even if it was in my yard yesterday.
“Is that thing yours?”
I want to close my eyes and block out the voice— Ben’s voice—but I know it won’t make him disappear. So I look up at him. He’s taken his helmet off, so his blond hair is all mussed up, and he’s got one eyebrow raised as he regards the pony. His blue eyes are positively sparkling, like he’s got about a hundred jokes he’d like to tell. One side of his jersey and riding pants are smeared with mud, thanks to the other rider knocking him over.
“Um . . . no?”
“Is that a question?”
“No?”
“It sounds like one.”
“Well, it’s not mine, per se, it just hangs out in my yard sometimes. Once. Just once.”
“Do pink ponies hang out in your yard often?”
“No.”
He smirks. My cheeks heat up. Ben looks really pleased to be witnessing this utter humiliation of mine. Usually, I’m the one dishing it up. “Do you think maybe the Smurfs might want it back?”
I raise a brow and put a hand on my hip. “Seriously? That’s the best you’ve got? I’m standing here with a hot-pink pony, and that’s really the best you can do?”
Ben laughs, and the tension seems to unwind itself from my spine, and I find myself grinning right at him.
“Really, Ben, I’m disappointed.”
“What can I say? Laffy Taffy has failed me with their utter lack of pink-pony jokes.”
Someone at the other end of the track fires up their bike, and I realize we’re standing in the middle of everything, and no one is moving.
“Oh, uh, I guess that’s my cue to get out of here. I mean, I have homework and everything, and it’s a long walk home, so . . . ”
“You walked here?”
Er. Probably shouldn’t have mentioned that part. Now I look really crazy.
“Yeah. It’s only, what, two-and-a-half miles? Less than forty-five minutes. And the weather is nice.” And maybe somewhere along the way I can ditch the pony.
“No way. I’ll give you a ride.”
My stomach plummets as my heart soars. I shouldn’t want this so bad or dread this so much.
We make it out to his big Ford pickup, and he pulls out a tiny little ramp. It must be about eight inches wide, barely wider than his tires. He jumps on the bike and rides it up the ramp as if he does it every day. Which, come to think of it, he just might.
I stand there while he’s tying down the bike, the pony standing next to me and watching him. I half expect it to bust out with a few sentences, like Mr. Ed.
“I’m thinking I can back my truck up over there,” Ben says, pointing to a big mound of topsoil. “And maybe we can persuade the pony to climb in.”
“But it’s not really my pony. We could just leave it here.”
Ben gives me a yeah, right kind of look. “It probably lives somewhere around your house, and it followed you here. The least you can do is bring it back.” Enumclaw, as a whole, is a pretty rural area, so this is actually quite possible. I wonder which one of my psycho neighbors let loose their dyed pony.
I sigh and rub my hand over my eyes. I’m not sure when I opened my backyard up as a hostel for runaway ponies, but whatever. “Fine.”
If the pony would just gallop off right now, all would be right in the world. But it doesn’t. It waits patiently while Ben backs his truck up to a mound of dirt, and then, damn it all, the stupid thing climbs right in like it’s spent its whole life riding around in jacked-up pickup trucks.
Ben closes the tailgate, and then, to my surprise, he rounds the passenger door and opens it for me. “Your carriage awaits,” he says, a little smile on his perfectly full lips.
Somehow I doubt Cinderella’s carriage included a motocross bike and a fluorescent pony.
I walk to the door and pass less than an inch away from him. I want to lean in, to rest my face against his jersey and just breathe him in.
I wonder how he would react if I did that.
I have to grab the handle on the inside of the door and use the running board in order to
“Is that thing yours?”
I want to close my eyes and block out the voice— Ben’s voice—but I know it won’t make him disappear. So I look up at him. He’s taken his helmet off, so his blond hair is all mussed up, and he’s got one eyebrow raised as he regards the pony. His blue eyes are positively sparkling, like he’s got about a hundred jokes he’d like to tell. One side of his jersey and riding pants are smeared with mud, thanks to the other rider knocking him over.
“Um . . . no?”
“Is that a question?”
“No?”
“It sounds like one.”
“Well, it’s not mine, per se, it just hangs out in my yard sometimes. Once. Just once.”
“Do pink ponies hang out in your yard often?”
“No.”
He smirks. My cheeks heat up. Ben looks really pleased to be witnessing this utter humiliation of mine. Usually, I’m the one dishing it up. “Do you think maybe the Smurfs might want it back?”
I raise a brow and put a hand on my hip. “Seriously? That’s the best you’ve got? I’m standing here with a hot-pink pony, and that’s really the best you can do?”
Ben laughs, and the tension seems to unwind itself from my spine, and I find myself grinning right at him.
“Really, Ben, I’m disappointed.”
“What can I say? Laffy Taffy has failed me with their utter lack of pink-pony jokes.”
Someone at the other end of the track fires up their bike, and I realize we’re standing in the middle of everything, and no one is moving.
“Oh, uh, I guess that’s my cue to get out of here. I mean, I have homework and everything, and it’s a long walk home, so . . . ”
“You walked here?”
Er. Probably shouldn’t have mentioned that part. Now I look really crazy.
“Yeah. It’s only, what, two-and-a-half miles? Less than forty-five minutes. And the weather is nice.” And maybe somewhere along the way I can ditch the pony.
“No way. I’ll give you a ride.”
My stomach plummets as my heart soars. I shouldn’t want this so bad or dread this so much.
We make it out to his big Ford pickup, and he pulls out a tiny little ramp. It must be about eight inches wide, barely wider than his tires. He jumps on the bike and rides it up the ramp as if he does it every day. Which, come to think of it, he just might.
I stand there while he’s tying down the bike, the pony standing next to me and watching him. I half expect it to bust out with a few sentences, like Mr. Ed.
“I’m thinking I can back my truck up over there,” Ben says, pointing to a big mound of topsoil. “And maybe we can persuade the pony to climb in.”
“But it’s not really my pony. We could just leave it here.”
Ben gives me a yeah, right kind of look. “It probably lives somewhere around your house, and it followed you here. The least you can do is bring it back.” Enumclaw, as a whole, is a pretty rural area, so this is actually quite possible. I wonder which one of my psycho neighbors let loose their dyed pony.
I sigh and rub my hand over my eyes. I’m not sure when I opened my backyard up as a hostel for runaway ponies, but whatever. “Fine.”
If the pony would just gallop off right now, all would be right in the world. But it doesn’t. It waits patiently while Ben backs his truck up to a mound of dirt, and then, damn it all, the stupid thing climbs right in like it’s spent its whole life riding around in jacked-up pickup trucks.
Ben closes the tailgate, and then, to my surprise, he rounds the passenger door and opens it for me. “Your carriage awaits,” he says, a little smile on his perfectly full lips.
Somehow I doubt Cinderella’s carriage included a motocross bike and a fluorescent pony.
I walk to the door and pass less than an inch away from him. I want to lean in, to rest my face against his jersey and just breathe him in.
I wonder how he would react if I did that.
I have to grab the handle on the inside of the door and use the running board in order to
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