Bret and I have a forty-eight hour shift starting soon, so we need to get some rest tonight, of the bro-over and spooning variety.

Back inside the house, I pad across the soft, cream carpeting and push Bret's bedroom door open. His walls are painted his favourite color: a lively green, matching the emerald sea of tangled sheets on his queen-sized bed and complementing the polished, oak-boarded floor. The curtains shift gently in the breeze wafting in from an enormous window at the far end of the room, and a white-painted door at the far end of the room opens into a small bathroom.

Bret is playing video games before bed, and I take a peek over his shoulder to roast him.

"Bro, you're getting wrecked," I chortle smugly. "You're about to become a strange smell in that guy's basement." Bret takes off his headset and discards the controller.

The distant rumble of thunder draws my attention to the window. The sky has darkened rapidly and a cool breeze set in, the air potent with electricity. Looks like deliverance from this dry spell is rolling in.

The first pillow strikes me in the waist. I shriek as Bret stands poised on the other side of the bed, ready to fling another one. I dodge his throw easily, and then bend over to retrieve the pillow. "How old are you?!" But just as I'm straightening up, Bret hurls a second pillow at me, then another. Before long, I've collapsed on the ground in a fit of giggles.

"You're pathetic," Bret taunts. "Say you're my bitch."

"Never," I vow impetuously between bouts of giddy laughter. I attempt to stand, but another pillow hits me smack in the face. My protest is muffled in the downy fabric. I lay, sprawled helplessly, across the floor. Bret flings his arm back in an expert pitch.

"Just say it."

With a cry of rage, I sit bolt upright and pick up the pillow in a flash.

I'm prepared to fling with all my might when Bret grabs me in a quick motion and pins me against the ground.

"Who are you," he growls, leaning over me.

"Evan?" I giggle.

"Try again. Who are you?"

"Evan!" Catching his warning glare, my eyebrows arc. "Okay, okay. I'm your bitch."

With a triumphant grin, Bret slips an arm around my waist and draws me to my feet. I'm giggling helplessly by now, leaned against him for support, knees wobbling.

He's such a dumbass, but I put up with him because, despite his many faults, he's a good friend. He's always been there. When my dad died in a fire and I decided to become a firefighter, Bret came along with me for the ride. He held me through the nightmares. My mom lost a part of herself along with her husband. She's been a shell of the woman I knew ever since. At first I longed for her to comfort me, but she wasn't capable of providing that comfort. I don't count on her for anything anymore. She moved back to Barcelona because she couldn't stand to be here anymore, where she built a life with him. Now I have no family, so I have little choice but to put up with Bret. We're together all. The. Time. Living together, showering together, sleeping together. When you're with someone that often, you form a bond. We're like brothers. We get along like brothers, protect each other like brothers...and fight like brothers.

Bret loans me a pair of soft, blue pajamas, and I change quickly into the downy fabric before climbing into bed. Pulling the covers up snugly beneath my chin, I feel my eyelids drag with fatigue.

Through the crack in the door, I watch Rudy pad across the hall carpet to the linen closet after his shower. I'm captivated by his scruffy, honey-brown beard. It morphs into the wiry, golden hair dusting his pecs before converging into a dense happy trail that disappears into his towel. Each pec is the size of my entire head. He passes out of my field of view and I breathe a soft sigh of disappointment.

Outside, the soft patter of rain begins to tap on the brick and stucco exterior of the house.

Bret wraps his arms around me from behind. And immediately starts annoying me. It's hard to pretend I'm falling asleep in Rudy's arms when Bret is giggling into my neck and whispering absolutely nothing of substance into my ear.

"Shut the fuck up," I groan pleadingly.

"Why're you icing me out, bro?" A contrite Bret slackens his grip on me and stops the assault on my neck.

"I'm tired..." I mutter tersely, because it's easier than explaining that I wish he were his father right now.

•••

Rudy is bare-chested and chipper at breakfast. I find him standing at the stove, gently stirring scrambled eggs.

"Morning, Evie." A tingle rushes down my spine at the rare use of the nickname. There's something so intimate, so tender and affectionate about a pet-name. Only he uses this one, which makes it all the more special.

"Morning." I feign nonchalance. The last thing I want is to make a big deal of it and upset this delicate balance we've got going on. If I draw attention to it, that might make it awkward and he might stop doing it.

"Want some fresh perduce?" He gestures to the cutting board strewn with scallion, green pepper, and ripe tomato. That's how he refers to vegetables.

"Rudy!" Chelsea's shriek from outside makes her husband snap to attention.

I follow him outside to whether his wife was checking on her flower bed. Yesterday's storm blew some shingles off the roof, flipping a few others up. Rudy is brooding with quiet anger. It's expensive to replace and it seems like there's damage every few years. This is the last thing he needed, when he's been saving for that horse.

"I'm sure all the neighbours've got similar damage..." I try to be reassuring. "It happens. We'll get it replaced and then you'll forget all about it." Rudy's annoyance bleeds into a wan smile, and I brighten. What can compare to comforting the one you love?

Rudy insists on going up with a ladder and taking a look, except instead of the 'I' sound, he says 'ah' so it sounds like: "Ah'm taykin' a look."

"Rudy..." It's not safe, but it's not in Rudy's nature to back down from what needs to be done, even if he's not the one that should be doing it.

"That's not your job," Chelsea counters, scowling. "Call a professional roofer to take a look-"

"I wouldn't trust a damn roofer any farther 'an I could throw 'im!" Rudy grunts softly. "Ah'll take a look."

"C'mon, Rudy..." I plead, really not wanting to see the love of my life hurt.

"I asked them guys to come 'round last time and look now, just two years later, how useful they was. I got roofin' nails, roofin' cement, all gatherin' dust in my shed. I'm gunna fix 'er myself..."

A red-faced Chelsea presses the back of her hand to her forehead and closes her eyes for a beat before turning and marching speechlessly back inside.

With Rudy taking off in the direction of the shed, I make the split decision to follow him. I help him carry out the necessary equipment and hold the ladder steady while he ascends. Then he waves me back inside the house, saying it'll be a while before he's finished.

Back upstairs in Bret's room, I find the sleeping lout covering his ears and complaining bitterly about the banging of Rudy's hammer outside.

"He's so fucking annoying," Bret mutters venomously.

I think it's hot as hell. I love me a man who knows his way around tools. "He knows I'm short on sleep and now that I gotta work, he decides to pull this shit..." Bret goes on to complain about Rudy like any other boy his age would, but it makes a hot anger bubble up in my chest. I feel defensive, but there's something else, too...jealously. If Rudy loved me - even just as a son - I'd do my damnedest to make him proud. Not disrespect him. And Rudy loves his son so much. He'd give his life for Bret in a heartbeat. He's not perfect, but he tries.

"He cares about you," I remark adroitly. "It's not his fault there was a bad storm last night. You want rain leaking through your bedroom ceiling?"

Bret mutters something incoherent and flips over with a huff, pulling the covers over his face.

I grab some breakfast downstairs and wolf it down while attentively watching Rudy work. When he's done, I hold the ladder steady so he can carry the tools back down.

"Wow, Rudy, that's impressive," I gush with feeling, standing back to appraise his work.

"It wasn't nothin,'" is Rudy's flippant reply. "Can't call fer help fer every damn thang that breaks round here." A Texan through and through.

•••

The afternoon is cool, humid and foggy. Drops of rainwater drip off the leaves of the tall oaks and dampen my hair as we make our way to the ring. The auction is set up like a huge square, with a spacious red barn running along three of the sides. A man in a top-hat and beige suit, calling to the audience through a megaphone, stands in the center of a large, rectangular ring. A proud looking chestnut horse with a blaze on its forehead is being led around by a stable hand. About fifty people are standing outside the ring, pressed up to the fence, red-faced and hollering numbers into the chilly air.

Rudy and I pass under a redbrick arch decorated with red, yellow and blue streamers. A taupe sign emblazoned with the name of the equestrian centre decries: Horse and Pony Auction.

We take the winding dirt path and pass a table with leaflets displaying the horses to be auctioned. Rudy pauses to pick one up and leaf through it. The guide standing at the entrance to the auction grounds provides us with our program. We're number fifty-one.

A horsy scent hangs in the air. Voices and yelling carry on the breeze while hotdogs and drinks are being sold in various corners of the vast yard. Further on, small grassy pens hold tethered ponies for sale. Little girls and boys to professional adults led horses of all sizes, colors and breeds into trailers. Here and there, couples chat and children tug parents' sleeves while pointing to adorable ponies and horses.

Glancing down at my plain white t-shirt and faded jeans, I feel immediately out of place. These are rich horse people here to purchase expensive horses. If not for Rudy, I would never be here.

A man in a dark suit and top-hat leads a chocolate brown mare through the crowds, muttering apologies as he weaves in between people in a hurry.
Rudy nudges me, pointing ahead to where a stable boy is leading a sleek, long-legged black horse out.

"Look. That horse there," Rudy murmurs. I immediately recognize the Thoroughbred filly Rudy had his sights set on from the catalogue. Her black coat polished like mahogany, she steps daintily and with an air of reassurance.

We're right on time. "She's fully backed, but you can tell she's still young 'n curious," Rudy observes in a thoughtful drawl.

I look at the horse in question. The wide, diluted nostrils and protruding chin, the lines of wisdom and the flat round cheek bones, make her stunning to look at. We walk through the gate and joined the mob pressed up against the fence, and pass the time with small-talk until the bidding starts.

"Do I have four thousand?"

Cards shoot into the air. It's evident Rudy wasn't the only one impressed by the filly's good looks.

"Four thousand five hundred!" a woman cries, her card flying into the air. There are several other bids.

A look of determination on his face, Rudy calls: "Seven thousand!" No one else stirs for a beat.

"Seven thousand five hundred!"

"Eight thousand!" I stare at Rudy, but his jaw is set in a straight line, totally focused on the filly, who is now being led around the ring.

The woman catches Rudy off guard.

"Nine thousand!"

Rudy bites his lip, hollowing his cheeks.

"It's okay," I reassure him, unable to keep out the tinge of disappointment from my voice.

The ringmaster looks around.

"Can anyone top nine thousand?"

"Nine thousand five hundred," Rudy breaks the silence, his voice surprisingly calm and confident.

I look up at him with shining eyes, but his gaze is fixed on the ring. When no one tops his bid, I feel my heart flip cartwheels in my chest.

"Sold - to number fifty-one," the ringmaster declares.

We make our way through the crowd to claim the horse. The stable boy holds the restless filly, prancing about and snorting curiously at the ground.

"Congratulations."

"She's yers now," Rudy tells me. I can almost hear my heart pounding like a drum in my ears. "Yep, that's a mighty fine horse there..."

Slowly, the filly arches her neck in my direction. I catch my breath as she swings her head around to look at me. Her muzzle looks soft as satin, and her eyes glimmer on either side of her dished face. She sniffs my clothes experimentally and nudges pockets and zippers with a profound curiosity, before allowing herself to be stroked softly.

Rudy slowly reaches a hand to smooth her mane out. The filly, sweet-tempered and trusting, nudges him gently with her muzzle.

She's beautiful. And suddenly I know what to call her. Bella.

The clouds have finally parted, and a searing but pleasantly beautiful sun shines through. The azure sky is so brilliant and cheerful it makes me blink.

Rudy makes payment arrangements and calls his stable manager to tell him that he won the bidding. The new horse will have to stay in the pasture for about an hour until we get a vacant stall bedded down and disinfected.

The sun glares off the gleaming white trailer as we lead Bella into the back. She goes without a fuss, which is promising.

The rural scenery on the drive to the stables is breathtaking. The fields are dotted with farms and buildings and crops of all kinds. I watch them rush by as Rudy maneuvers along the road.

Eventually, the trailer turns slowly onto a narrow dirt path, cloud and dust formations swirling behind us. The gravel gives way to cobblestones, and Rudy slows. Overhead, a large red sign announces our arrival at the Palmer ranch. The winding driveway opens up to the main yard. Three spacious, scarlet barns run alongside it, gleaming impeccably in the sun. Contrasting deeply with the azure sky, lush green fields stretch out beyond the horizon, dotted with sleek, long-legged horses grazing lazily in the afternoon sun, their tails swishing away flies. The dazzling light glints off the parked trailers as we crunch onto the cobblestone path.

We wind our way up the curving drive. From here, the main yard is visible, bustling with activity. Horses of all types are being led around, their riders carrying out lively conversations.

Inside the barns, I can see horses cross-tied in the aisles and being groomed. The training rings are occupied by riders of various ages, and the commotion looks pleasant and inviting. In the paddocks are galloping horses, their strides eating up the lush, verdant ground beneath them. The sprawling green meadows set against the dark wood of the barns are welcoming.

Whenever we're in the car like this, just the two of us, I like to pretend we're a couple, and wonder how many people I can fool into thinking he's my sugar daddy or my husband.

When the car rolls to a stop in the parking lot, I climb down and make my way around to the trailer, from which I can hear the clattering of hooves.

"Alright, let's get 'er outta there." Rudy began to unfasten the bolts on the ramp and I help him bring it down, a shaft of sunlight breaking through the dim interior of the trailer. Then I open the side door and let myself in, padding lightly down the aisle towards Bella. I carefully untie the filly, murmuring to her all the while. Bella stands quietly.

"Coming down now, Rudy," I call, straightening up and gripping the horse's lead rope. No more encouragement is needed. Following me like an adoring puppy, Bella steps boldly out of the trailer. Her tail is impossibly arched with pride, seeming suspended in the middle by an invisible cord, hooves clicking smartly as she followed me down the aisle.

Some people in the yard stop what they're doing to watch as I quiet the filly at the base of the ramp, murmuring softly into her ears. As we speak, a tall middle-aged man with a thick crop of sandy blonde hair comes strolling out of the nearest barn leading a gray stallion, checkered shirt with the Palmer ranch emblem on it draped over his broad shoulders. He hands the horse off to a stable hand and makes his way over with a hand lifted in a wave.

"She's a beaut," Max, the manager, greets us. "Excelled conformation."

"She's Evan's," Rudy explains.

"That so?"

"Her name is Bella," I beam.

With Max's help, Rudy lifts the ramp back in place. Bella stands alert, eyes wide and nostrils quickly dilating and contracting as she takes in her new surroundings. The filly's ears are pricked intelligently. I can't suppress a swelling of pride as sunlight forms gleaming pools of light on the filly's sharp, black coat and bathes her in glory.

Max leads an experienced hand down the filly's back, along her legs, and looks in her mouth.

"I'll have the vet look her over more thoroughly, but she seems to be in great physical condition. Let's get her into the pasture now," he suggests. "Then I can show you the stall and you can get it ready for her."

I click to my horse and, without hesitating, Bella follows at my shoulder. She ambles slowly alongside us up the yard towards the paddocks, bathed in the pale glow of sunlight that filters down through the trees.

Smiles of recognition greet us all around. I don't have much time to call out to anyone, though, because Bella has just spotted a sleek, black cat slipping into one of the barns. It takes all of my weight to steer the filly away and back onto the path leading to the pasture.

"We'll keep her secluded for now," Max details said as he unlatches the gate to an empty field. "Until the vet comes to see her tomorrow." This is a common practice with all new horses. We wouldn't want her to be infected with a virus of some kind and then pass it on to the other horses.

I lead Bella into the pasture and fumble with the catch on the halter. Sensing her freedom, Bella trots ahead a few steps and then drops her head to graze. Stepping back, I watch from a distance for a minute before following Max and Rudy into the welcoming shade of the large, airy barn closest to the front yard.

Enormous skylights line the top margin of the walls on both sides, and the aisle is wide and brightly lit. We dodge a few horses being groomed, and stop to wave to a few people. Finally, we stop in front of the last stall on my right. The spare box is dark-panelled, spacious and bright. A pleasant, horsy fragrance fills the air, along with the crisp, sweet smell of hay and wood. The ambience is rife with voices and laughter, along with the occasional snort or whinny coming from one of the horses down the aisle. Horses nicker from their stalls while riders carry feed pails, grooming kits and mucking equipment up and down the aisles.

"Bella will be boarded here," Max asserts, pulling back the bolt to let us in. "Evan, could you please get that wheelbarrow over in the corner - and that shovel?"

"Sure," I reply, and dutifully fetch the required tools. I prepare the stall while Rudy and Max head over to the office to sort out the paperwork. By the time I'm finished, the stall smells sweet and freshly-cleaned, the old-fashioned trough is filled with water, and hay has been stuffed generously into a net in one of the corners.

I go and fetch the filly, pausing to look her over. Her silky black forelock tumbles over her inquisitive eyes, and her gentle expression, proudly arched neck, smooth, sloping shoulders and long, delicate legs bring a smile to my face. Sliding back the bolt, I slip into the sweet-smelling stall with the filly in tow.

Gathering the grooming kit hanging outside the stall, I set to work. I start by meticulously picking out Bella's hooves, prying a stubborn stone out from the filly's shoe. Then I start to brush the curry comb across the filly's glossy black coat in a vigorous brushing. As I sweep the body brush across her flank, I sigh with contentment. The rhythmic strokes of my brush help to soothe and relax me, and I soon lose myself in the job. Bella, too, sighs contently, lowering her eyelids drowsily. I run the body brush through the currycomb, getting rid of all the dirt and loose hairs and watching the particles of dust dance in the sunlight that filter in through the rafters. When Rudy enters the barn, Bella gives a low whicker, and I pat her quickly.

"Ten thousand dollars," I muse with feeling. "Rudy, this is the best gift anyone's ever given me. Thank you."

"Yer welcome," Rudy smiles, leaning over the half-door. "All I want in return is for you to ride more. You've got yer dad's skill in the saddle. I know he woulda wanted you to have a horse of yer own."

I resume sweeping the brush over the filly's satiny coat, opting not to dwell on the topic of my dad. Rudy scratches the back of his neck. "Well, now... I'm fixin' to leave soon. I figure I'll go make some rounds while you finish up. Meet me in the car after, and I'll drive ya home."

"Okay."

By the time I'm finished, Bella's coat radiates a healthy shine, her ears are pricked, and I've figured out all the filly's ticklish areas and habits. I replace the kit on the wall and, with a final kiss on Bella's soft, velvety nose, slip out of the stall.

Rudy is across the yard talking to one of the younger students and her parents when he spots me. As he climbs into the driver's seat and I climb into the passenger seat, I think idly to myself how wonderful it would be if I had an excuse to be so close to him always, nothing but the console separating us.

Reality sinks like a cold stone in my gut, my throat suddenly tight. Just as quickly as the elation came on, it leaves me, replaced with a terrible, hollow numbness. The worst part isn't even the acute ache of knowing that he isn't mine. It's that he'll never be mine; that's a chronic pang that I'll feel for the rest of my life.