As I’m locking the door to the studio, I hear a soft, whispering voice echoing down the hall. Shoving the key into the pocket of my green and white striped drawstring pajama pants, I cross my arms across my chest to cover up the fact that I’m wearing a tank top and no bra. I came out here in the middle of the night in my pajamas specifically because I knew no one would be in the stables.
Coming to the end of the long, dimly lit hallway, I quickly round the corner with an irritated scowl on my face, my flip-flops smacking against the cement floor. I should probably just sneak back up to the house and attempt to fall asleep, but my curiosity has gotten the better of me, wondering which one of the workers is out here at such a late hour. Hopefully none of the mares are sick. I don’t need my mother catching wind of it from the property manager and ordering it to be put down without bothering to call the vet, just like the last time. She usually never bothers with the stables, the horses, or the barn staff, unless she feels like her control around this place is slipping and she needs to prove the point that she’s still in charge. With everything that’s happened in the last few months, I wouldn’t put it past her to do something stupid where the horses are concerned just to make herself feel powerful.
As soon as I turn the next corner into the main stable area, my body comes to an abrupt halt. My stomach drops down to my toes, my shaking arms fall limply to my sides, and my chest begins to ache like it’s made of glass and someone just took a sledgehammer to it. I would recognize him anywhere, even with all the time that has passed and what he must have gone through for all of those years in captivity. I feel like I’m standing in a dream, unable to believe what I’m seeing. The edges of my vision blur and I feel like if I lift my foot to try and walk, it will feel like I’m sinking in quicksand, unable to move, unable to get closer and reassure myself that I’m really awake and this isn’t a dream. How many times did I wish for a moment like this? One moment in time where he was standing right here in front of me, alive and breathing and smiling. Just a few seconds where I could look at his face, watch a dimple pop out of his cheek, and not have it disappear like a puff of smoke when I woke up.
“I missed you, Belle. My pretty girl…I missed you something awful. Have they been feeding you enough sugar cubes?”
The black Arabian snorts, butting her head against the forehead of the man in front of her, and he chuckles softly. The sound hits me like a bolt of lightning, making my scalp tingle and my heart beat double time. I squeeze my hands into fists as hard as I can, my fingernails digging into my palms, the pain reminding me this isn’t a dream. He’s really here, standing in front of me, smiling, talking, breathing…alive.
I stand here in complete silence, my legs refusing to move even though if they did, I don’t know if I’d want them to take me out of here as fast as possible, or race me toward the man speaking in hushed tones to the beautiful beast in front of him.
If I could find my voice, I’d tell him the animal he’s petting isn’t his beloved Belle, who died the year after he left. She died giving birth to the animal he’s currently showering with attention. It would break his heart to know that isn’t Belle, always his favorite among the thirty or so horses we own. He raised her and helped train her when she came to this plantation, a wild and unforgiving horse who wouldn’t let anyone near her until she heard his soft commands and felt his gentle touch.
My vision blurs with tears as I stand perfectly still, taking him in from the top of his short, spiky dark hair to the tips of his scuffed cowboy boots. The arm he holds up to pet the side of the horse’s neck flexes as he runs his hand down her flank, his bicep no longer large enough to snap a tree trunk in half, but with enough muscle definition that I can see it from where I stand, a hundred yards away. He’s not as skinny as he was that day I saw him on the news, but he’s also no longer the hulking beast of a man he was six years ago. He’s lean, with just enough muscle definition to fill out the shirt and worn, tattered pair of jeans encasing his long legs.
I stare at him through my tears, drinking in every inch of him, wondering if at any minute I’m going to wake up and this is all going to be a dream. Him being alive, and home, and within touching distance.
I want to call out his name and see if saying it out loud breaks the spell.
I want to run into his arms and see if I can feel them wrapped around me or if he’ll disappear as soon as I get to him, like a puff of smoke.
I want to turn and leave these stables, forget that I ever saw him and pretend like standing here right now isn’t breaking every piece of me apart all over again, knowing I can never have what I want.
His face turns slightly in my direction as the horse tries to head butt him again, and that’s when I see the scar that runs down his clean-shaven cheek from the corner of one eye to his jaw, which looks like it came from a knife. I choke back a sob and tightly press my hand to my mouth when I notice his nose is slightly crooked, most likely from being broken more than once. My eyes travel the length of his arm and I see an assortment of faded scratches and scars dotting his forearm as he continues to whisper and pet the horse in front of him.
Everything he’s been through, things I’ll never know or understand, hits me like a ton of bricks, threatening to make my knees give out from under me. I’m standing here feeling sorry for myself when this man literally went through hell and came back from the dead.
He’s here. He’s alive.
No matter how tightly I clamp my hand over my mouth, I can’t keep the muffled sob from escaping and his head whips in my direction. His deep brown eyes lock on to mine and his hand slowly drops from the side of the horse as he turns to face me fully.
I want to run to him.
I want to run away and hide.
“Legs,” he whispers softly.
So softly I almost don’t hear it over the thunderous beating of my heart, but my eyes are locked on to his lips and I see his mouth form the words, the nickname making me wince and die a little bit more inside.
“Are you real?” He speaks softly, his eyes widening in wonder as he takes a tentative step toward me.