“Are you coming back to New York?”
“Eh . . . not right now—”
“Because I’d really like to speak to you. In person.”
I straighten. “You what?”
“You should come back to New York. I’ll come get you at the airport. I need to talk to you.”
“Uh . . . well. Okay. Okay, maybe I can do that. I mean, I will eventually, but I was sort of enjoying myself out here. I’ve got a job, even. Cool, huh?”
“A job? You, Griffin Alexander, all of a sudden have a job? What, are you settling down now? You need to get your ass back to New York, because I really need to talk to you about this.”
Hmm. This is interesting. If I’m not mistaken, it almost sounds like there’s a note of desperation in his voice. “I talked to Dad, you know.”
“You did?”
“Yes. He didn’t seem all that concerned. About anything, except golfing.”
“Listen, Griffin. There’s a meeting I’ve got to get to—I’m already late. Is this your phone number? I’m going to call you back.”
“No, it’s not. I lost my phone. I don’t have a phone. Which is actually kind of nice—”
“You need to be available so I can reach you. Can you get a phone?”
“I guess, but—”
“No, I’ll send you one. Tell me your address. Tell me where to send you a phone. Do you need anything else? I can send you whatever you need.”
“Um . . . just my yellow Speedo thong for the days I’m not wearing the mankini.”
There is a pause, and then he actually laughs, though it sounds forced. “Just give me your mailing address.”
I give him the address. “I’ll express mail it,” he says. “Be expecting a package. And my call. Goodbye.”
He hangs up. I stare at the phone for a while and wonder if that conversation actually just happened.
See, the thing about Cam is that he’s never acted like he’s given two shits about me. Ever. I was always the annoying little brother, the tagalong, and then I was the obnoxious wild child, where it seemed like my sole purpose for existing was to f**k up and make Cam look like the golden boy he is.
But I’ve always wanted him to like me. Pretty much everyone he comes in contact with does, and usually only the very successful men and very beautiful women are given the privilege of his company.
It’s just as likely he’s getting his assistant to go buy a phone to express mail to me, but I like to think he’s hurrying down to the Mac store, stuffing an iPhone into a padded envelope, and writing my name on it himself. Waiting in line at the post office or FedEx or wherever. There is, of course, a part of me that doesn’t think this package will ever show up, that doubts my brother will call, but a larger part of me hopes he will. And if he does, then . . . maybe I should have got myself kidnapped sooner.
I go for a swim, which, even after all I’ve been through, is still my second favorite way to let off some steam and clear my head. The water is cold but refreshing. I follow the footpath back to the ranch, but stop before I actually come all the way out into the clearing. Jill is walking into the main pasture where they keep most of the horses, and several of the horses are ambling over toward her. She pets them, and it looks like she’s talking to them though I can’t hear what she’s saying. She pulls something out of the back pocket of her jeans and then runs her hand down one of the horse’s legs. The horse lifts its foot to her and she bends, using the pick she’s pulled from her pocket to dig something from the horse’s hoof. When she’s done, she gives the horse a hearty pat on the neck, and the horse bumps its nose against her shoulder, as if to say thanks.
She looks different, around the horses, even from this distance I can tell. More at ease, more like who I think she might’ve looked like when she was younger, when you’re still carefree and don’t have to deal with all the stresses of life.
I stand there for a few more minutes. She looks at peace. It doesn’t matter if anyone’s ever told her about yoga breathing before—in this moment, she’s totally content. I’ve seen a lot of girls in my time, but watching her out there in the pasture, I think she looks like no girl I have ever seen before.
Chapter 10: Jill
Brunch with Uncle Nate is grueling. Mom is thrilled to be out, though, and so for that, I am thankful, even though I know an excursion like this is going to leave her drained and exhausted for the next few days.
I always thought my uncle was a more severe version of my father, and since Dad died, it’s become even more so. The lines on his face have gotten deeper, his shoulders have gotten rounder—though whether that’s from stress or working out, I couldn’t tell you—even his voice seems louder. He yanks at the collar of his black polo shirt, as though it’s choking him, even though he’s only got one of the buttons fastened.
For the first half of the meal, we manage to stay on relatively neutral topics. School. Mom’s health. My summer job.
“How is it going with that young man?” Mom asks.
“Young man?” Uncle Nate says. He blots at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “Is there a special man in your life?”
I laugh. “Uh, no.”
“A young man showed up at camp and he and Jilly weren’t seeing eye to eye on everything,” Mom says.
“Can’t get along with everyone,” Uncle Nate says sagely. “That is an unfortunate fact of life. Even your father, bless his soul, couldn’t get along with everyone.” He takes a sip of his water, ice clinking around the glass. “Hard to believe it’s almost been a year.”
Cue conspiracy talk in five, four, three, two, one—
“It’d be easier to accept and move on if someone was paying for the crime. If it was acknowledged in a court of law that—”
“Nathan. It was an accident.” Mom reaches one pale hand out and touches Uncle Nate’s thick wrist. “I was there.”
“But we can’t expect you to remember everything clearly, especially considering all that you’ve been through. You experienced severe trauma, Annabel. You’re still experiencing it. Life as you knew it has been completely upended. Your husband was killed. You’re in a wheelchair, for god’s sake! You don’t want the person responsible to pay for this?”
“It was an accident,” Mom says softly.
“No, no it wasn’t. I might not have the hard evidence to take to the cops, but this all goes back to the when Mike worked for CFG. He didn’t give me all the details, but he was onto something. Something with one of those food companies, the baby formula they manufactured. Labeling it as one thing but dumping all these harmful ingredients into it. He didn’t get the chance to give me the specifics, but he was planning to report it to the proper channels.” Uncle Nate sits back and looks at us, as if rehashing his theory for the nine millionth time might jar something loose from our memories.