I make it upstairs to change with only minutes until our <bdi>guests</bdi> are supposed to arrive. <bdi>Rune</bdi>, the cheeky monkey, has laid my outfit out on the bed as artfully as when we photographed pieces of Theo’<bdi>s</bdi> <bdi>collection</bdi> for sale.


    My newest pair of jeans are <bdi>neatly</bdi> <bdi>folded</bdi> with my beloved <bdi>olive</bdi>-green suede oxfords my mom found placed at a jaunty angle, a white tank <bdi>top</bdi> is <bdi>folded</bdi> inside my new <bdi>orange</bdi> and white oxford-style button-up with its sleeves rolled up just so. He’<bdi>s</bdi> even <bdi>picked</bdi> out my <bdi>lipstick</bdi> (hot fuchsia) and earrings (small gold hoops). What a <bdi>showhorse</bdi> he is.


    Wouldn’t he be the groom in this case, and you the <bdi>showhorse</bdi>? <bdi>Theo</bdi> <bdi>asks</bdi>, tongue completely in cheek.


    Not funny, I think.


    I recently <bdi>bought</bdi> the <bdi>shirt</bdi> at my <bdi>favorite</bdi> resale boutique in Port Townsend on a girls’ day out with Luna and Marguerite. I haven’t worn it yet. I was <bdi>inspired</bdi> to buy the <bdi>lipstick</bdi> after we <bdi>picked</bdi> Vivienne’<bdi>s</bdi> new website <bdi>colors</bdi>, but I haven’t had the nerve to try it out.


    <bdi>Rune</bdi> yells up the <bdi>stairs</bdi>, as I’m finishing up slathering on the wildly expensive and delicious rose-scented lotion my sister <bdi>bought</bdi> me, after the fastest sponge bath possible.


    You’ve got this, <bdi>Theo</bdi> <bdi>encourages</bdi> as I throw my clothes on <bdi>hurriedly</bdi> with suddenly shaking hands.


    I <bdi>hope</bdi> so, I think back, <bdi>gazing</bdi> at my <bdi>reflection</bdi> in the bathroom mirror. I <bdi>carefully</bdi> outline my lips with a <bdi>matching</bdi> pencil before applying the <bdi>bold</bdi> lip <bdi>color</bdi> to make them appear fuller. I <bdi>step</bdi> back and scrutinize my <bdi>reflection</bdi>. Not bad. The <bdi>color</bdi> combo of <bdi>orange</bdi> and dark pink works well with my lighter hair and makes my <bdi>brown</bdi> eyes pop. Having a personal stylist could get addictive.


    **


    There you are, sweetheart," <bdi>Rune</bdi> says in a totally seductive <bdi>Asher</bdi> Dillion kind of voice. He’<bdi>s</bdi> standing in front of the fireplace as he <bdi>neatly</bdi> opens a <bdi>bottle</bdi> of salmon-colored <bdi>champagne</bdi>. <bdi>Mandy</bdi> and <bdi>Stewart</bdi> are <bdi>seated</bdi> on either side of him.


    Oh, joy, we’re back to pretending, I think to <bdi>Theo.</bdi>


    This is going to be fun, <bdi>Theo</bdi> croons.


    For whom? I ask, plastering what I <bdi>hope</bdi> is a sincere-looking smile on my face.


    As the cork pops, my <bdi>stomach</bdi> lurches. <bdi>Mandy</bdi> and <bdi>Stewart</bdi> are watching me come down the <bdi>stairs</bdi> expectantly; <bdi>Stewart</bdi> has <bdi>Butterscotch</bdi> on his lap. My knees almost buckle under the wave of intense scrutiny and energy that roils off both of them.


    <bdi>Rune</bdi> seems like he hasn’t a <bdi>care</bdi> in the world as he <bdi>pours</bdi> bubbly into our <bdi>guests''</bdi> upheld <bdi>champagne</bdi> flutes. Good grief. He’<bdi>s</bdi> even more into <bdi>matching</bdi> things than my mother. His <bdi>olive</bdi> V-neck t-<bdi>shirt</bdi> is a few shades darker than the vintage chairs our <bdi>guests</bdi> are <bdi>seated</bdi> in, and almost the same <bdi>color</bdi> as my shoes. Everything''<bdi>s</bdi> ready for Architectural Digest photoshoot.


    <bdi>Mandy</bdi> and <bdi>Stewart</bdi> look like they do in their photos. They’re two dynamic, stylish middle-aged people at home in the world, and at home with their power.


    <bdi>Mandy</bdi> says, standing to embrace me in a one-<bdi>armed</bdi> <bdi>hug</bdi>, careful of her <bdi>champagne</bdi> <bdi>flute</bdi>. Thankfully, <bdi>Stewart</bdi> just <bdi>nods</bdi> with <bdi>Butterscotch</bdi> as his excuse. Even one-<bdi>armed</bdi> Mandy’<bdi>s</bdi> <bdi>hug</bdi> is strong. Her perfume is <bdi>bold</bdi> and spicy, and when she steps back again her keen dark eyes study me intently. I feel like I’ve been put under a microscope. Her black hair is cut in an asymmetrical bob, shaved over her <bdi>multi</bdi>-pierced ears.


    She’<bdi>s</bdi> not sure you’re good enough for <bdi>Rune</bdi>, <bdi>Theo</bdi> murmurs, she’ll <bdi>learn</bdi>.


    “We were beginning to think you were a figment of Ash’s imagination,” Stewart tells me, looking something like a wise owl behind his neat round horn-rim glasses.


    What does that mean? I <bdi>glance</bdi> at <bdi>Rune</bdi> quickly, but he’<bdi>s</bdi> <bdi>pointedly</bdi> not looking at me as he <bdi>pours</bdi> up both <bdi>glasses</bdi> of <bdi>champagne</bdi>.


    Compared to his wife’<bdi>s</bdi> dark hair and <bdi>bold</bdi>, tall curves, Stewart’<bdi>s</bdi> a <bdi>neat</bdi>, slender man who appears ageless. His light <bdi>brown</bdi> hair and mustache are cut in a way that makes him look like the 1930s are his <bdi>favorite</bdi> era. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was gay.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    He’<bdi>s</bdi> one of my bi-tribe; they both are, Theo advises in my head, be more open-minded.


    Duly noted, I think, chastened.


    These are <bdi>fancy</bdi> people (to use one of Rune’<bdi>s</bdi> word). Thank God they’re not too <bdi>fancy</bdi> right now in their glamping casual. If they’d shown up in designer glamour, I’m unsure how I would have handled it.


    I sit on the <bdi>couch</bdi>. <bdi>Rune</bdi> sits next to me, <bdi>handing</bdi> me my <bdi>champagne</bdi>, and then rubbing the <bdi>top</bdi> of my thigh affectionately before leaning back and putting his arm across the <bdi>couch</bdi> behind me in a <bdi>favorite</bdi> staking their claim guy move.


    Does he behave like this with the women he’<bdi>s</bdi> dating, or is this from <bdi>Asher</bdi> Dillion''<bdi>s</bdi> hot boyfriend repertoire? Since I’m not going to get an answer to this right now, I eye the <bdi>bottle</bdi> of <bdi>champagne</bdi> and then look <bdi>pointedly</bdi> at <bdi>Rune</bdi>. I recognize the brand, it’<bdi>s</bdi> quite <bdi>fancy</bdi>. Is this something he keeps on hand as part of his seduction toolkit? My parents serve it, but only <bdi>occasionally</bdi> because of the expense.


    “Vivienne sent it to us,” he tells me, “I’ve been saving it for a special occasion,” and then to everyone he says, “a toast to old friends.” We all clink glasses.


    Rune starts in on the sort of easy small talk you do when trying to connect your different tribes.


    “This is quite a spread your two families have here,” Mandy says, reaching for some of the hummus and carrots I’d set out on the coffee table, “it’s clear why you’re so fond of it, Ash.”


    “All you’re missing are the horses,” Stewart says as he leans forward to do the same.


    “We’ve got paper ones in spades,” Rune tells them, “But my 12-year-old cousin Lorelei is hard at work trying to convince her dad to allow real ones to show up again soon.”


    I cringe a little inwardly. I was really hoping, somehow, we were going to skip over the subject of Horse Girls.


    “Paper horses?” Mandy asks, with a wry smile, “Is that a spin on paper tigers?”


    “No, come take a look,” Rune says, taking my hand and pulling me off the couch, “Shelby’s a marvelous illustrator.”


    “R…Ash,” I protest, changing his name at the last second, as I set down my champagne flute.


    “You draw horses?” Mandy says, standing quickly, “We’d love to see them.” There’s a hint of challenge in her voice. Crap.


    “Tell them the story about how you came up with Horse Girls Seashell,” Rune says as he leads me over to the dining room table, not letting go of my hand, the brat.


    This is a brilliant opportunity, Theo encourages me, step up girlfriend.


    I swallow my stage fright and say, “I was taking care of my great uncle Theo here in hospice during Covid-19,” I’m glad of Rune’s hand now, “Being in horse country again inspired me. I started looking for real women and horses I could create coloring pages around, and once I found the first few, it snowballed into a collection.”


    “This one’s my favorite,” Rune says, picking up the illustration and story of Sybil and Star and handing them to Mandy. She studies the image carefully, and my stomach twists with dread and excitement.


    “You are quite talented,” she says in a kinder tone, but a little surprised, as if this isn’t at all what she expected. “Do you know Paul Revere?” She asks her husband as she reads. She’s Canadian, so the story won’t have the same impact on her.


    “Of course,” Stewart tells her from the other end of the table where he’s looking over my drawing of Sacagawea, “He’s one of our founding fathers. We all learn a poem about him in school,” and then he smiles a little ruefully, “well we did back in the day.”


    “So, this girl rode farther to warn the British than your famous founding father. Interesting,” Mandy says, handing the pages back to Rune and moving to look at another one. “I like that you’re telling stories of trailblazing women.”


    “We’ll be including more of their story with each image,” I tell her, “Ash is going to coach me on that part.” “I was hoping you’d been doing more in your travels than narrating books,” Mandy tells him with a sharp glance. Rune colors a little under her gaze.


    “I’m getting some ducks in line,” he says, “brewing some immersive multi-media storytelling ideas I’d like to try out with Horse Girls. Maybe short videos, things that would play well on YouTube.”


    Mandy nods, as if this was the right thing to say, and continues moving around the table.


    Nice save, Theo chuckles, even if he did just think of it.


    I’ll say, I think back.


    “I’m listening,” Mandy says, moving again to the next illustration. I motion my head and make it clear the stage is still his.


    “This is Annie Oakley,” Rune says, dropping my hand and reaching across the table from us, “an American Quaker who may be one of the most accurate sharpshooters who ever lived. The 1940s Broadway musical about her and movie isn’t nearly as interesting as her remarkable true story.”


    “Also, a household name here, or she was at one time,” Stewart tells Mandy, “I always like it when the true story is more interesting.”


    “Me too,” says Mandy, “Do you have a proposal you can send me? And are all the subjects Americans?”


    “No,” I say hurriedly, “they’re from all over the world, like the Amazons who were real,” both Mandy and Stewart look a little dubious at this, but I go on, “They were Scythian warriors from the Eurasian steppes.”


    “And she can draw more as we find more international stories,” Rune says smoothly, “we’re happy to send you a proposal.”


    “These are done all on a computer?” Stewart asks, looking over my illustration of Black Beauty.”


    “I start them all by hand but polish them on my computer,” I tell him, “so they reproduce well.”


    Mandy is now strolling very slowly around the rest of the table gazing down at the images, studying them, occasionally sipping her champagne.


    “So, these aren’t just girls and women passionate about horses,” she says, pausing to pick up the image of Epona, the Celtic horse goddess who was featured in the Roman pantheon, “These are heroes.”


    “Not Horse Girl Heroines?” Rune asks.


    Mandy tsks at him, with a slight scowl, “No. Hero was originally a female name in Greek, as in the story of ancient myth Hero and Leander,” she tells us, “I would call this Horse Girl Heroes if it were my project.”


    “I will now,” I agree.