfectly content to absolutely body the best IPAs in Massachusetts. The taste is, of course, the star of the show, but after the dizzying week I’ve had – Declan’s appearance, plus getting friends-with-benefits zoned by Jordan being the dual cherries on top – a good beer is exactly what I’ve needed.
‘And for you.’
The bottom of the glass rasps against wood as Marley procures Jordan’s humongous margarita. It’s probably half the size of her head and a violent strawberry colour.
‘You will be so drunk after this,’ Benny declares.
She happily stirs her marg, then takes a satisfied sip. ‘Everything a girl could ever want, Mister Boss Man.’
I try not to watch too keenly as she pulls her hand away from the salt-rimmed marg, some of the salt stuck to her finger, and licks it off. Benny, as much as I love the guy, cannot, under any circumstances, become privy to this knowledge. Doesn’t help things that it’s even more embarrassing that I was dumb enough to think we were sharing a moment back in the cabin. I could kick myself for it. The way it ended before it had even begun. What was I on?
‘So. Declan, huh.’ Jordan narrows her eyes sceptically, directed at me. ‘What about that guy’s got you so riled up? There has to be something else. Beyond the general shitty personality and rivalry bits. And the money at stake, sure.’
‘Nothing,’ I say.
‘There is something,’ blurts Benny.
‘Don’t you dare—’
‘Declan is his ex’s brother.’ Benny is already going red-faced when the words come out. It looks like he’s going to clap a hand over his mouth, like a guilty kid caught rummaging through the pantry. Then he just slowly turns to me, getting ready for the consequences to hit. ‘Sorry, dude.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I grumble. I generally don’t like sharing lore about Charlotte. But something twists in my stomach when I think about telling Jordan.
Jordan’s eyebrows rise. ‘Oh … so …’
‘I don’t like him,’ I say shortly. ‘He said a couple things when Char and I had our falling out. Mean things.’
Her mouth forms a silent O. She seems very content to drown in her marg all of a sudden. ‘I … definitely get that.’
I nod. All three of us awkwardly work at our drinks while we watch the Little Pint’s sporting event of choice play out onthe enormous TVs mounted above the bar. Today, it’s the Formula 1 race that aired earlier that morning: Silverstone. I pretend to take a vested interest in the multicoloured cars that whizz past one another on clipped turns, the announcer about to piss his pants with excitement as he putters on about the white and red car going head-to-head with a silver and blue. This is desperate and painful. I can’t even name one of these teams.
‘Does anyone have a less depressing topic of conversation?’ I finally cave. ‘We can stop pretending we know about car racing.’
Benny raises his hand, straightening his posture on the bar stool. ‘Not a topic. I just think we should tap into Sunday trivia because the grand prize is a signed Colton James Bradley Woodchucks jersey.’
He moves his arm to point to the people starting to gather at the designated trivia tables, around the host at the other end of the bar, who stands beside a not-so-subtle blue poster readingSUNDAY TRIVIA: GRAND PRIZE, SIGNED COLTON JAMES BRADLEY WOODCHUCKS JERSEY.
I whip my phone out right on cue and snap a photo, squinting to make sure I get the font of the poster in focus. That’s going straight to the Woodchucks group chat. ‘Isn’t that technically cheating if we play, though?’ I muse. ‘Like, if the trivia is about the Woodchucks, we’re going to know way too many answers for it to be fair.’
Jordan perks up, attention prised away from her margarita. ‘Did someone say unfair?’
‘We’re not playing.’ I hold out a hand and shake my head at Benny. ‘Good sentiment, but I think it would be cheating.’
‘I think it’s using our resources,’ Benny says matter-of-factly,with a sip of his beer. ‘Plus, how funny would it be if we won it? Colt would shit himself.’
‘Yes! Using our resources!’ Jordan clasps her hands together in front of her, eyes big, pleading, and jesting. And also already very buzzed. I should have known she’d make for a troublemaker once she started drinking. Benny is a drunk strategist. I’m a drunk sobber. Jordan is drunk chaos. And it’s kind of … fucking cute.
