My heart drops in my chest, the way it does when I think about riding. When I think about Billie. When I think about that day.
I nod. “Yeah. A little.”
“Would you like to go riding with me today?”
I stare at him wide-eyed, feeling faint panic course through me. “I don’t…I don’t think so.”
“It would be fine. I have a horse, I’m sure we’ll find you one. Someone gentle and easy. I know just the mare, she’s the sweetest one we have.”
“No,” I say sharply.
Puzzlement comes across his face. He slowly nods. “Okay. No problem.”
I sigh and sink back into my seat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get all shrill.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not,” I tell him. “I just…I used to ride all the time and I had to give it up for soccer. I didn’t want to risk injuring myself and losing my scholarship to college.”
“What a minute,” he says, looking between me and the road. “You played soccer? Competitively?”
“Yeah. I did. And I was pretty fucking good.”
“Marco never told me that.”
“Marco doesn’t know.”
Now he’s looking at me like I have two heads. “How can he not know that, Ruby? You’ve been dating for a month.”
My cheeks feel hot. I suck in my lip, trying to ignore the sharp edge in my chest, the fact that Marco should know this about me, and yet doesn’t.
“He’s never asked.”
“And you’ve never once said, hey I know you’re an agent for your brother who is a professional player, and did you know I once played the game too?”
“It’s never come up,” I say quickly.
“What do you guys even talk about then?”
I give him a steady look, the one that says, we don’t talk, we just screw.
He gets it. He nods, realization on his face. His hands tighten on the wheel.
I look away, at the passing buildings, blue and white tiles turning into a blur. “It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s in my past and that’s all over now. That’s why I’m a journalist. I cover the sport, I don’t play it.”
“Why did you stop?”
“You know that scar I have on my leg?” I’ve worn shorts around him, I know he’s seen it, even if he’s never asked me about it.
“Yes.”
“That was from my bone shattering into pieces when a two-thousand-pound horse landed on it.”
Luciano is silent for a moment. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry. I’m the one who fucked things up for myself. I wasn’t supposed to ride anymore. They told me I couldn’t. And yet I decided to do it anyway, because that’s what I do. I fuck things up for myself. I do what I’m not supposed to. And every time I do, it ends up worse than before.”
He doesn’t say anything to that, though I can see the wheels turning in his head.
I don’t want to bum him out or anything but, at the same time, I feel like he wouldn’t think less of me. Like he gives me space to be who I need to be.
“How old were you?” he finally asks, his voice low, quiet.
“I was nineteen. Just a few years ago. Second year of college. I told my friend Julie I wanted to go riding. I hadn’t been in so long and it was driving me crazy not being able to do it. She took me to her grandparents’ ranch and we were out on the trails, in the hills, and we got caught in a rainstorm. My horse slipped and I was crushed. The horse ended up being fine, but I wasn’t. I’m still not, you know. Because I had my dream life, I had my soccer, I was one of the best on my team and I was helping them win and I decided that wasn’t enough for me. I wanted everything. I wanted it all. So, I ended up losing both things in the end.” I let out a dry laugh. “That’s probably a metaphor for my life. Never satisfied, so in the end I have nothing.”
“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” he says after a moment.
“Why not? Everyone else is. All my father wanted for me was to get into college and compete. That’s what I was trained to do since I was young. That’s what he liked about me, the fact that I won, the fact that I was good and I had an identity and I was normal and someone he could be proud of, nothing at all like my mother. He was so afraid I was going to be like her, that I’d be drunk and on drugs and just useless white trash, and all I had was that game, all I had was that game to keep his love and respect and I lost it all. I lost everything.”
The words pour out of me and tears burn behind my eyes. I don’t cry. I don’t ever cry. I cried for too long after the injury, I cried for too long when my mother was taken away, I don’t want to cry anymore, I don’t want to be that person.
So I dig my fingernails into the flesh on my arms until I focus on the pain, and I try to keep my tears back, try to stay in control.
But Luciano reaches over, his warm fingers wrapping around my wrist, and he pulls my hand away from my arm where my nails have drawn blood. He takes my hand in his and holds it tightly.
I can barely swallow, my heart thumping hard against my ribs. I should take my hand out of his, but I don’t want to. I can’t. He’s saving me from myself somehow.
“Ruby,” Luciano says gently, and before I know what’s happening, he’s pulling the car over to the side of the busy road and flicking on his hazard lights. He twists in his seat to face me, putting his other hand underneath our joined ones. “We can turn around.”
I blink back the tears and shake my head. “No,” I slowly said,
