Page 94 of The Bodyguard

“You can fly a helicopter,” Jack said, “but you can’t sit up on a horse?”

“Helicopters have seat belts,” I said.

“This is not rocket science,” Jack said.

“Settle down, horse boy,” I said. “Just because you’re the Simone Biles of horse gymnastics doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be.”

I looked over at Jack, and he’d started laughing. Again.

“Stop laughing,” I said.

“Stop making me laugh,” Jack said.

Then, with that, we started to walk.

And it wasn’t so bad.

Clipper’s gait really was very smooth.

I did not let go of Clipper’s neck. And Jack did not let go of the lead rope.

“How have you never been on a horse before?” Jack called back over his shoulder after a quiet minute.

“I have,” I said. “Once. On vacation, as a kid.”

Maybe it was the comforting rhythm of the walking. Or the salty, horsey smell. Or the airy clop of hooves on the paddock dirt. Or the motion of Clipper’s neck as he swung his head side to side. Or the solid, rocking weight of him underneath me. Or his bluster as he let out a noisy breath. Or even, if I’m honest, the occasional sight—whenever I peeked—of Jack up ahead, holding the lead rope in such an easy, almost tender manner, and walking ahead of us in such a trustworthy rhythm.

But I said, “It was the last vacation we took before my father moved out. Actually, he left halfway through the vacation. They fought, he left, and I never saw him again.”

“You never saw him again? Not once?”

I shook my head. “Nope. Of course, I didn’t go looking, either.”

“Do you think you ever will?”

“Nope.”

I could tell that Jack was hesitating to ask why.

“We were better off without him,” I said. It wasn’t true, of course. We were far worse without him. And that, right there, was the reason I would never meet him for coffee and make pleasantries. He’d forfeited all rights to the future when he ruined our lives.

“Wow,” Jack said.

“Yeah,” I said, and that’s when Clipper slowed to a stop. When I looked up, Jack’s face was all sympathy—like he hadn’t just heard what I’d said but had felt it.

I’d never told anyone that story.

I’d almost forgotten about it, actually.

But Jack’s face, as he listened, was so open, and so sympathetic, and so on my side that in that moment, despite all my rules, that memory just shared itself. I wasn’t a sharer. I didn’t even share things with nonclients. Especially not painful things. But I suddenly understood why people did it. It felt like relief. It felt like dipping your feet in cool water on a hot day.

This really was a revelation to me.

I suddenly felt like I could share things with Jack all night. Looking back, I might’ve.

But then I got saved by a disaster.

Because, next, we heard urgent yelling from back near the house.

Jack was unclipping the halter and helping me down before we could even make out the words. We took off running toward the sound and both vaulted the fence to cross the yard.

It was Hank, shouting into the darkness: “Jack! Jack!” And then: “Where are you? Jack!”

As we reached him, Hank turned toward the sound of us, his eyes wide and a little unfocused.

“What is it?” Jack said, out of breath.

“It’s Mom,” Hank answered. “She collapsed.”