"I am not ready to raise a kid."
"No one's signing you up for a Father of the Year award."
The universe is made of stories. And Maeve Fluer-Reyes had her own.
With pictured misfits in her life, the twelve-year-old was up for anything as long as she...
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SEBASTIAN REYES
Apparently, driving all the way from Brooklyn to Manhasset, at five in the morning, despite a splitting headache— all made me ignorantly stupid.
Swinging up on my horse to settle into the saddle, I let out a sigh of uncertainty. There was so much closure that lay before life and I had begun to doubt my leisure as the idea of being surrounded by horses was soothing in itself.
Times when I wasn't worried about what agents were digging into my extracurricular activities or what stocks had lost value. Maybe I liked that break from those muscular beings or the sole relief from sitting in an office with people I didn't really like.
The dominating clouds crowned the sky while the still moisture kept coating the muted ground. A small arena in the suburbs of Manhasset meant it was far from corrupted. This equestrian plane belonged to Harvey Jones, the golden jubilee man, who had managed to be on my radar ever since he had offered me a key in exchange for a few of my horses. Jones, at first, appeared unassuming, with a hearing aid tucked discreetly behind his ear and a salt-and-pepper beard to frame his weathered face, he exuded a quiet charisma that drew people to him like moths to a flame.
Taking a fistful of reins, I spurred Awn, my horse, forward to let him free as we moved along the dry grass. A small smile appeared on my face. I was no longer a man who was feared. I was no longer an adult who was struggling. I was simply a person who rode. And I fancied it.
Countless hoofprints— long laps, all were in a flow as I gently pressed my leg into his side, swaying with his strides, riding faster than before, and then momentarily reining in to stay steady the entire time.
I fancied the sight. The sight of the rider- who you never knew was dancing in the wind or carrying the weight of the breeze. I fancied the rider.
Voluntarily switching leads, Awn advanced forward to spiral in and out, obeying my unspoken commands of leg yielding. I had no idea how long we were riding as this stallion seemed gladly occupied in my company. The sight itself was spontaneous and once in a while, it even made me laugh.
Ultimately, we came to a halt and I let the reins loose, cueing him to ease his muscles down. He caved in and I began stroking his neck, marveling at the temporary relief from reality.
The reality that was inherently tied to my identity.
The legacy of my family, and the expectations that came with it, were both appalling and humbling. Nights surrendered to the books, poured over numbers, and decoding the intricate web of our operations had become second nature to me. The years I lost training in the shadows were a testament to my unwavering commitment. Blood, sweat— I took pride in pushing myself beyond my limits, knowing that to take the reins as the don, I needed to be more than just a figurehead. I had to be a force to be reckoned with, capable of defending the American empire and its interests.
