She considered the question honestly. It makes me tired, she said finally. I thought seeing him would feel like I don't know, something bigger, more terrible. But mostly it just makes me tired, like having to carry something I thought I'd already put down. Ryder nodded.
He understood, she thought, the particular exhaustion of things you'd done the work of getting past and then had to encounter again unexpectedly. The thing is, she said and then stopped. What? He looks at you like you took something from him. She paused.
Which is he left. He chose to leave. Whatever I am to him now, whatever he feels seeing me with someone else, he doesn't have the right to feel it. You can't forfeit something and then stand there watching the new owner and feel wronged. Ryder was quiet for a moment.
When he spoke, his voice was level and careful. People don't generally ask permission for what they feel. He said he can feel whatever he feels. Doesn't mean it costs you anything. She looked at him.
That's very measured of you. I'm a measured person about most things, she agreed. Not about horses. The corner of his mouth moved. Horses are different.
Why? He thought about it. Because horses don't pretend, he said. They're exactly what they are. A scared horse is scared.
A trusting horse trusts you. There's no performance, no story they're telling themselves about what they should be feeling. Clara walked beside him and let that sit. Are you saying I'm pretending? She asked.
I'm saying most people do, he said. Including me. That's not a criticism. She thought about that for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon at her worktable stitching the lining of a vest for August Reyes, who had, as she'd noted months ago, continued to expand gently through the midsection and required adjustment. She thought about pretending about the story she was telling herself about this arrangement, and why she was comfortable with it, and what would happen when it ended.