Page 7 of Sunrise Arrows

“Hey, Arch?” Boone, one of the ranch hands we’ve recently hired, calls out down the line from where we’re gathered at the track as Ryder is working with Dolley, a beautiful and equally stubborn Appaloosa who's trying to buck him off. When I look up from the iPad in my hand where I’m going over my projections for the next quarter, he asks, “Is it true you used to date her?” turning his phone around to show me a paused video of Tinsley.

In it, she’s wearing a long sleeved white t-shirt with a deep v and jean short cutoffs that barely come past the outer curve of her thighs, little bits of lace added to the fraying hem to make them appear longer. Mirrored aviators cover her whiskey colored eyes, and her dark chocolate hair is split into two braids with a faded black baseball cap on her head. In the still shot, I can’t see what she’s wearing on her feet, but since everything else about her appears as if time has stood still, I’d bet my last dollar she’s wearing pink cowboy boots. Though I doubt these days they see even a speck of dirt on their leather let alone the mess from a stall that needs to be mucked or the dust from a race track.

In sum, she’s even more beautiful now than she was back then.

I rub at the outer corners of my eyes, my contacts irritating me more than usual after having spent my lunch break—a time I normally reserve to be screen free—going down the rabbit hole of listening to “Destined To Fall” and the rest ofSummer Hazewhile locked in my office. Ever since that album dropped, I’ve been obsessed all over again, wishing that I hadn’t let her go when she ran.

“Yeah, why?” I confirm, closing the iPad when I note it’s almost time for me to head into town and pick up my niece, Ellie, from school.

“Man, you dodged a bullet. Look at this.” He guides his horse over to meet mine in the middle, swiping his finger to the left to restart the video he was watching as he explains, “She came home from her tour yesterday. Apparently she found that boyfriend of hers—you know the one, that shitty cornerback for L.A.—in bed withtwowomen and her house completely trashed.” With the video queued up, he says, “You know what? It’s better if you just watch. She’s insane—though I bet it was worth it, huh?”

“What was?”

“Putting up with her crazy ass in order to pop that cherry,” he smirks, nudging me.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I snap, giving the idiot a chance to rethink what he said as I stare down at him until he mumbles an apology and hits play.

I’ve never been the kind of man to divulge details about my sex life, but especially not anything about Tinsley. She was never some summer conquest to me, and what she gave me is a memory I’ll take to my grave, not some badge of honor to brag about and share with the world. And now that any detail about her life, regardless how old it is, could end up splashed on the cover of magazines the world over, I keep my lips permanently shut about everything I once knew about her and anything we ever did no matter how wholesome or salacious.

Like a glutton for punishment, I watch as the two guys who run that famous celebrity gossip site talk about Tinsley and the NFL player, Corey Withers, she’s been dating recently. After a quick summary of their relationship and recount of his absence at her side these last months she’s been on tour and he’s been in the off season, the video Boone was talking about starts up.

It starts right in the middle of things, with Tinsley smiling unlike anything I remember her ever giving anyone as she picks up her keys. It’s actually a little terrifying. Something this douchebag would see if he wasn’t too busy walking around buck ass naked, spewing apologies she’s clearly not paying a lick of attention to.

Keys in hand, she walks outside and turns around beside the ugliest car I’ve ever seen and says, “Don’t worry, baby. No hard feelings,” before digging those keys into its paint job, the sound of metal scratching over metal screeching through the phone.

It’s the cold mocking in her voice that reminds me we’re virtually strangers to each other now. That while for a moment I looked at her and saw my Tinsley again, she’s anything but mine now.

As soon as the slack jawed shock wipes off Corey Withers’s face, he's charging at her, screaming that she’s a “backwoods bitch,” making my fists curl with the urge to punch him and lay his ass out. Some security guy steps in, though, and body slams the pretty boy who can’t keep possession of a ball to save his life into the gravel ground. Behind them, a blonde woman Tinsley’s always with, calls out, “Ooo that’s gonna leave a mark,” as she pushes Tinsley into the car, sealing her away from whoever was recording them which is where the video ends, bringing us back to the two guys from the start.

“See?” Boone says through a laugh. “Crazy. Fucking insane. That was like a 150,000 dollar car she fucked up. Just Carrie Underwooded that thing like it was nothing.”

I shrug. “He trashed her house and brought two other women into her bed; I think he got off easy,” I recall from the two guys talking at the start.

The salt that gets rubbed in the wound isn’t the release ofSummer Hazefor the world to experience. I had always assumed that day would eventually come. It’s not even that I loved her with everything I had and she left. It’s that this is what she left me for. Not the fame and the constant tabloid coverage, but assholes like Corey Withers.

I’m not comfortable dressing up in more than a sports coat and a good pair of jeans. I have no place at any of the tables inside the fancy restaurants she goes to. And I definitely can’t hack the life she lives with cameras constantly in her face and people thinking they’re entitled to knowing every detail of her life, treating her as if she’s a commodity to be consumed and not an actual person. As much as I wanted to love her until the day I died, and as ready as I was to follow her out there despite all that, I know I could never have been a part of this life she has. In the end, my issues would have only held her back and kept her from reaching her full potential.

Boone opens his mouth to counter my assessment of the situation but Ryder cuts him off yelling, “Son of a bitch!”

The iPad is thrown to the ground as we spur our horses into gear.

A cloud of dust is quicked up as Gatsby—my former racing gray Thoroughbred—gallops up alongside Dolley.

On her other side, Boone’s grabbing the reins to help keep her steady as Ryder jumps from her onto Gatsby. He pats my shoulder as he gets steady before jumping off and jogging after where Boone, his horse Lucky, and Dolley are trotting up and down the lane.

Guiding Gatsby back around, I shout, “That horse ain’t meant for racin’, Ryder. It’s been weeks and you can barely mount her.”

Calm as can be, Dolley has come to a complete stop and is letting my brother stroke his hand down her muzzle, all memory of the incident from not five seconds ago forgotten.

“Nah, she’s a sweet girl. She just wants to be the one in charge is all. We’ll get there.”

“Before or after she orphans Ellie?”

With Dolley’s reins in hand, he walks alongside me back to the starting stall. “We’re getting there, Archer; I can feel it. She just needs the right touch, and once we find it, she’s gonna be running laps around this place and chomping for a chance at a Crown title.”

“This is the fifth time she’s tried to buck you off.Today,” I emphasize. “She’s taking more of your time than every other horse combined.”

“And I’m tellin’ ya, Arch, she’s gonna be worth it. You just watch.”

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