Page 42 of Hats off to Love

Of course, with his fresh scent surrounding me and his hard body pressed against mine, I wanted to dissolve into him so he could take me with him, but it was the look on Molly’s face as I thought she might pass out from shock that had me releasing him and pondering all my life choices.

“You like him,” she whispers to me just as he reaches the door and turns to give us one last smile.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t know what to think of any of this,” I tell her, and she waits until the door closes before she squeals.

He’s not messing with me, is he? I wonder. I mean, of all our pranks and torturing each other over the years, messing with my emotions like this would be taking it one step too far, right? I know he has the ability to be a complete dick when he wants to be, but I wouldn’t have thought him to be at this level of cruelty.

“Well knowing you, you are definitely doing just that—overthinking it. Stop. Have a good time with him. Stokes is amazing when you take the time to know him versus drive him mad and bring out his worst. You should know this at least.” She takes her coffee and moans at the taste.

I do.

I think.

Gah, there I go again.

It’s the doubt. I can’t help it, because if I fully give in to this new sparkly version of Stokes and all of this just turns out to be one big joke on me, I’m not sure I would survive it.

Have I always disliked him? Yes, but as we all know, there’s a fine line between love and hate, and I’m honest enough with myself to know that deep down I do love him. I’ve always loved him in a way that’s due to our family connections, the years spent together, and his presence in so many of my memories. I’ve learned how to have thick skin against his superficial jabs and spars, but to purposefully take over my heart and then break it . . . there’s not enough glue in this world that would put it back together.

“I’m not overthinking it, I’m just still wary and am trying to ease into this new version of him.” I pick up my coffee and pop off the lid so it can cool.

“This is the same version Stokes has always been—you just refused to see it.”

Is that true?

I’m not too proud to second-guess myself. After all, I pegged him wrong all these years and missed that he was quiet and introverted because he’s shy, but I think she’s wrong. He was a willing and equal contender in our lifelong battle, and up until that Sunday dinner in March, he had never touched me before.

I turn to look at her. “Maybe, but sometimes what you see is what you get, and you know firsthand how he’s made me feel over the years.”

She lets out a sigh. “I do, but he only behaved that way around you, no one else. That’s not who he is.”

“I hope not,” I tell her, and I mean it.

“I’m meeting a client at the bakery at two, so you’ve got me all morning and through lunch. Would you like me to bring down more hats?”

“I think so, and the fascinators too. We’re down to the last of the inventory, so may as well put it out. I mean really there’s only two weeks or so left. Most people won’t be shopping for a hat the day or two before. We can line them on the counters and then, as some are sold, move them to the vacant spots on the wall.”

“Right-oh, boss. Sounds like a great plan to me.”

Over the next couple of hours, we empty out the second bedroom in my apartment. It’s such a surreal sight to see it vacant, but I feel so grateful and blessed at the same time. It’s after Molly finally leaves that my ears pick up on a familiar word I’ve already heard once this season.

“All I’m saying is horses don’t just get laminitis, not horses of this caliber who are under such intense supervision.”

My eyes immediately shoot to the woman, and it’s Mrs. Neal, wife to the owner of Bluegrass Fields Farm.

“I agree with you completely,” says the woman standing next to her in a tone that is as completely dumbfounded as Mrs. Neal’s.

“They don’t even let the horses out in the afternoon for fear of them eating too much grass. Sugar content is highest in the afternoon, so they are always let out to graze first thing in the morning,” she says, all exasperated.

“Is it just Smooth Jazz?” the friend asks. That’s the name of their qualifying three-year-old.

“Yes, I just don’t understand. We’re devastated that he won’t be able to run in the Derby this year.”

There’s something about all this that I don’t understand either. My stomach turns as I think about all the gossip, the disappointment, and the coincidence of it.

It is a coincidence, right?

That ache in my stomach grows, and as the two women continue to talk and try on hats, I pull out my calendar. I look to see what day Mrs. Rupp from Sterling Bells Farm was here: March 16th. Her friend made the comment that she couldn’t believe she waited three weeks to tell them. If I back up three weeks, that makes it Wednesday, February 23rd. Flipping to the back of my calendar, I retrieve my printout of this year’s race schedule. A gasp slips through as I see this was three days before the Rebel Stakes race where the purse was one million dollars.