“Gatsby!” I run toward him, unsure of what to do.
I try to comfort him, but he pushes me away. He’s too focused on the anger and hatred that he feels for his brother, the one whose name I still don’t know.
“You don’t ever call her that!” He says quietly, somewhat under his breath. His voice is calm now, and I see his brother’s eyes narrow.
“Annabelle is different,” he explains. “But that’s none of your business, anyway. You don’t ever call her that again. If you do, we’re through. For good. Do you understand, Wyatt?”
Something in Wyatt’s expression changes. Remorse creeps onto his face. Reluctantly, he nods.
“Listen.” Atticus steps in between them and tries to make peace. “I need to talk to you Gatsby. Okay?”
“Don’t worry, your millions are safe,” Gatsby says.
“That’s not what we’re worried about,” Wyatt pipes in, even though Atticus tries to stop him. “We’re worried about our billions--”
“Wyatt, please,” Atticus interrupts. “Gatsby, please? We need to speak. Somewhere in private.”
Gatsby nods and points to the other side of the suite.
“Can you please put some clothes on first?” Atticus asks. Gatsby laughs mockingly, but on the way to the study grabs a bathrobe out of the closet.
They disappear behind a thick double door, and I am left all alone with Wyatt. I search the room for the front desk attendant, but he is gone. Now, it’s just the two of us. I don’t know what to say. Anger is bubbling within me, but I also have the urge to offer him something to eat or drink.
“Look, I’m sorry I said that about you. I’m sorry I called you that. I didn’t mean to insult you…” Wyatt says with his body turned away from me.
He’s looking out the window onto the grass prairie outside. It’s still pitch black. I yearn for the buffalo to return.
“Yet, you did.” I am not quick to forgive. His words weren’t meant for me. I know that. But I don’t care.
“I know, but I’m apologizing now. Okay? I was really trying to insult Gatsby.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know.” he turns around to face me.
His blonde hair falls into his face, and his body exudes cockiness. It looks familiar. It reminds me of Gatsby, and I wonder if cockiness is hereditary. Or is it something you get from your environment? There’s no way to know because they are brothers, same genetics, same environment.
“Gatsby has always been a hothead,” Wyatt says, walking away from me. That hasn’t been my experience.
“And you?”
He laughs. “Me too. He just brings out the worst in me.”
Wyatt goes to the liquor cabinet, which I hadn’t even noticed before. He pours himself a whiskey and asks me what I want. I request a martini. When he hands me the drink, he apologizes again for what he had said, and this time, I accept his apology.
We stand in silence looking at the dark meadow outside. I take a few sips of my martini, and I feel myself relaxing as it courses through me.
I should’ve had a drink before getting here!
Transferring his glass from one hand to another, Wyatt takes off his jacket. He’s not wearing a tie, just a crisp, white shirt. He unbuttons the top button and adjusts his stance. I look down and see his beautiful Italian leather loafers. He’s wearing them without socks.
“I’ve always wondered what kind of girl would finally keep my brother’s interest,” he says, not so much to me but out into the ether.
“And?”
“From what I can see, you’re a good option.” He turns to me. His eyes are also piercing blue. His eyelashes are longer than Gatsby’s, which make his face look more delicate and fragile.
“How do you know that I’m keeping his interest? Or will keep his interest?” I ask.
Gatsby gives me butterflies, but given our working relationship, I’m not entirely decided whether this whole thing is such a great idea. Still it’s good to know that you’re keeping someone’s interest.
Wyatt turns to me with a perplexed look in his eye. “What are you talking about? He brought you here, didn’t he?”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. So he explains.
“This place used to be our summer home. It’s something of an ancestral home. It was first built by our great-grandfather, and for many years, it was the only private residence in Yellowstone. Our great-grandfather was a good friend of Teddy Roosevelt, and he refused to sell this place when Teddy wanted to make Yellowstone a national park. So they came to an agreement. The land belongs to the Park, and the house remains in the family. It was called Wild Yellowstone back then.”
“So what happened?”
“My father decided to sell it to the Park a few years ago, so it was converted to a lodge for the public. I’m not exactly sure why, and Gatsby has never forgiven him for it either.”
I had no idea. I thought this was just some sort of five-star hotel. Exclusive and private, but not ancestral.
“Gatsby has always loved this place. We all did, but him especially. And he has never invited any girl here before. Not even his high school girl friend who he had dated for close to a year. That’s how I know you’re different.”
I shake my head. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I don’t know why Wyatt is sharing all of this with me, but I don’t stop him. I want to know more about Gatsby. As much as I can.
“We grew up in LA, so we didn’t technically grow up here, but this place has always felt like home. It was the closest thing we had to a home. This was our grandparents’ house, and we spent a lot of time here as children. Every summer, every holiday, and occasional weekends whenever we got tired of our parents and all of their bullshit.”
For a moment, he says nothing. We look into the distance – on the sea of grass dancing under the moonlight. A small fox runs across in front of the window, bringing a smile to my face. In the shadows, the fox looks black, but I imagine the vibrant orange color of his fur and how it shines in the sunlight.
“And it was here that it happened,” Wyatt finally says.
Chapter 19
I have no idea what Wyatt is talking about.
“What happened?”
He says nothing and continues to stare into space.
“What happened?” I repeat myself. For a moment, I think that he hasn’t heard me, but when he turns to face me, I know that he has and is just trying to decide whether he should tell me.
“The accident,” he says under his breath.
His cryptic words are starting to annoy me. What accident?
I want to ask him. But I need to pace myself. He has already revealed a lot more to me than Gatsby has. It is through Wyatt that I realize that I know next to nothing about Gatsby and his life. I didn’t even know that he had brothers until an hour ago. Gatsby shields himself in mystery, and if he’s not willing to tell me about his past, I can’t make enemies of people who are.
Wyatt stares at me. The expression on his face tells me that he had no idea that I didn’t know. I ask him to explain. Reluctantly, he gets into it.
“This happened a few years back. When Gatsby wasn’t part of the family business. When our father still ran things. Atticus was still in law school, and he was planning on getting involved after graduation because Gatsby turned away from the family. Or, at least, that’s what our father liked to call it.” Wyatt laughs.
“To tell you the truth, even though I’d never admit it to Gatsby, I kind of admired him back then. I was still in college, and I really liked how he stood up to our father and followed his own path. Even if he was just some ski bum. It meant a lot to me.”
“Why is that?”
“Because no one ever stands up to Dr. William H. Wild,” Wyatt says.
He looks me straight in the eye and then looks away. All families are complicated, but I am getting the sense that the Wild family is particularly complex.
“So what happened?” I a
sk, unable to conceal my anticipation in hearing the rest of the story.
“I was home from school for the summer, and Gatsby showed up for a few days during July 4th weekend as well. At that time, Atticus was living at home and shadowing our father. Man, he’s always been such as kiss ass. Anyway, the whole family was over. Our uncle Henry, our aunt Mary, and their two grown sons, Harry and Logan. They are both our age. Logan’s a few years older than I am, and Harry’s between Atticus and Gatsby.
“What you have to know about Harry and Logan is that they’re avid hunters. Uncle Henry’s a hunter too, but our father has never liked it much, much to the disappointment of his own father. But that’s another story. Anyway, Gatsby’s not a hunter.”
I nod. I didn’t know that, but it makes perfect sense.
“And not only is he not a hunter, but he’s also vehemently opposed to it. He’s always loved animals, but it’s also because of that thing that happened when he was younger.”
“What?” I ask.
“That’s a whole other story. If you want me to get into that, I can, but it’s best that Gatsby tells you himself.”
I nod reluctantly and wait for him to continue.
“Well, Logan was sick, and I wasn’t in the mood, so Harry and Gatsby decided to go hiking themselves. They pack their backpacks for a day-long hike and leave early in the morning.”
Wyatt stops talking and looks away again. Why can’t he just go on with it? I feel myself getting angry.
“So what happens?”
“What happens is that Wyatt should keep his dumb mouth shut,” Gatsby says.
His voice is deeper than Wyatt’s, and he startles me. Where did he come from? How long has he been here?
“Sorry.” Wyatt shrugs. He doesn’t seem bothered at all. “I thought she knew and then she insisted that I tell her.”
“Fuck you, Wyatt.” Gatsby shakes his head.
“No, it’s true,” I insist. I’m trying to cover for Wyatt, but I also want him to finish. I want to know what happened.
“So what happened?” I turn to Gatsby.
I reach out to touch him, but he’s steaming. His face is flushed. He is still wearing a bathrobe, which he takes off. He starts changing into a pair of jeans and a light sweater, which he retrieves from the closet. Wyatt excuses himself and leaves the room.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Atticus is nowhere to be found. I figure it didn’t go well.
“I don’t know what the fuck they’re doing here,” he says. “This is supposed to be our weekend. I don’t need all this family drama in my life right now. I’m here to unwind. I just hate them for bringing all this shit here.”
I don’t know what to say to make things better, and I really want to hear the rest of the story. But I need to give him time, so I suggest that we go on a little walk instead.
The air is crisp, and a cold front is blowing in. I take his arm and lead him through the sea of grass toward the pines. We don’t speak for awhile and just enjoy the silence instead.
“You know, I’m starting to think that I’ll always associate you with nature,” Gatsby says, finally breaking the silence. I nod. I feel the same way.
We had met in the wild. And now, in my mind, the wide open sky, the effervescent pines, and the green grasses remind me of Gatsby. His kind eyes. His rough hands. His wide shoulders. His toned body.
But my feelings for him are starting to develop into something else. It isn’t just his physical attributes that draw me to him. Now it is beyond that. It is the way he smells, the way he treats me, the way he looks at me. He is a mystery that I want to unravel.
“The story that Wyatt started to tell you wasn’t his to tell.”
Gatsby looks into the distance at the eagle floating among the clouds. He is holding my hand so tightly that I can feel his heartbeat.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Harry and I were just supposed to go on a hike. That was it. And if it weren’t for him, none of that would’ve happened.”
He stops talking, and I give him space to continue. I want him to get lost in thought and let the words just spill out without a filter. I fear that if he remembers that I’m here then he won’t tell me.
“We packed for a day-long hike, not an overnight, and drove to the Gallatin Mountains. It was a beautiful early summer day, and I don’t let those pass me by without going outside when I’m in Montana.
“Deep in the Gallatin Mountains, the wildlife just takes your breath away. There’s elk, moose, wolves, coyotes, tons of rabbits. I want to take you there sometime. I think you’ll really appreciate it.”
I smile. I want to go.
“Harry and I don’t have much in common,” Gatsby continues. “He’s brash and boisterous and unkind in many ways. But we used to be really close when we were little. And he wanted to go, so I thought, what the hell? What’s the worst that could happen?” Gatsby laughs sarcastically under his breath.
“It happened in the afternoon. After we had been hiking for a few hours. We came upon this meadow with pines all around. The sun was shining brightly in the sky. In the middle of the meadow, we saw a sleeping grizzly. He was gorgeous. Large and imposing and yet so peaceful. We were so close to him we could hear him snoring.
“But I knew that it wasn’t safe to be so close to him. He could wake up at any moment, and then we could really be in trouble. So I signaled to Harry to get back. I wanted us to back up into the woods and just make our way around the meadow.
“But Harry had other ideas.”
Chapter 20
Gatsby stopped talking and dropped my hand. I wait for him to continue.
“What?” I finally ask. “What did he do?”
Gatsby turns toward me. The only thing I see in his eyes is pain.
“He reached into his backpack and got out a gun. A nine millimeter. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The gun was already loaded, and he pointed it at the sleeping grizzly.”
“Oh my god,” I whisper and put my hands over my mouth. I don’t want to hear what happened next. I can’t stand the idea of someone shooting a sleeping bear.
“I didn’t know how much time we had. But there was no way he was killing that bear while I stood and watched. So I knocked the gun out of his hand. It fell to the ground, and we started to fight over it. He grabbed my hair, and I punched him in the stomach. Somehow, he got on top of me, and then I managed to push him off.
“I have no idea what we were doing really. We were tussling and fighting and grabbing for the gun, paying no attention to the fact that it was a gun or that there was a sleeping grizzly less than fifty yards away.
“And then the gun went off. Startled, I jumped back and saw that Harry was hit. He was crying and moaning and holding his right shoulder. Blood was gushing out all over his arm. I froze. I didn’t know what to do.
“It was then that I remembered the bear. He wasn’t that far away from us, and Harry was bleeding so much, I could smell his blood!
“But when I turned around toward the bear, all I saw was his huge behind disappearing into the forest at the edge of the meadow. The gunshot must’ve scared him, and he got the hell out of there. I remember letting out a huge sigh of relief.”
“It could’ve been much worse,” I say. “You were lucky, really lucky. That bear could’ve just as easily rushed both of you.”
Gatsby nods and again looks away. A howl of a wolf pierces the silence.
“The rest of the day was pretty much a blur,” Gatsby continues. “I don’t really remember much of it. But somehow, we hiked the ten miles back to the car. It took much longer than a couple of hours it took us on the way out. Harry could barely move, and I had to almost carry him the whole way. It was pitch black by the time we got to the car and then another hour before we got to the hospital. Our parents arrived when he was almost out of surgery.
“All I remember now about the rest of that day was just how mad I was at him. Oh god, Annabelle, I was just so so mad at h
im. Why did he bring that stupid gun with him? Why did he want to shoot a sleeping bear? But throughout all that, I wasn’t sorry. I just know that what I did was right. He had no right to take that bear’s life. Harry was wrong and, a part of me was glad that he was in pain.”
I look at Gatsby, and I see just how personal and intimate the story that he had just shared with me is. His eyes are glazed over with a bit of moisture, and he can’t make eye contact with me. I am grateful to him for sharing it with me.
“My days as a ski bum were pretty much done then.” Gatsby gathers his thoughts and smiles.
“Why?” I ask.
“My father had to make a lot of arrangements with his brother, Harry’s father, and the authorities to keep it all on the down low. Secret. To keep the newspapers and the gossip columns out of our business. But not just that, to keep me out of jail.
“Our attorney was flown out from LA, and there were a lot of tense talks with the local prosecutor. Finally, they agreed to defer to Harry and his family. Then we had to wait for Harry to feel a little better so that he could make legal decisions.
“At first, he didn’t want anything to do with it. He wanted me to serve time in jail. He hated me for doing that to him. He was an avid tennis player, and getting shot in the arm was going to put his career on hold, according to him. His father reminded him that he didn’t really have much of a tennis career, but he was still mad as hell. He wanted me to pay for what I did.”
Gatsby smiles and shrugs, as if he finds this whole situation whimsical and humorous.
“I hope you didn’t have the same attitude then that you do now,” I say. He shakes his head. “Of course not. I mean, I did, but I couldn’t show it. They would’ve never let me slide otherwise.”
“So what happened?”
“Harry finally agreed not to press charges. But only in exchange for my father’s beloved fifty-foot yacht in Marina Del Ray. You should’ve seen my father’s face when he asked him for it. I thought father was going to shoot him in the other shoulder just for requesting it.
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