Chapter 9
"I took lessons for a few years when I was a kid," Damon said.
Luna said, "A few years? You're way too modest—"
Maeve cut her off. "Luna, your steak's getting cold."
Luna let out a little "oh" and ducked her head to eat.
The table went quiet for a few seconds.
Damon put his phone down and looked at Maeve.
"Translation department?" he asked.
"Yeah, translation director. Maeve Norman," she replied.
He said, "Damon. Just call me by my name. No need to be so formal when we're in the same department."
Maeve nodded.
They didn't say much after that. Sitting across from each other, they focused on their own meals. Every so often, Luna would try to nudge them with a few chirpy comments, but Maeve would silence her with a look.
But Maeve noticed a small detail. Her cup was empty.
When Damon got up to pour himself some coffee, he casually grabbed the lemon water pitcher from the middle of the table and set it down in front of her.
He didn't say a word. It was just a natural, effortless gesture.
Maeve glanced at the pitcher, then at his profile.
Damon was already back in his seat, scrolling through his phone again.
Once the team-building event wrapped up, everyone went their separate ways.
Maeve headed for the parking lot. She'd bought her used white Civic for 40 thousand dollars. It was not fancy, but reliable.
Halfway there, someone called out to her from behind. "Ms. Norman."
She turned around.
Damon was standing a few steps away, hands in his pockets.
"Where's your car parked?" he asked.
"Section B," she replied.
"Oh, perfect. I'm right next to Section B. We can walk together," he said.
They walked side by side along the gravel path. As dusk settled in, the sound of horses snorting drifted over from the club's stables.
Damon said, "About earlier. If you want to keep learning to ride, you should probably find someone more reliable. The club's part-time coaches are kind of hit or miss."
"Anyone you'd recommend?" Maeve asked.
"Yeah, I know someone who's been teaching for over a decade. I can send you their contact info."
"Okay."
They reached a fork in the path. Maeve's car was to the left, his to the right.
"See you around," Maeve said.
"Drive safe," Damon said, nodding.
They went their separate ways.
Maeve got in her car and buckled up. Before starting the engine, she sat there for a few seconds, lost in thought.
Her fingers curled around the steering wheel.
Maeve glanced down at her hands, her mind wandering.
Earlier that afternoon, when Damon had steadied her by the waist, the warmth of his touch lingered, even through the fabric of her shirt.
She shook her head.
'Maeve, stop overthinking it,' she told herself.
She pulled out of the parking lot.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, she spotted a black Volvo slipping onto the road from the right, following her for a bit before turning off at the first intersection.
That was Damon's car.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Maeve tightened her grip on the steering wheel.
'It's just been a long day,' she told herself.
The streetlights outside came on one after another.
*****
Over the next two months, Maeve and Damon barely crossed paths.
Sometimes, they would bump into each other in the elevator, nodding and greeting each other. One time, they sat across from each other at a cross-department meeting.
Damon gave a report on overseas compliance, and Maeve spent the whole session jotting down notes. He was sharp, his logic was tight, his pace just right, and every so often he'd drop a deadpan joke.
The whole room cracked up.
Maeve didn't laugh out loud, but she couldn't help a small smile.
After the meeting, Damon stopped by her desk and set a business card down in front of her.
"The riding instructor I mentioned earlier. Almost slipped my mind," he said.
Maeve picked up the card. "Thanks."
"If you ever have time, you should check it out. The beginner classes are on weekends."
"Okay."
Damon walked off.
Maeve slipped the card into her notebook.
After work, when Maeve opened her notebook, she spotted a handwritten line on the back of the card.
It said, "If you ever go to a class, just let me know. I'm usually there practicing on weekends."
The handwriting was neat, every stroke steady and even.
Maeve kept staring at that line, unable to look away.
Then she closed her notebook and slipped it into her bag.
She felt her cheeks flush.
*****
It was the seventeenth month since Maeve's divorce.
One Saturday morning, Maeve rolled up for her riding lesson.
It was a beginner class, with six students in total.
Maeve was in her fresh riding outfit, and before she could even get her helmet on, the coach dragged her over for warm-ups.
After half an hour of basic drills, Maeve felt way more comfortable on the horse than last time. At least she wasn't wobbling all over the place anymore.
During the break, Maeve sat on the fence, sipping her water, when she heard the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves from the nearby track.
She turned to look.
Damon was riding that chestnut horse. It was actually his own horse. He was doing laps around the track. First half a lap, then a full lap, picking up speed as they went. Damon and his horse were totally in sync.
He spotted her.
The chestnut horse slowed to a trot and came over to the fence.
"Hey, you showed up!" Damon called out.
"Yeah," Maeve said, looking up at him. He looked way taller up there, sunlight behind him, his face half lost in the glare.
"How's your first ride?" Damon asked.
"My inner thighs are killing me," Maeve admitted.
Damon laughed softly, not loud, but totally genuine.
"That's normal for the first couple weeks. Just hang in there for three lessons, and it'll get way easier," he said.
"You make it sound like a scam to get me back," Maeve joked.