Yeah, my life…
The weight of my parents’ door looms ahead of me, down the hall.
Snowed in, he said. For months at a time.
“No cable. No noise. No WiFi sometimes,” he says. “Just the sounds of the wind and the falls and the thunder.
My heart aches a little, and I don’t know if it’s his words or his voice. Just the sounds of the wind and the falls and the thunder.
Sounds amazing, actually. All of it sounds kind of nice. No one can get to you.
“My boys are used to the seclusion,” he tells me. “But you…”
I pick up the thread again and twist it around my finger. But me…?
“I came out here when I wasn’t much older than you,” he muses, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “I had soft hands and a head full of shit I didn’t know what to do with. I was barely alive.”
Needles prick my throat, and I close my eyes.
“There’s something to be said for sweat and sun.” He sighs. “Hard work, solace, and keeping busy. We’ve built everything we have here. It’s a good life.”
Maybe that’s what I need. To run away like he did at my age. Dive into anything different, because the only thing I feel anymore is tired.
“Have you had a good life?” he nearly whispers.
I keep my eyes closed, but I feel like I have a truck sitting on my lungs. I’ve had a great life. I have a closet full of all the designer clothes and bags everyone expects a famous star’s daughter to own. I’ve been to two dozen countries, and I can buy anything I want. My home is huge. My fridge is stocked. How many people would happily trade places with me? How lucky am I?
“Do you want to come here, Tiernan?” he asks again.
Tiernan
I pull off my wireless headphones and let them rest around my neck as I take a look around the room. Their baggage claim area only has two carousels. It’s like a bathroom at LAX.
Is he here? I spin around, trying to recognize someone I’ve never met, but he’ll probably know me before I know him anyway. Our family’s pictures are hard to avoid online right now.
Following the crowd, I head to the second conveyor belt and wait for the luggage to be dropped. I probably brought way too much, especially since there’s a good chance I won’t stay long, but honestly, I wasn’t thinking. He emailed a ticket—told me I could use it or not—and I just grabbed my suitcases and started loading. I was too relieved to have something to do.
I check my phone to make sure I didn’t miss a call from him saying where to meet, and I see a text from Mirai, instead.
Just giving you a heads up… The coroner will confirm the cause of death by the end of the week. It will make the news. If you need to talk, I’m here. Always.
I inhale a deep breath, but I forget to let it go as I slip my phone in my back pocket. Cause of death. We know how they died. All the religious nutcases on Twitter are presently condemning my parents as sinners for taking their own lives, and I couldn’t look at it. While I could say whatever I wanted about my problems with Hannes and Amelia de Haas, I didn’t want to hear bullshit from strangers who didn’t know them.
I should turn off my phone. I should...
I pinch my eyebrows together. I should go home.
I don’t know this guy, and I don’t like the people I do know.
But last night, nothing sounded better than getting out of there.
The carousel starts to spin, snapping me out of my head, and I watch as the bags start appearing. One of my black suitcases moves toward me, and I reach down to grab it, but another hand suddenly appears, lifting it for me, instead. I shoot up, coming face to face with a man.
Well, not face to face exactly. He stares down at me, and I open my mouth to speak, but I can’t remember…anything. His eyes are almost frozen, and he doesn’t blink as we stand there, locked.
Is this him?
I know my father’s step-brother is of Dutch descent, same as my dad, and this guy’s certainly got the whole six-foot-two, athletic look with short-cropped, dark blond hair and blue eyes whose slight amusement betrays his stern set jaw and intimidating presence.
“You’re Jake?” I ask.
“Hi.”
Hi? His gaze doesn’t leave me, and for a moment I can’t pull away, either. I knew he and my father weren’t blood, but for some reason, I thought they’d look similar. I don’t know why.
My expectation was completely off, though, and it didn’t occur to me that there was an age difference between them. Jake has to be at least ten years younger than Hannes. Late thirties, maybe early forties?
Perhaps that had something to do with them not getting along. In two totally differently places, so not much in common growing up?
We stand there for a moment, and I feel like this is the point where most people would hug or something, but I take a step back—and away from him—just in case.
He doesn’t come in for an embrace, though. Instead, his eyes flash to the side, and he gestures. “This one, too?”
His voice is deep but soft, like he’s a little bit scared of me but not scared of anything else. My heart speeds up.
What did he ask me?
Oh, the luggage.
I look over my shoulder, seeing my other black case trailing this way.
I nod once, waiting for it to come down the line to us.
“How did you know it was me?” I asked him, remembering how he just grabbed my suitcase without a word to confirm my identity.
But he laughs to himself.
I close my eyes for a moment, remembering he’s probably seen pictures of me somewhere, so it wasn’t hard to figure out. “Right,” I murmur.
“Excuse me,” he says, reaching past me to grab the second case. I stumble back a step, his body brushing into mine.
He pulls it off the belt and adds, “And you’re the only one here with Louis Vuitton luggage, so...”
I shoot him a look, noticing the jeans with dirt-stained knees and the seven-dollar gray T-shirt he wears. “You know Louis?” I ask.
“More than I care to,” he replies and then fixes me with a look. “I grew up in that life, too, remember?”
That life. He says it as if labels and luxury negate any substance. People may live different realities, but the truth is always the same.
I clear my throat, reaching out for one of the cases. “I can take something.”
“It’s okay.” He shakes his head. “We’re good.”
I carry my pack on my back and hold the handle of my carry-on, while he grips my two rolling suitcases.
I’m ready to move, but he’s looking down at me, something timid but also amazed in his eyes.
“What?” I ask.
“No, sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “You just look like your mother.”
I drop my eyes. It’s not the first time I’ve heard that, and it’s a compliment, to be sure. My mother was beautiful. Charismatic, statuesque…
It just never makes me feel good, though. As if everyone sees her first.
Gray eyes, blonde hair, although mine is the natural sandy shade while hers was colored to look more golden.
My darker eyebrows are my own, though. A small source of pride. I like how they make my eyes pop.
He inhales a deep breath. “Any more?” he asks, and I assume he’s talking about my luggage.
I shake my head.
“Okay, let’s hit the road.”
He leads the way toward the exit, and I follow closely behind, as we maneuver our way through the sparse crowd and outside.
As soon as we step into the sun, I inhale the thick late-August air, smelling the blacktop and the trees lining the parking lot beyond. The breeze tickles the hair on my arms, and even though the sky is cloudless and everything is green, I feel tempted to unwrap the jacket tied around my waist and put it on. We cross the walkway, barely needing to look for cars, because traffic is worse in line for the valet at my parents’ country club on a Sunday afternoon. I lik
e it. No horns or woofers shaking the pavement.
He stops behind a black truck, but instead of popping down the tailgate, he just hauls my suitcase over the side and into the bed. Reaching back, he takes my other case and does the same.
I pick up my carry-on to help, but he quickly grabs that one, too, the tight cords in his arm flexing and shining in the sun.
“I should’ve traveled lighter,” I think out loud.
He turns. “It’s not just a visit.”
Yeah, maybe. I’m still not sure, but I thought it was best to bring enough for the long haul if I decided to stay.
We climb into the truck, and I put my seatbelt on as he starts the engine. On reflex, I reach for my headphones around my neck. But I stop. It would be rude to tune him out, having just met him. My parents never took issue, but they asked me not to wear them around others.
I release the headphones and stare at the radio instead. Please let music be playing.
And as soon as the truck rumbles to life, the radio lights up, playing “Kryptonite” loudly, and for a second, I’m relieved. Small talk hurts.
He pulls out of the parking lot, and I clasp my hands on my lap, turning my head out the window.
“So, I checked into it,” he says over the radio. “We have an online high school that can take care of you.”
I turn my eyes on him.
He explains, “We have a lot of kids here who are needed on the ranches and such, so it’s pretty common to homeschool or complete classes online.”
Oh.
I relax a little. For a moment, I thought he expected me to attend school. I had prepared myself for living in a new place, but not getting accustomed to new teachers and classmates. I barely knew the ones I’d been with for the past three years.
Either way, he needn’t have bothered. I took care of it.
“I can stay at Brynmor,” I tell him, turning my eyes back out the window. “My school in Connecticut was happy to work with my…absence. My teachers have already emailed my syllabi, and I’ll be able to complete everything online.”
The highway starts to give way to the sporadic homes along the side of the road, some 80’s-style ranches with rusty chain-link fences, bungalows, and even a Craftsman, all hugged by the dark needles of the tall evergreens around their yards.
“Good,” Jake says. “That’s good. Let them know, though, that you can be offline for spells as the WiFi at my place is spotty and completely goes out during storms. They might want to send your assignments in bulk, so you don’t get behind during that downtime.”
I look over at him, seeing him glance away from the road to meet my eyes. I nod.
“But who knows…” he muses. “You might just be running for the hills after a week up at the cabin.”
Because…?
He cocks his head, joking, “No malls or caramel macchiatos close by.”
I turn my eyes back out my window, mumbling. “I don’t drink caramel macchiatos.”
It’s reasonable for him to anticipate that maybe I won’t feel comfortable with them or that I’ll miss my “life” back home, but suggesting I’m a prima donna who can’t live without a Starbucks is kind of dicky. I guess we can thank TV for the rest of the world thinking California girls are all valley twits in tube tops, but with droughts, wildfires, earthquakes, mudslides, and one-fifth of the nation’s serial killings happening on our turf, we’re tough, too.
We drive for a while, and thankfully, he doesn’t talk more. The town appears ahead, and I can make out carved wooden statues and a main street of square buildings all attached to each other on both sides. People loiter on the sidewalks, talking to each other, while potted flowers hang from the light posts, giving the place a quaint, cared-for vibe. Teenagers sit on their tailgates where they’re parked on the curb, and I take in the businesses—everything mom and pop and nothing chain.
I look up, seeing the large hanging banner right before we drive under it.
Chapel Peak Smokin’ Summerfest!
August 26-29
Chapel Peak…
“This isn’t Telluride,” I say, turning my eyes on him.
“I said it was outside of Telluride,” he corrects. “Wayyyy outside of Telluride.”
Even better, actually. Telluride was a famous ski destination—lots of shops and high-end fare. This will be different. I want different.
I watch the shops pass by. Grind House Café. Porter’s Post Office. The Cheery Cherry Ice Cream Shop. The…
I turn my head to take in the cute red and white pin-striped awning as we pass a small shop and almost smile. “A candy store…”
I used to love candy stores. I haven’t been inside one in years.
Rebel’s Pebbles, I read the sign. It sounds so wild west.
“Do you have your license?” he asks.
I turn my head back facing front and nod.
“Good.” He pauses, and I can feel him looking over at me. “Feel free to use any of the vehicles, just make sure I know where you’re going, okay?”
Any of the vehicles. Does he mean his and his sons’? Where are they, by the way?
Not that I expected them to be at the airport, too, but it kind of makes me nervous that they might not be excited about me coming if they weren’t there to greet me. Something else I’d failed to consider. They had a comfy, testosterone-infused man-cave, and here comes the girl they think they’ll have to guard their dirty jokes around now.
Of course, it’s Thursday. Maybe they’re just at work.
Which reminds me…
“What do you do?” I ask him.
He glances over at me. “My sons and I customize dirt bikes,” he tells me. “ATVs, dune buggies…”
“You have a shop here?”
“Huh?”
I clear my throat. “You have a… a shop here?” I say again, louder.
“No. We take orders, build them from our garage at home, and then ship off the finished product,” he explains, and I can’t help but take another look over at him. He fills up the driver’s seat, the sun-kissed muscles in his forearm tight as he holds the wheel.
So different from my father, who hated being outside and never went without a long-sleeved shirt, unless he was going to bed.
Jake meets my eyes. “We’ll be getting a lot of orders in soon,” he says. “It keeps us pretty busy throughout the winter, and then we send them off in the spring, just in time for the season to start.”
So they worked from home. The three of them.
They’ll be around all the time.
I absently rub my palms together as I stare ahead, hearing my pulse quicken in my ears.
Even at Brynmor my parents had arranged for me to have a single room with no roommate. I prefer being alone.
I wasn’t a hermit. I could talk to my teachers and have discussions, and I love seeing the world and doing things, but I need space to breathe. A quiet place of my own to decompress, and men are noisy. Especially young ones. We’ll all be on top of each other all the time if they work from home.
I close my eyes for a moment, suddenly regretting doing this. Why did I do this?
My classmates hated me, because they took my silence for snobbishness.
But it’s not that. I just need time. That’s all.
Unfortunately, not many are patient enough to give me a chance. These guys are going to see me as rude, just like the girls at school do. Why would I purposely put myself in a situation to be forced to get to know new people?
I clench my jaw and swallow, seeing him out of the corner of my eye. He’s staring at me. How long has he been watching me?
I instantly force my face to relax and my breathing to slow, but before I can bury my face in my phone to cover up my near panic attack, he’s swerving the truck to the left and coming full circle, heading back in the direction we just came.
Great. He’s taking me back to the airport. I freaked him out already.
But as he speeds back down the main street, and I grip th
e seatbelt strap across my chest to steady myself, I watch as he passes back through two lights and jerks the wheel to the left, sliding into a parking spot on the side of the street.
My body lurches forward as he stops short, and before I have a chance to consider what’s going on, he kills the engine and hops out of the truck.
Huh…
“Come on,” he tells me, casting me a look before he slams the door closed.
I look out the front windshield and see Rebel’s Pebbles etched in gold on the black Victorian-style sign.
He brought us back to the candy shop.
Keeping my small travel purse hooked across my chest, I climb out of the truck and follow him up onto the sidewalk. He opens the door, the tinkle of a little bell ringing, and ushers me inside before he follows me.
The heady scent of chocolate and caramel hits me, and I immediately start salivating. I haven’t eaten since the handful of blueberries I forced down this morning before my flight.
“Yo, Spencer!” Jake shouts.
I hear the clutter of a pan from somewhere in the back, and something—like an oven door—falls closed.
“Jake Van der Bong!” a man strolls out from behind a glass wall, wiping his hands as he heads toward us. “How the hell are you?”
Van Der Bong? I dart my eyes up to Jake.
He grins down at me. “Ignore him,” he says. “I never smoked. I mean, I don’t smoke anymore. That’s old shit.” He smiles at the other guy. “The old me. The evil me.”
They both laugh and shake hands, and I gaze at the man who just came out. Looks about the same age as Jake, although a few inches shorter, and dressed in a red and blue flannel shirt with unkept brown hair.
“Spence, this is my niece, Tiernan,” Jake tells him.
Mr. Spencer turns his eyes on me, finishes wiping off his hand, and holds it out to me. “Niece, huh?” His gaze is curious. “Tiernan. That’s a pretty name. How are you?”
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