"Hi, dad." My shoulders droop with weariness as I address the cold, grey slab that now represents my father.

I open my mouth to say more but find there's an impasse in my throat. Guilt rushes hot as lava through my veins. My face flushes at the thought that he could've been looking down over me, seeing everything...including what I've been up to with his friend Rudy. What's the matter, son, I imagine him questioning me scathingly. My friend's dick got your tongue?

Bret steps up from behind me. He rests a hand on the small of my back, palm warming me through my dress shirt on this cool, windy morning of the anniversary of my father's death.

"You okay, man?" Bret murmurs under his breath.

"Yeah, just tired," I whisper.

Bret nods understandingly. We just got off double shifts.

"Mr. Meyer, sir." Bret clears his throat. "Evan's doing well, awesome, actually. He's training to race horses and will open a bookstore someday soon. I've been looking after him. He's well-protected and loved by all of us, so there's no need to worry. Your wife...Evan still calls her. She's doing better."

Mom moved out of state back to her hometown almost as soon as I turned eighteen. After dad died, she couldn't bear to be around everything here that reminded her of him - including me. She stayed for about ten years, but she checked out mentally long before that.

Still, I make it a habit to call her every couple of weeks or months just to check in. She's doing better with distance, working as a secretary. I hope she finds peace again, as much as I resent her for my shitty childhood. It took me a long time to forgive her for falling apart when I needed her to hold it together for me. Now that I'm more mature, I'm beginning to understand how devastating it can be to lose the love of your life.

"We miss you, and Evan still loves you very much. I promise he's in good hands. Rest in peace, sir."

It's a quiet ride back to the Palmer's, where I squeeze in a quick breakfast before Rudy drives me to Wilmot Mar. I follow him and Terry into the large, bright tack room at too-early o'clock in a sort of sleepy shuffle.

"Here," Terry produces a small, flat saddle from a blue-painted bin just inside the door. He offers it to me, and I'm surprised by how much lighter the tack feels in my arms. The leather is supple and smells freshly cleaned, with a sheen that speaks to great care. He explains, "the saddle's very different for racin' 'cause it's designed to be lightweight 'n' small, so that the load on the horse's easier 'n' the performance is better."

"Will Bella be okay with the sudden change of saddles?" I fret.

"She might be a bit off fer a few days," Terry replies as we make our way back out onto the yard, "but she'll get used to it."

As we head back to where I've secured Bella to a peg in the wall, I glance up at the sky. Dark clouds are gathering overhead, and the pale light of dawn barely filters through.

Terry helps me slide the proper tack on while Rudy nurses an extra large coffee, black as sin. Although Bella swings her head around to sniff curiously at the new saddle, she makes no attempt to resist as I lead her down the gravel path to the main training track.

"Evan," Terry begins as we near the busy ring. "Ah'd like ya to meet yer trainer while yer here, Matt Cardoso."

As he speaks, a tall, balding man in his late sixties turns from his position at the trackside to smile at us. The man's face is weathered and tanned, alluding to years of experience, and little fans crinkle at the corners of his eyes when he beams at us.

"That there's one gorgeous horse," Matt calls when we're within earshot. "What's 'er name?"

"Bella," I supply, gazing fondly up at the filly. The trainer heads slowly towards us, and stops to let Bella sniff his outstretched palm before stroking her. The energetic filly stands quiet as a lamb while Matt inspects her. I've got to hand it to him, anyone who can handle Bella like this sure has a touch with horses.

Terry seems to read my mind.

"Matt's been 'round horses his entire life," he explains. "He's been on staff since we opened, actually, 'n' he's brought countless horses onto the track 'n' on to victory."

Matt's leathery face creases into a smile.

"Now, mind that when ya write my cheques," he wisecracks. Terry laughs.

Bella nickers impatiently and skitters sideways on the gravel path.

"Easy, girl." I feel my face redden. I rub the filly's muzzle soothingly and shorten my grip on the reins.

"Bella seems to be bored with the sentimental aspect o' this meetin,'" the old trainer chuckles. "What's yer name, young man?"

"Evan."

"Welcome, Evan," Matt holds a gnarled hand out for me to shake. "If everythang goes well, ah'll be yer trainer 'n' adviser while we get Bella ready to race. Ah'll answer any o' yer questions or concerns, 'n' give ya any feedback or advice I think ya need to hear. I make most of the decisions, so ah'll be choosing Bella's first race - the track, the distance, how much rest or exercise Bella will require before 'n' after the big day, all that."

A rush of exhilaration sweeps through me as I shake the trainer's hand warmly.

"Sounds good."

"Now, Evan," Matt goes on. He gestures towards the training track, already teeming with exercise riders and jockeys riding sleek Thoroughbreds in every pace from a walk to full-out gallop. "Tell me what ya see."

The horses and riders on the track all seem to be moving in perfect harmony, keeping to the designated areas of the ring and steering clear of each other.

"It looks great out there," I comment. "You'd think it would be chaos, what with all those riders and horses..."

Matt nods.

"That, Evan, is where the outrider comes in." He motions to a tall, broad-shouldered man astride a chocolate-brown stallion. The outrider is positioned facing the training track, with a good, clear view of everything happening. "He's sorta like a cop who makes sure everyone follows the track rules 'n' works in perfect sync. Just like on the road, there're traffic laws that govern a racetrack, to make sure everyone's safe. Ted, that's the outrider, rescues fallen riders 'n' intervenes when a track rule is broken. Most days go by without too much drama, but all that can change in a jiffy if a new or inexperienced horse bolts 'n' his rider takes a bad dive."

I nod. I can see how dangerous it would be with no rules. "I'm tellin' ya that," the old trainer explains, "so ya know a little more 'bout how the track operates before ya get on it. Not to scare ya. Ain't ready for a race? No problem; we've got jockeys can work with Bella while ya build yer confidence."

Terry speaks up, interrupting.

"Ah'd better get going. One of my riders needs help with a horse 'n' I promised I'd get down to see 'em before eight. Ah'll leave ya with Matt now, Evan. Rudy."

I wave while the manager heads back down the path to the stable block.

Bella bobs her head emphatically, and I rub the filly's shoulder.

"She's just rarin' to go," Rudy comments.

"Yep."

"Let's get movin' then." Matt produces a stopwatch from his pant pocket and heads towards the training ring gate. "Mount up 'n' take Bella 'round at a trot 'round the outside, in a clockwise motion."

I reach up to fasten my helmet and check the girth before mounting. "Okay, Bells," I click lightly as I gather the reins in my hands. "Let's show him what we've got."

A high-headed Bella leaps towards the gate almost before it opens. "Easy!" I cry, grabbing a handful of the filly's mane. Bella plunges forward again, and I shorten the reins in a desperate attempt to control her. We're not off to a good start, and I know this ride will say a lot about Bella's disposition.

Feeling my cheeks begin to burn, I click to Bella again and the filly opens up into a collected walk down to the training ring gate. Rudy opens it for us, and I positioned the filly towards the left rail.

With barely a touch of my calves, Bella moves out in a collected trot, neck arched perfectly against the bit. I post evenly with the filly's strides, kneading the reins slightly through my fingers to allow Bella the freedom to stretch her neck muscles.

All around us, riders and horses whiz by on the inside, and trainers shout instructions from the ringside. As I glance around, I realize how different everything is from Palmer ranch, not only in terms of the purpose of the establishment but in terms of the very ambience. There's an atmosphere of order and expectation here, hope and aspiration. The ranch features a diverse range of riders, all at different levels and specializing in different aspects of the horse world. Their love of horses is the only thing that brings them together. But at Wilmot Mar, everyone has the same goal and purpose: to win, and come out on top in the racing world.

Bella skitters sideways from the rail and makes a lunge for another horse galloping along the center. Feeling my foot slide out of my iron, I grasp her mane in a desperate attempt to stay on. "Easy, girl," I murmur, regaining my position and tightening the reins slightly. I look around to see if Matt noticed, but can't read the expression on the trainer's face.

Face flaming, I keep Bella going for two full circuits before halting at the gate.

"Move towards the inner rail," Matt directs, "'n' start Bella at a steady gallop. Ah'll begin timin' after one circuit. Keep 'er goin' fer 'bout three rounds before bringin' 'er back in, alright?"

I nod and gather the reins in my fingers. I can feel Bella's muscles bunch excitedly beneath the saddle.

"Easy, Bells" I murmur, closing my legs around Bella's sides and leaning forward in the saddle.

The filly explodes into a high-headed gallop, churning up dirt beneath her flying hooves. I maneuver her towards the inside rail, kneading the reins along Bella's neck.

But before I can stop her, Bella's hind-legs thrash out in one energetic buck, and I felt myself sliding forward in the saddle. "Bella, steady!" I shout, throwing my weight back on the filly's hindquarters. The horse bucks again, and this time I feel both my feet slip out of the irons. Bella gives a piercing whinny and finally resumes an awkward canter along our lane.

Thankfully, I manage to haul myself upright and shorten the reins. Several of the riders stop to watch as Bella clamps her tail down and fights for her head. "No, Bella," I mutter hopelessly. I don't want to fight her, but I know if I release my grip on the reins, the filly will grab hold of the bit and bolt for another horse.

At long last, I manage to quiet Bella down and canter along the center-line for one round, like Matt requested. Bella's muscles are bunched beneath the racing saddle, and I feel my insides churn with anxiety. Instead of moving along in her usual long, energetic strides, Bella's tail is clamped down and her eyes roll at the other horses. Galloping Thoroughbreds seem to close in on both sides, and I just barely catch Bella's head in time before the filly lunges at a black stallion on our right. "Steady," I murmur beseechingly.

Maintaining pressure around the filly's sides, I manage to bring Bella into a brisk gallop. The horse's silken mane flies out behind her perfectly arched neck, and the filly's tail is finally streaming out like the usual banner. I feel the wind rush in my ears. In a few strides, we'll pass a cone marking a full round, and I know Matt will start the stopwatch.

When we approach it, I lean over as far as I can in the saddle and release the reins through my fingers. "Go on," I entreat, breathless as Bella explodes into a full-out gallop.

The other horses rush by in a blur and the wind drags tears from my eyes as I squeeze the filly's sides for more speed. They seem to be ambling lazily around when Bella puts on another burst of speed. "That's it!" I cry, beaming as Bella's hooves come off the ground in one perfect moment of soaring. They snap up precisely with the next stride, and I feel my hair being thrown back as we tear around the ring.

I crouch even further in the saddle, feeling the awesome speed in the filly's muscles reverberate into my very blood as I knead the reins along the horse's neck.

Bella streaks along the inside rail for three full rounds, barely more than a black blur of galloping hooves and flying mane.

It takes another two rounds to gradually slow Bella into a collected trot and bring her back down to a walk. The filly throws her head emphatically as we near the gate, and I hold my breath. I halt so that the black stallion Bella lunged at can pass. As we approach the ringside, Matt awards me with a lopsided smile.

"That looked more like a rodeo performance than a race, but she did it, Evan." The trainer holds a stopwatch up so I can read the time. "An incredible three laps in thirty-eight seconds!" I heave a relieved sigh. As I swing down from Bella's back, I throw my arms around the horse's neck in delight.

"Good job, Bells."

The filly gives a low nicker and sniffs at my hair with her muzzle, seeming totally unaware of her accomplishment.

"She's definitely got what it takes," Matt begins carefully. "But we're gonna have a lot to work on; speed ain't the only thang a racehorse needs to be successful. She almost threw ya several times in the ring, 'n' she was snappin' at all them other horses when they crowded in on 'er. Today, it's allowed, since the saddle 'n' the surroundings are new. But over the next couple o' days, ah'm expectin' she'll be more calm 'n' focused."

"She fought me pretty much the whole way when we started on the pitch," I concede, rubbing Bella's muzzle absently. "We'll work on it."

"In a race, it's really important for 'er to respect 'n' listen to 'er jockey, or else bad thangs happen."

Emitting a tired sigh, I reach up to wipe the sweat from my forehead. It's been exhausting and uncomfortable work trying to stay on Bella's back throughout all her antics, and I'm beginning to have doubts about whether Bella's really taking to the sport the way she's supposed to. But before I can respond, there's a loud clap of thunder, and cold, hard pellets of rain began to slice downward from the sky.

"We'd better get goin' before them roads get much worse," Rudy speaks up. "Ah'll go get the trailer ready; walk Bella 'round to cool 'er off before bringin' her in, Evan."

I nod, turning to Matt with an imploring look on my face.

"Thanks for being so understanding."

"'Course," Matt is quick to assure me. "I reckon Bella was just objectin' to the strange feel o' the saddle on 'er back, 'n' she may've been pickin' up on yer insecurities, too."

I realize with a tug of remorse that at the beginning of the ride, I was distracted by how different everything was from Rudy's ranch. I wasn't prepared to give Bella my full attention, and I can see how such a sensitive horse would need to be able to trust her rider.

"I'll be more focused next time," I promise, the rain beginning to soak through my clothes. "See you tomorrow."

Matt waves as I grasp Bella's reins with slippery fingers and follow the gravel path back up to the stable block. The barns are full of activity, the riders milling around inside tacking their horses up or doing their barn chores.

I amble around the stable block to cool Bella off. The filly prances along, shaking her mane occasionally and spraying me with a shower of rainwater.

A giggling gaggle of girls corner me as I'm tending to Bella.

"Hi," one of them introduces herself. "I'm Leslie."

"Evan. Nice to meet you." I muster a smile, pleasantly surprised that someone wants to get to know the new guy.

"We're dying to know... Who's that guy that was with you?" Ah, there it is.

"Who, Matt? Ter- oh."

I falter, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Even if there was no chance of it getting back to the other Palmers, I'd be sort of embarrassed to call Rudy my lover. These girls are probably all dating young, hot studs with six-packs. It's probably so weird that I find Rudy attractive.

"Uh, he's my best friend's dad." I shift my weight awkwardly. It's funny how I have these moments, hot and cold. Most times I'm so in love with him I wanna shout it from the rooftops. Other times, though, I wonder what it would be like to have a proper boyfriend my own age.

"Goddamn, dad," Leslie breathes.

"That's not a dad," her friend pipes up. "That's a papi chulo."

"Man is majestic." Another girl declares, pinching her fingers in the Italian finger purse gesture.

And then, suddenly, they're all voicing their opinions.

"That dad bod is out of control-"

"Man's caked up-"

"Daddy? Sorry. Daddy? Sorry-"

"Dilf be dilfing though-"

"Can the mom fight?"

"He's our dad now," Leslie declares, shaking my hand.

Well, now I just feel weird for thinking it was weird.

•••

"Hey, baby boy, how you doin'?" Bret greets when I flop onto his bed, groaning with malaise.

"Tired. Racing is exhausting." I only do it because it's an excuse to be closer to Rudy, not that his rebellious son would understand.

Bret leans over to grab a second console, revealing a sliver of familiar, patterned boxers, and hands it over in a wordless offering like the solution to all my problems.

"Yo, you still have those boxers?"

"Yeah, man, always."

Back in high-school, I got Bret custom boxers with little gaming consoles all over, for his birthday. The waistband says something silly like, I'm a gamer, baby, I know all the right buttons.

I wonder what Sammy thinks of them. Which reminds me.

"So did you talk to Sammy about adoption?" I ask, eyes riveted on the screen.

"Not yet. I'm too nervous." In my peripheral vision, I see him bite his lip. He's got a strong jaw, the kind an artist would sketch. "She has to agree... I mean, we're gonna get married... If she agrees to that, too, of course."

"You, married. Wow."

"Yup."

"Damn."

"Yep."

"Better not cheat."

"Huh?"

I sigh inwardly. How do I say: don't be like your father, without revealing that I know Rudy's cheating...with me? I need to tread lightly.

"Just be careful, dude. Make sure she's the one you really want, you know?"

Giving up on the game, Bret turns to face me full on.

"What do you mean?"

I don't stop playing. He can take the L; I'm too competitive.

"I just mean... It always starts out so perfect: beautiful couple, big house, lovely kids...but then it falls apart. People cheat."

"Gee, thanks, man. Where is this coming from?"

I can't exactly say, so I bite my tongue and focus on racking up points.

Bret catches my general drift. "Oh, you're talking about my dad?" His face clouds over. "Yo, I'm nothing like him."

"You're exactly like him," I grouse irritably. "Put his hat on and look in the mirror."

"Bro, you did me dirty with that comment."

Again, I can't very well say: no, that was higher praise than you deserve considering I'm obsessed with - and fucking - your dad. So I just hold my tongue. That's an L I'll have to have to take.

The faint sounds of yelling drift up the stairs. Sounds like Rudy forgot to take the meat out of the freezer. I wish I could say I'm disappointed, but Rudy's every marital woe is a consolation prize for me. Every time they argue, it brings Rudy closer to me. Chelsea growing bored of sex and pushing Rudy away? Point for me. Chelsea needing time to heal after the birth of a son and leaving Rudy disgruntled and sex-deprived? Point for me. Chelsea needing constant emotional support and validation and resisting Rudy's advances whenever she doesn't feel those needs are met? Another point for me. Every time they clash, it works in my favour, because he comes to me.

Let's see who wins, you bitch. You've made him your bitch-boy all these years. But with me, he's a man.

Bret says I smell, and makes me take a shower. He's not wrong. My clothes are crusted onto my skin with sweat and rain and dirt. As I wash myself, I imagine Rudy's hands on my body, and wonder with longing when we'll have another full night together again. Maybe we can go camping, just the two of us. We'll tell Chelsea he's showing me the ropes; she'd never suspect a thing.

After my shower, I sit down at Bret's desk and start working on my writing. 

I realize belatedly that Bret is reading over my shoulder.

"Stop that," I whine.

"C'mon, please?"

"Okay," I huff with great reluctance. "I'll let you read it because it's you, but you can't talk to anyone else about it."

The biggest problem I have as a writer is that I don't like people reading my work. Bret's not about fake flattery; he's always got an honest opinion to share. But I'm terrified of frank, unvarnished criticism. My biggest nightmare is that Bret will look up from what I've written and say, that's the worst thing I've ever read in my entire life. You have zero talent, like when he looks over my shoulder to see my latest Grindr conquest and says, really?! That fruitcake?

My phone buzzes in Bret's hand and he frowns.

"My dad texted you."

I snatch the phone back at the speed of light, realizing I can't let him do that anymore. That's another hit my friendship will have to take for the sake of my relationship with Rudy.

Hey Evie, Rudy's text reads. Just wanted to say how proud I am. You're doing amazing.

I am lightness.