Chapter 9: A Man Buying a Horse

"When?" I said.

I stood in the wet alfalfa with the receipt in my hand and my boots soaking through.

"Tonight," Eloy said. "I took it out of my pocket four times today."

"You had it in your shirt on Monday night," I said.

"I did."

"You had it in your shirt while you were saying mine," I said.

He looked up at me.

He didn't flinch or make an excuse, and that made it worse.

"Yes," he said.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because I couldn't stand to see you look at that door," he said.

I laughed, and it was not a nice sound.

"I looked at that door for ten weeks, Eloy," I said. "I'd have looked at it for ten more."

"I know," he said.

"Nestor decided what happened to my father's hangar without asking me. Then you decided. It's the same thing."

"It isn't the same thing," he said.

"It feels like the same thing," I said.

He took that.

He sat on the tailgate with his hands hanging between his knees and took it without a word.

"Like a man buying a horse," I said. "That's what it was."

"That's fair," he said.

"Don't tell me it's fair," I said.

"It's fair," he said quietly. "I'd have hated it, too. I should have said, let me, and waited."

"You should have," I said.

"I paid it for the hangar. Not for you," he said.

"I know that. It doesn't help," I said.

A breeze came over the field, and it smelled of rain.

Far to the east, over the Sandias, a gray wall of rain was coming down the mountain.

"I'm not going to say thank you," I said.

"I didn't ask for it," he said.

"I'm paying you back. Every dollar," I said.

"Del," he said.

"Every dollar, Eloy."

"Then pay it any way you want," he said. "In cash. In flights. Never. Your call. It's yours to say."

I looked at him sitting there, large and tired and honest.

I was still furious with him.

I also wanted to cross the grass and put my face against his neck.

"I'm not forgiving it yet," I said.

"I'm not asking you to."

"And I'm not leaving."

His eyes came up.

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