Mom reaches across the table and takes his hand. She’s barely touched her lunch. “Accepting what happened doesn’t mean we don’t miss him any less,” she says. “But if you can find it in yourself to try to move on too, I think you’ll be less stressed out about everything. Mike wouldn’t want you to be like this, Nathan. You know he wouldn’t.”
I don’t say anything. I wonder, suddenly, if it’s silly to think that anything could come of me actually meeting Griffin’s father, if there really is any evidence to uncover. He annoyed the shit out of me every time he brought it up, but now that Uncle Nate is sitting here, maybe admitting defeat, I want to tell him that I might have discovered something that could lead to something else. Except . . . that would mean bringing Griffin into it, and for some reason, there is a little tiny voice that is telling me not to. That it would be a very, very, bad idea.
The feeling stays with me after I say goodbye and am driving back to the ranch. After my parents’ accident, I remember lying in bed awake at nights and trying to think if there’d been some feeling, some voice telling me not go with them that day. I couldn’t recall anything, which made me feel relieved, if nothing else, because if there had been a premonition, why wouldn’t I have tried harder to make them stay home, too?
But your mind will go in all sorts of directions trying to untangle the knotted mess of tragedy, and mine certainly did. Like, what if they had left five minutes later? Or earlier? Would it still have happened? What if I had gone with them, and looked at that horse? Maybe we would’ve stayed longer. Or: My parents loved each other and had such an awesome relationship. Did Mom wish she had died, too? They did everything together; did she wish they had also met their end together? And then of course, the ever-pervasive, all-consuming, relentless one word question: WHY?
I thought there really wasn’t an answer for that. But maybe there is.
Chapter 23: Griffin
I’m finally starting to feel better the day that Cam is supposed to arrive. The fever has lifted, only traces of that bone-deep exhaustion remain. I can’t remember the last time I saw Cam, and I think it’s unfortunate I won’t be in top form, but who knows, maybe things will actually go better that way.
Jill and Karen take some of the campers out on a trail ride, which I skip out on since my head still feels a little funny. I get a bottle of water and walk down toward the entrance to the ranch. I sit down in the shade of one of the trees, my back against the trunk. It’s one of those days where every time the wind blows, warm, fragrant air wafts over you and you can’t help but feel better. I think it’s a good omen, I think it means that this visit with Cam will go well.
I lean my head back against the tree and let my eyes close. I’m just starting to feel that heady feeling when you’re about to doze off when I hear the sound of a car approach. I open my eyes and see a sleek black BMW slowly coming down the driveway. I stand, a smile stretching across my face. The car stops and I go over to the window.
“Cam—” I start to say, but stop. It isn’t Cameron. They’ve got similar coloring—the blond hair, tan skin, light blue eyes—and they’re both what you might refer to as lady killers, but it is definitely not Cam.
“Oh,” I say. “Sorry, thought you were someone else.”
The guy peers up at me. He’s wearing a San Francisco Giants hat, slightly askew on his head.
“Hey, guy,” he says. “Not sure if I’m in the right place or not. Is this uh . . . is this Sea Horse Ranch?”
I glance up the driveway, to the large wooden sign he just drove past with the words SEA HORSE RANCH carved out by hand.
“Yeah, bro,” I tell him. “You’ve got the right place.”
“You work here?”
“Yeah. Official camp greeter.”
“Cool if I drive down there? I’m looking for someone.”
“Sure.”
He shifts, and when he moves, I see that next to him on the passenger side seat is a white orchid.
“Nice orchid,” I say.
“Thanks. It’s for one of the girls who works here. You probably know her. Jill Freyss-Charon.”
I smile. “I do know her. Biblically, in fact.”
He gives me a confused look. “Huh? Jill doesn’t go to church.”
I stifle my laugh and take a step back from the car. “She’s on a trail ride right now, but feel free to hang around. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to see you.”
He throws me a look that says he can’t tell if I’m being sarcastic or not. He starts to drive off but then stops abruptly, the tires skidding on the sandy gravel.
“Hold the f**k on!” he says, and then the car door’s opening and he’s out, right in front of me. “I know what that ‘biblically’ shit means, dude. You’re f**king Jill? Who the f**k do you think you are? We only broke up because of that shit with her parents. She needed space, so I gave it to her, because I’m that kind of guy.”
“Is that so,” I say.
His eyes narrow. “I don’t know what she told you about the other night, but I didn’t mean for it to go down that way.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I only cross my arms and give him my best disappointed-in-you-look à la Carl Alexander.
“It was pretty bad,” I say. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“What did she tell you?” He yanks his hat off and runs his hand through his short blond curls. “You do realize you’re only getting one side of the story, right? Did you even think about hearing my side?”
“Well, considering we just met for the first time three minutes ago, no, it never really crossed my mind.”
“Let me tell you my side, then. Jill and I have history, right? I knew the first time I saw her she was the one for me. I could see our whole future together. Really, I could. And we had good times, together, man, and then the shit with her parents happened and she said she needed space. Which I totally get, right? And I wanted to give that to her, because I care about her. But then somewhere along the line she decides that it’s going to be this permanent thing. She just makes the choice, without even talking to me about it first. Can you believe that shit?”
I think of all the girls that I’ve been with, all the beds I’ve slipped silently out of before sunrise, all the conversations we could’ve had but didn’t. “Yeah, actually, I can.”