The Bodyguard (52)

“Jesus Christ!” I shouted, and not in a good way.

Jack bowed deep and low, then turned to me, enjoying my horror, and said, “Been a long time since I did that. I’m gonna be sore tomorrow.”

“No more somersaults!” I said, like I was making a rule.

Jack just looked really pleased with himself. “You’ve got me showing off for you.”

“Don’t show off for me,” I said. “I don’t want you to show off for me.”

But Jack was walking over toward Clipper—who had slowed to a stop as soon as Jack landed and was now looking at us with his long, somber eyelashes.

Jack collected the lead rope and started walking the horse toward me. “Now it’s your turn,” Jack said.

“No, thank you.”

“God, you’re a scaredy cat. How is that possible in your line of work?”

“I don’t know how to ride,” I said.

“That’s the great thing about Clipper,” Jack said. “He does it all for you.”

“I can’t ride a horse,” I said, as Jack kept coming closer. “I can do other things. I can drive a car backward on the freeway. I can rappel off a roof. I can pilot a helicopter.”

Did I normally like a new challenge?

Of course.

But maybe I had enough skills. Or maybe I just didn’t want to embarrass myself any further in front of Jack.

“This should be easy, then,” Jack said.

I shook my head. “I’m good.”

But Jack and the horse were right next to me now. “Just walking,” Jack cajoled. “No tricks. Easy. You’ll love it. All you have to do is sit. And I’ll hold the lead rope.”

I considered the horse, then I considered Jack.

Jack laced his fingers together and bent down to hold his hands like a stirrup. “Grab a big handful of mane, and give me your foot,” he said.

I hesitated.

In a whisper, Jack started going, “Bwok, bwok, bwok.”

I pushed out a sigh and lifted my foot into his hands. “Why is you bwok-ing like a chicken working on me? Why does everything you do work on me?”

I didn’t even have time to worry that I’d confessed too much before Jack was hoisting me up the side of the horse.

“Atta girl,” Jack said, moving his hands to my hips and then pushing my butt as I worked my leg around and got situated. “Not so hard, right?”

I was really glad I’d worn jeans that day.

I tried to sit up straight, like Jack had, but that’s when I realized how ridiculously high up I was. It was like standing on a high dive.

I let myself lie on my belly and hold on around Clipper’s neck.

“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.