The Heartbreak Horse

Because Your Best Friend Hates Her.

I’m watching The Heartbreak Horse when Cyan shows up.

It’s a crazy name, I know. It’s his actual, registered racehorse name with the Jockey Club—the name he was raced under until he was retired early (at the ripe age of three) for bad behavior.

I only got him two weeks ago, but I’ve spent nearly every hour with him since. It’s summer, and even if it wasn’t, I’m eighteen, have no real job, and live at home, so it’s not like I have anything better to do. As soon as I finish feeding, turning out, and cleaning stalls, I set a chair down in front of Heartbreak’s paddock and watch him.

His kind are known as off-the-track Thoroughbreds. They’re commonly “rehabbed” from racing and retrained for other purposes; they’re athletic, talented, and gorgeous animals. But they’re often traumatized by their time on the track, and many are only scooped up because their only other option is the slaughterhouse.

We have one other OTTB, as we call them, at Bray. His name is Mirage, and he belongs to a sweet, teenage girl named Kate Douglas. But Mirage has been off the track for nine years, and is, for the most part, calm and stable now. Heartbreak has been off the track for less than a month, and is utterly wild.

I’m not sure if he’s glad to be done racing or not. He certainly doesn’t seem happy. Whenever I’m there, he doesn’t stop running—at least, not for longer than a minute or two, to catch his breath. He just runs and runs, back and forth across his paddock, tearing the dirt to shreds and skidding to a treacherous stop at the fence before U-turning and continuing on. He seems to contemplate jumping the fence a few times, but we gave him the paddock with the highest fences to discourage jumping, and he’s smart enough not to try. He’s covered in sweat, and his chest is heaving, but he doesn’t stop. Not with me there.

According to his previous owners, he was just like this at his racing barn. It’s why they sold him.

I’m not really accomplishing anything except pissing him off, so I don’t exactly mind when Cyan shows up. It’s still pretty early, but I’m already feeling lonely. As usual, Zoe, Cyan’s mother, is nowhere to be found. Zoe usually comes to Bray at odd hours so she doesn’t have to deal with Oliver unless she has a lesson. It started around the time Oliver started dating Christina Rucker, Val’s mother.

It repulses me as much as it repulses Zoe.

“Hey,” Cyan greets easily. She’s changed her hair color again—it’s a vivid purple. She did a good job, at least; I can’t see her blond roots at all. Though I guess that’s the benefit of being blond. “What’s up?”

I consider not talking about it right away, but I don’t see much point in avoiding it, and my ass is starting to hurt from sitting in the chair, anyway. So I stand and face her.

“What happened to Riley?” I ask her bluntly.

She stares at me. She looks almost afraid, as if she doesn’t trust me when it comes to beautiful girls. Not that she should. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Riley,” I repeat. “You knew how I felt about her—how worried I was when Jesse was diagnosed. Why didn’t you tell me you kept in touch with her?”

Cyan sighs. She isn’t as frail as Riley, but she’s small, too, and shorter, with big, blue eyes that always give her away. Always, but not now. “She told me not to. Look, Joey—that was a long time ago, okay? She’s changed. A lot.”

I can’t believe her. Is she kidding me? How many times did I tell her how much I loved Riley? When Riley left, how many times did I wonder aloud how her father was doing—how she was doing? “Cy, I killed myself trying to figure out how she was. I called and called. Went over twice. Second time, her mom was there and told me not to come anymore. You know this.”

That night, I stared at the ceiling, contemplating moving somewhere I might have a chance of fitting in—Atlanta, maybe, or somewhere the whites of Ocala wouldn’t stare at me like I was some kind of rabid dog. I didn’t have anything to stay for. Riley left, Cyan wasn’t my best friend yet, and I hadn’t met Val. 

Not that Val would have been something to stay for.

“Joey,” Cyan insists. “You don’t understand. She got into some messed up s**t. And her relationship with Matt? Fiona doesn’t deserve that.”

“They’re just friends,” I say, remembering what Matt told me. I don’t mention that her brother would be into it if Riley was. 

“They’re all over each other! I’ll bet you anything they’re screwing like rabbits every chance they get. Whenever Fiona’s not around, they can’t stop groping each other, even right there in Atlantis. Matt won’t even let the customers hit on her, he’s so possessive.”

I consider mentioning that it’s more Matt groping Riley than vice versa, but I’m caught up on the fact that Cyan knows so much about Matt and Riley when Riley didn’t even know that Matt was Cyan’s brother.

I decide not to address any of it and instead announce the inevitable: “Oliver wants her to come back.”

She looks shell-shocked and furious. “What?”

It’s at that moment that Heartbreak stops running. It isn’t an abrupt stop to be followed by more running; it’s an actual, true stop.

“She can’t come here,” Cyan pushes. “You think your messed-up crush on Val is bad?”

“Shut,” I say sharply, “up.”

She does.

I stare at Heartbreak, transfixed. His chest is heaving. His overgrown mane falls on both sides of his neck; his forelock nearly covers his eyes, the white star on his forehead just peeking through. His gigantic chest, normally dark brown, is coated with foamy, white sweat. He watches us as intently as we watch him. He’s absolutely beautiful.

“Joey,” Cyan begs. “Please. Talk to Oliver—tell him to change his mind. I’m trying to help you. Riley Rhodes can only hurt you.”

But I’m not listening any more. I take a step over to the horse. The second I do, he starts running again, but I didn’t care. It gives me faith.

Once upon a time, he was a good horse—a happy horse.

They just need to be reminded.