The Heartbreak Horse

Because Her Bedroom Has Zero Personality.

The barn isn't busy that day. Val never comes (probably recovering from whatever crazy night she and Mitch ended up having), and neither does Christina, Zoe, or Cyan. Cyan comes every day of the week except Monday, because Mondays are the one day she works. She goes door to door selling tickets to Finger Lakes races—the track nearest her house.

Anyway, Val, Christina, Zoe, and Cyan are pretty much everything there is to worry about at Bray, and they make up all the boarders except one—Kate Douglas. Kate does come that day. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, she comes, rides, and helps me work; Tuesdays and Saturdays, she joins in with everyone else for lessons. Her work pays for lessons and board for her horse, Mirage—the other off-the-track Thoroughbred that isn’t Heartbreak.

Kate is pretty cool. She’s the closest thing to the old Riley there is at Bray. When Riley was there, before Val got there, Cyan was the craziest thing at Bray. But now everybody seems to be crazy—everybody except Kate. She’s mellow, quiet, and collected, and I like her a lot. It would probably be the best thing that ever happened to me if I really liked her, the way I like Val.

But apparently I only go for the girls I have literally no chance with.

Kate doesn’t like me that way, anyway. She really likes me as a friend, and that’s it.

“Hey, Joey,” she says easily when she reaches my chair. I’m watching Heartbreak again.

“Hey,” I reply. “You know, I really think I need to find this horse a better nickname. ‘Heartbreak’ is pretty depressing.”

Kate laughs. “It certainly rolls off the tongue better than The Heartbreak Horse, but I don’t disagree. And ‘heart’ sounds pretty feminine.”

Exactly my problem. “And ‘Break’ or ‘Breaker’ just makes me think of home electricity.”

She laughs again. I can tell she’s trying to think of something, but I know she won’t get anywhere. I’ve tried everything.

“Well,” she finally says, “do you have anything to do? Mirage has the day off, so I’m okay to do all the work today if you need to be somewhere.”

I frown. I don’t really want to do that to her. I’d tell Oliver, of course, and he’d probably give her an extra lesson, or something, but still, she doesn’t really deserve the extra workload.

“Seriously, I don’t mind,” she insists when she sees my expression. “You know I love working here.”

“If you’re sure,” I say hesitantly, “there is actually one place I need to go.”

“I’m sure. Where are you headed?”

I don’t mind the question. I’m glad Kate is in the mood to talk, really; sometimes she’s so shy, she doesn’t say much of anything. “An old friend’s place.” Kate wasn’t at Bray when Riley was. “She used to ride here a long time ago. I’m thinking about convincing her to come back.”

Kate smiles. “I think that’s a great idea. If I’m being honest, I’m a bit exhausted by everyone at Bray. Besides you and Zoe, anyway.”

I know how she feels. Val and Christina are pretty insufferable, and Cyan is certainly a lot to handle.

“So, what are you waiting for?” she asks me, grinning. “Go!”

I smile gratefully, waving as I head back to the house. Kate is so sweet. She watches me go, not longingly or anything, but just because that is a very Kate thing to do. Like Riley used to be, Kate is very plain, with simple, brown hair, hazel eyes, and freckles. I guess Riley was never that plain, especially not to me, but she certainly wasn’t the kind of girl a guy like Matt would be into.

I drive my car to her place. My car isn’t some flashy, cool-guy Trans Am like Mitch’s, but I’d take mine over his any day—a cozy, old Camaro. Cyan hates it because it “isn’t enough like the one from Transformers,” but I really like it. It’s black, like Val’s Infiniti, but it pulls off black much better. It’s my most prized possession—or was until I got Heartbreak.

But that’s not how I think of him. I don’t like that we own horses at all, but it’s even more ridiculous to think that someone could own him. By sheer nature, he defies the term.

I’m not really sure what I’m going to do once I get to her house. I already know her mom hates me, and I’m pretty sure she would remember me and not let me into the house if I knocked. 

I remember how to get to her place because it’s the same house lived in with Jesse. Probably explains why her mom seemed so miserable to Oliver; the house is not the kind of house a woman like that lives in. I only met her twice, but she was definitely upper class, and the house, while a decent size, is ultra-contemporary and way too weird for her.

When I get there, no cars are parked in the driveway, so I park on the street and sit in my car, waiting. I have a sort of inkling of a plan. I vaguely remember that Riley’s mom drove a BMW X6, one of the few ugly models BMW ever made, so as long as I don’t see that car, I’m good.

I don’t have to wait longer than half an hour or so before a car comes, and since I spend the time listening to Pink Floyd, it isn’t really time wasted. Most people in my generation don’t get the whole Pink Floyd thing. Cyan gives me the whole “it’s not music” approach, and Val just doesn’t get it at all, but I remember very well that not only did Riley like them, Riley introduced me to them, forcing me to watch The Wall our first Halloween together. I was more scared than her. Riley was as brave as it got, even then.

It’s her, I decide when I see the car. I don’t really get how it’s her; the car is insane. The Porsche 911 Turbo is basically my dream car, and it’s in sapphire blue, to boot. How rich is she?

I step out of my car when she steps out of hers, and her eyes lock onto mine the second her door opens. She clearly doesn’t miss much. The thought strikes me that she’s become rather uptight, but as usual, I have a feeling there's more to it.

“Hey,” I say as I walk toward her, feeling stupid and awkward. She doesn’t want me there. For a second, I consider leaving, but I don’t. I’m already there. “Can we talk?”

She crosses her arms and waits.

“Please,” I say. “I just want to talk to you.”

I thought that might do it, but it doesn’t. It would work on most girls. The few times I’ve been frank with Val, it did some amount of good. Usually my being honest just leads to her being honest, though, and she ends up crying on my shoulder as she complains about how Mitch doesn’t love her and s**t. It’s pretty miserable.

The point is, it doesn’t work, and I have to endure this very dry, hard stare she gives me. It isn’t fun. I mean, her eyes are so beautiful, and it’s so miserable to see them so miserable. She’s clearly unhappy. There’s no life in those eyes. Beauty, certainly, and poise, but not life.

As I stare into those eyes, I think of something—their polar opposite. The eyes with the most fire and spirit I’ve ever seen. Heartbreak’s eyes.

I decide they have to meet.

And that’s when I remember it.

“Of course!” I practically gasp. “You like racehorses!”

Now she probably thinks I’ve become a head case since she left Bray. “What?”

“Racehorses,” I repeat. “You love them. I remember one time you said... what was it? ‘If I could rescue every off-the-track Thoroughbred there was, I’d be the luckiest owner in the world, because there’s no horse as capable as a racehorse.”

For a split second, I think I see a trace of real emotion in her eyes, but maybe it’s just a trick of the sunlight.

“I don’t think I said capable,” she says skeptically. “Probably powerful.”

So she does still like racehorses.

“What’s it matter now?” she asks.

“I’ll tell you. Just as soon as you let me into your house.”

She doesn’t budge. God, she’s stubborn. It doesn’t seem like a game, though, is the thing. I mean, some girls tease you this way, but she isn’t teasing. She really just doesn’t seem to want anyone to care about her.

“What if I were to tell you,” I ask slowly, “that I own The Heartbreak Horse?”

Her jaw drops at that one. Even the ice queen can’t conceal her excitement when it comes to this. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “No way.”

I smile, feeling pretty damn accomplished. “Two weeks ago yesterday.”

“Seriously? But... how? He was destined for the Triple Crown, not Bray Farms. Just because of that one mishap?”

“It wasn’t just one mishap. He’s unrideable. And I’ll be happy to tell you everything about him just the second you let me into your house.”

She still doesn’t want to, but I’ve done it—I’ve found one of the few things she still cares about. She grudgingly leads me to her front door, sticks her key in the knob, and then another knob, and then a third knob, and opens it.

“What’s up with that?” I ask, glancing at the door when she closes it behind us. “All the locks?”

She types in the code to turn off the burglar alarm before turning to face me. “I like to be safe,” she says shortly. “Something wrong with that?”

“Of course not. It just seems like you’ve had a burglary or something.” Could that explain it? Bad experience with robbery? I doubt that would be enough, but if the guys who did it were rough enough...

I don’t like to think about that. In fact, I can’t.

“No. No robbery.” And she continues on her way up the stairs as if I’m not even there.

I’m pretty sure she isn’t lying. There wasn’t any hesitation in her denial. So I follow her up the stairs and into her bedroom and stop short in the doorway.

It’s the same bedroom—of that I’m sure. Straight at the end of the hall, paint peeling off the door. Step inside, bed straight ahead with giant window behind it with gorgeous view of the woods. Desk against wall, dresser against other wall, closet against fourth.

But it’s empty. Her desk, floors, walls--everything is completely empty. Two years ago, she had so many band posters from concerts (many of which we went to together) that you couldn’t tell what color her wallpaper was. Now it’s white. Two years ago, her desk was so cluttered with vinyls, you couldn’t see the wood. Now her record player isn’t even there.

“What’d you do,” I ask, “switch to Spotify like everyone else?”

She shrugs. I see a laptop closed on her desk and assumed that’s a yes. A girl like Riley wouldn’t be able to stop listening to music if she wanted to. "It's easier. And cheaper." She sits on her bed, not comfortably, but perched, and doesn’t extend an invitation for me to do the same.

“Says the girl with enough money for a Porche. Why were you asking Matt if you should flash those guys that day at the club when you clearly have enough--”

“Would you like me to kick your ass out the window,” she interrupts loudly, “or are you going to tell me about your damn horse?”

I sigh. I’ll tell her about him. It’s just that this damn room is so empty.

“I got him two weeks ago,” I say, even though I already told her that. “At an auction. I can’t even believe they got him to the auction, really. He almost tore the building down.”

There’s this indescribable hunger in her eyes as she listens to me, and I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. It’s like watching a drug addict being soothed by an injection of h****n—disturbing, yet oddly satisfying, because you realize it’s what he craves.

“I watched him,” she says, and I realize that for the first time I’m going to hear Riley say something she actually wants to talk to me about. “When he was on the track. He was fast. When they got him with the right competition... he’d have been the fastest horse any of us ever saw. If they really won’t let him race… can’t you at least breed him?”

I look away from her, frowning. We can’t breed Heartbreak; it’s not possible.

She sees my guilt. When she realizes what it means, she shoots off her bed like a slingshot and shrieks, “No!”

I sigh. “What’d you expect? We’ve got three mares at Bray.”

“Three? Silver was enough.”

I know she doesn’t mean that. She liked Zoe’s mare. We both did.

“I didn’t want to do it,” I say. “We almost couldn’t do it. Had to use nearly a gallon of Ace to sedate him. But we had to. Aside from the mares, he was just… too powerful.”

“That’s such a guy thing to do,” she says, shaking her head. “Power isn’t such a bad thing, you know. Power and individuality. Gelding a stallion like that should be a felon. It’s wrong.”

I know what she means. When the vet finished and the effect from the drugs lifted, he didn’t seem too different, but I still felt sick. I always found it sick, but I found it especially sick that we’d done it to him. It was like taking away Hendrix’s guitar or Leibovitz’s camera, but worse, because it was his manhood.

“I know it sucks,” I concede. “I mean, I hated myself and Ol for having it done. But we had to. We wouldn’t have if there was any shot of him going back to the track, but there wasn’t. He was unbreakable.”

She looks up at me with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. “Everybody’s breakable,” she says softly. “There’s always somebody stronger than you are.”

It’s the kind of thing she said before—back when I hung on her every word—back when I loved just hearing her speak—but now it’s so much sadder.

“I miss you.” I surprise myself with my words, but I really just can’t help it.

She doesn’t look particularly moved. “Of course you miss me now that you’ve seen me. Convenient that until now you’d completely forgotten about me.”

I understand why she thinks that, but she’s so off base. I consider telling her I don’t find her attractive at all now—spooky more than attractive—but I figure that will just make things worse, so I don’t. “I get it, Riles,” I say instead. “I do. But I never forgot about you. Your mom told me never to come back. You never called me back. What was I supposed to do?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I expected nothing of anyone, so you really weren’t disappointing me.”

I hate hearing her speak now. Everything she says makes me feel worse—not just worse, but horrible.

“Come back,” I say softly. “Please come back. We need you, and whether you admit it or not, Riles, you need us, too.”

She glares at me. “I don’t need anyone. And stop calling me that.”

“Why? Because that’s what your dad called you?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Get out.”

“Look—”

“Get out,” she hisses. “I mean it. Now.”

I nod, backing up to her bedroom door, but I’m not quite finished. “If you come back, we’ll take care of you. You can ride Santana again, and you can work with Heartbreak as much as you want if that’s what you want. I need help with him.”

Nothing I’ve said affected her until now, and that’s when I realize it: she doesn’t want help. She doesn’t want anybody to think she needs it. But if they see it as her helping them, then maybe, just maybe, she can accept it.

“None of us can handle him,” I say. “I’m not getting anywhere, and no one else will even try. Ol thinks I’m crazy. But you—I mean, you’re better with horses than any of us. You can do it.”

“I’ll think about it,” she says, taking hold of the doorknob and pulling it open. I start to walk out, but stop when she says, “And Joey?”

“Yeah?” I ask, glad to hear her say my name again.

“Don’t mention him again.”