Horse
Somehow, I’d talked myself into being Sarah’s friend. So, we were riding down the highway being friendly. Too bad all I wanted to do was exit the highway, park the car, and pull her onto my lap. Sarah was busy making idle conversation.
She asked, “Is your name really Horse? Like is that the name on your birth certificate?”
“No, but at this point, it feels more my name than Henry.”
“I like Henry.”
I smirked at her. “Yeah, when I meet him, I’ll let him know.”
She laughed. “Your nickname makes for hours of free entertainment for the crew.”
I sort of knew that. When you keep to yourself, people speculate, but in homage to the art of chitchat, I said, “Really, what do they say?”
Her cheeks got rosy. Sarah blushed constantly, anytime anything even vaguely sexual was mentioned. It was sort of sweet.
“Oh, ya know, they all just want to know the origin of the name.”
“What are their guesses?” I pushed, sort of loving her prudishness, but also wanting to see what she’d say.
“Umm... well—” Her cheeks got redder. “They think it's related to your um… you know.”
“My love of horses?” I teased innocently.
She giggled nervously. “Nope, that’s not it.”
“My unusually large, horse-like appetite?”
“Not that either.” She smiled.
“My holy moly, big cannoli?” I quipped, popping my eyebrows at her.
She went full-on beet red. “Oh my God.” She closed her eyes and dropped her face into her hands. Then she looked up and smacked my arm. “You are the worst, you know that?”
I felt happy. Giggling with her, being with her, it was the most fun I’d had in a long time.
“Now you have to tell me. Why are you called Horse?”
“Do I have to tell you?” She smacked me again.
“Yes, you have to. I’m demanding it as payback for my own embarrassment.”
Seemed fair. “It was the name that my friends gave me in college. I was in a music program and I had a certain talent for being the go-to guy. If someone had a song they couldn’t finish, a lyric that needed some rounding out, or just someone to jump in and play a gig last minute, then they called me. I could play anything—piano, guitar, bass, drums. It just came naturally to me. My last name is Stallone—Italian for stallion—so they dubbed me the workhorse. I was always ready and able to work on your music with you, for you. If it was music, I was available and I was good. I got shit done. You get the idea.”
“You were a musician? A songwriter?” she asked gently and I realized what was coming.
“Yes,” I confirmed; my voice had already grown tight.
“I’ve never so much as seen you pick up a guitar. Do you still play?”
“No.” I didn’t expound.
“What happened?” she asked. I could tell from the tone of her voice that she sensed the gravity of someone like me giving up my artistry.
“It’s a long story,” I said, an ache in the pit of my stomach.
“We have a long drive, but if you don’t want to tell me, I’m not going to push.”
“It’s an ugly story.”
“It would have to be. You’d have to break me to make me give up music.”
I didn’t talk about my foster brother, Garrett, ever. But for some reason, I felt compelled to tell Sarah. “My parents died in a car accident when I was ten and I had no other family so I wound up in the foster system.”
Sarah sucked in air, and then she sadly said, “I lost my mother when I was eight. I can’t imagine losing them both.”
“It was the fucking pits. But I was lucky. I got placed with a good family, the Mitchells. I had a foster brother named Garrett. We bonded right away. He had been in the system since he was four. His history was bad. Drug addict parents, abusive foster homes. By the time he got to the Mitchells, he was already pretty messed up, but we both loved music. He was talented. He wrote deep soulful lyrics, even as a kid. I was the better guitarist, but he was good enough and he could sing.” I could picture Garrett in my head, hugging the microphone, seducing the audience. He was blond and always wore his hair shaggy. I hadn’t let myself picture him in a long time. “Anyway, I had the foundation to do well in school. My biological parents valued education, so I did well for the both of us. I wrote his papers and stuff and that plus our talent got us both into the Randell School of Music.”
I paused, choked up by my emotions. I was remembering the day we got our acceptance letters. The Mitchells were so proud of us. They took us out to dinner. They let us each have a glass of wine. Garett was ecstatic. He ordered lobster and wore one of those white plastic bibs. He couldn’t stop smiling. Later that night, in the bedroom we shared, he said, “We’re gonna be something. We’re gonna make it, bro. I can feel it.”
Sarah put her hand on my thigh.
“I loved him,” I said.
Sarah said, “He was your brother.”