Page 33 of Total Jane Wreck

“Whether he’s worth it is irrelevant,” I tell her. “Chet obviously doesn’t find me worth it. It’s better if I just don’t think about him.”

“Good luck with that,” Brontë states. “Easier said than done, right?”

I’m sitting on my trailer’s front step. The sun’s going down. Off in the distance, Chet’s riding Copper Cash. “Yeah,” I concede. “So distract me. What’s new with your urban food forest project and that sexy farmer who’s been flirting with you?”

Brontë launches in, giving me lots of details.

The next morning, I’m up with the sun, both to check on the new members of our horse family and—hopefully—take Miss Adele out for a ride. If I have time.

I say hello to Tapioca, Gatsby, and Spitfire and am pleased when all three seem to have had a good night. Which means my morning chores can be delayed. I stroll over to Miss Adele’s stall. “Hey, girl. Are you still mad at me? Or can we go for a ride?”

She gives me a look that says, Maybe I can be convinced. Good thing. Nothing’s worse than a horse holding a grudge.

“Hey. Welcome back.”

At the sound of Chet’s greeting, I turn. His hair is sticking up, he’s got two days’ beard growth, and there are bags under his eyes. He’s wearing black Levi’s and a blue T-shirt, both of which look like they could stand a swim through the washing machine. On most guys, this would be a turnoff. Unfortunately, Chet looks sexy in a rumpled, give-me-a-cup-of-coffee sorta way.

For a moment, it’s as if we’re both paralyzed by awkwardness. I find my tongue first.

“Thank you.” I pretend my heart isn’t hammering. “Want to meet the new horses?” I gesture down the aisle, expecting him to say no and disappear into some tortured, windblown billionaire dimension.

But he follows with quiet steps, trailing me like a man set to face a firing squad.

First, we stop at Spitfire, who’s managed to wedge his massive chestnut body halfway over the stall door. His ears flick forward at the sight of Chet, who stares back with an open, wary curiosity.

“This is Spitfire,” I say, giving his neck a hearty rub. “No horse is more ironically named. His favorite activities include loafing and snoring, often at the same time.”

Chet huffs an almost smile. “That’s a lot of horse.”

“You’re telling me,” I say. “Sal said that he liked sitting down in the middle of trail rides. But no matter how lazy he became, his appetite only grew.” I nudge Chet. “Go ahead. Say hello. He doesn’t bite.”

“You want me to . . . ?” he starts, but Spitfire already noses at his shirt, bold as you please.

“He wants a treat,” I explain. “Or to eat your buttons. Spitfire, manners!”

Chet lets Spitfire snuffle at his hand, and in that moment, the horse’s bulk and the man’s broad, stubbled presence seem like matching puzzle pieces—each solid and ornery and acting like they have nothing to prove.

Next is Gatsby. “Now, his name suits him. He’s the only animal I’ve met with an ego bigger than yours,” I say, unlocking the stall. “Gatsby, meet Chet.”

“Hi, Gatsby,” Chet says. There’s a reverence in his voice, almost a hush, like he’s meeting some equine version of F. Scott Fitzgerald. Or Leonardo DiCaprio.

Gatsby minces forward, all gold dapples and movie-star eyelashes. He slimes Chet’s palm with a slobbery lick. I can see, for half a second, a weird hope light up in Chet’s face. Maybe this is the secret to all those broken pieces inside him.

Last is Tapioca, the ancient mare, her coat flecked with gray like a mottled moon. I rest my cheek on her neck, breathing in that sweet, hay-and-apples scent. “She’s the best listener on Earth,” I say. “Not much for running, but she’ll keep your secrets safe.”

When Chet reaches out, Tapioca leans into his big, callused hand with something like trust, and my chest wobbles a little at the sight.

We stand there a long time, silently petting the horses. I keep my eyes on Tapioca’s shoulder and not on Chet. Then he has to ruin the moment by talking.

“I owe you an apology,” he says.

Oh no. Not again.

Sucking in a breath, I hazard meeting his gaze. And I find two nearly black balls of remorse. This man obviously takes life, and himself, far too seriously. “Chet, you don’t owe me anything. But whatever you think you did wrong—I forgive you.”

Chet scowls like I offended him. “You need to hear me out.”

“Why?”