by Tawna Fenske
“And—you think he was guilty?”
Gabe pulls his hands from his face, and I’m staggered by the mix of hatred and disgust and gut-wrenching guilt in his eyes. “I fucking know he was. Hollywood’s full of guys who get away with that shit.”
And you chose to work with him?
I don’t say this out loud, but he must see it in my eyes.
“I didn’t figure out until halfway through filming what a misogynistic prick he was,” Gabe says. “The first charges weren’t filed until we wrapped.”
I nod, not sure what to say. A sick little part of me is glad he’s dead. That Gabe’s actions changed the trajectory of that bullet.
A bullet meant for Gabe himself.
“You know the worst part?” He shakes his head, and I’m saved from having to guess when he continues. “Actually, I don’t know the worst part. That I made a film trying to spark change, and it sparked violence? That people died because of me? That those women won’t get a chance to tell their stories in court?” He takes a shuddery breath. “Or that when the rumors about Wienerman started flying, I fucking defended him.”
“You couldn’t have known—”
“I should have known.” His words are such an echo of my own that I almost say so, but Gabe’s too quick. “I stopped believing him the instant the first victims came forward. The moment things shifted from rumors to accusations, but still. My first instinct was to believe some asshole friend of the family instead of the victims.”
There’s a lot to unpack there, and I’m not sure where to begin. “But you do believe them,” I point out. “You said so yourself. And I doubt those women wanted to relive their worst moments in a courtroom packed with cameras. They were spared that indignity, at least.”
I’m probably arguing the wrong point, but I can’t speak to the film itself. Maybe I’m wrong about the women not wanting closure in court, but that seems right.
It’s not for another few seconds that the rest of his words sink in. “Wait, you said people died—plural. Who else?”
Gabe shakes his head. “The shooter fled after Wienerman collapsed. Made it out of the theater and ran right into the path of a vacuum tank truck.”
I barely refrain from gasping. “One of those things that suctions out porta-potties?” That definitely wasn’t in the articles I read.
“Yeah.” Gabe closes his eyes. “He died instantly. That’s two deaths on me. Two grieving families. Two sets of lawsuits. And who knows how many more will come? All because I wanted to start a conversation about violence. Jesus.”
I step forward, almost afraid to touch him. Gabe’s hunched on the couch like a cornered animal, bristling with needles of emotion.
“I’m sorry.” I put a hand on his shoulder, heart aching for everyone involved. Gabe. The women. Even the gunman’s family. “You could have told me all of that.”
He shakes his head slowly, meeting my eyes at last. His glitter with guilt and desperation. “I liked being the guy you thought I was. The humble set builder. An average guy. A man without blood on his hands.”
I swallow hard, throat clogging with emotion. “I wouldn’t have judged you, Gabe. And I’d never think that.”
He looks at my hand on his shoulder like he’s not sure what it’s doing there. “You would have,” he bites out. “I’ve spent my whole life watching people’s faces shift—watching their entire response shift—the second they realize who I am. Gable Judson, son of Hollywood’s most powerful family.”
“I wouldn’t have cared—”
“Yes,” he snaps. “You would have.”
My anger simmers again. What is it with men telling me how I’m supposed to feel? “I know you’re hurting,” I say slowly. “But if you take a step back—”
“That’s what I did.” He shakes his head. “With you, I stepped totally outside myself. You looked at me differently. Like a normal guy. A guy you liked and respected. Is it so wrong that I wanted to pretend for a while?”
And now my anger’s boiling again. “You wanted to pretend,” I repeat. “At my expense.”
He shakes his head, burying his face in his hands again. “I’m sorry.” The words fall flat, like he’s forcing them out.
“Answer me this,” I tell him. “And I want you to be honest.”
He nods once but doesn’t look up. I want to believe that’s enough. That he’ll tell me the truth this time. “If you could go back to the night we met and be truthful with me from the start, would you?”
His shoulders sag beneath my palm. Five or six seconds pass before he looks up at me. When he does, the pain in those brown eyes hits like a sucker punch.
He doesn’t answer. Not right away. I should be glad he’s thinking it through, that he’s not just hurling another quick lie.
I don’t know why the answer matters so much, but it does. People make mistakes, and I can live with that. I can forgive.
But deliberate deception—
“No.” Gabe clenches his hands at his sides. “No, I still wouldn’t tell you.”
The words slam into me with the force of a wrecking ball. “I see.”
“I’m an asshole.” He closes his eyes, refusing to look at me. Refusing to let me in. “I told you when we met.”
“You did.” I didn’t believe it then. I’m still not sure I do, but it’s clear Gabe’s convinced.
I take a deep breath. Then another. I need all the strength I can summon.
I take a step back, distancing myself from him. “You can tell yourself these stories about who you think you are—an asshole, a murderer, a liar. And you can tell me stories about the other Gabe—the family man, the brother, the son. But until you figure out which Gabe you are, there’s no room in my life for pretenders.”
A few more steps back, and I’m almost to the door. Almost to the gear I left scattered like wreckage. Part of me wants him to follow. To come after me and convince me I’m wrong. To ask me to stay.
Instead, he lowers his head into his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says into his lap.
“Me, too.” I grab my pack and walk away.
Chapter 9
Gable
I let her leave.
Just let her walk out the door like the big fucking coward I am.
“The researchers out at the BONK compound spotted the fox again, so I’m heading out there.” She kept stuffing things in her bag, bristling in all-business mode. “The snow’s solid, so it won’t take me more than ninety minutes to get over there.”
“Gretchen, wait—”
“I’ll be fine.” She stood up and stared at me, daring me to stop her.
I fucking didn’t.
“I’ll be fine.” She repeated it like she was trying to convince herself. Like she wasn’t talking about snow conditions or the distance from here to the compound.
It’s the distance between Gretchen and me that matters. The distance I let widen to a big, gaping hole the second she walked out the door. What the hell was I thinking?
Not just letting her go but lying in the first place. I know it was wrong; I can admit that. I’m sorry I caused her pain, and I’d take that all away if I could.
But I’m not sorry about the best three days of my whole fucking life. Laughing and loving and sharing pieces of myself with a woman who accepted them with an open heart, exchanging beautiful bits of herself in return. I’ve never had that before.
I never will again.
She’s been gone less than an hour when I stop feeling sorry for myself and start feeling shitty about what I did. Shittier. The hurt in her eyes, the betrayal—I put that there.
God, I’m an asshole. I’ve said it before, but it’s never been truer.
For an hour, maybe more, I sit brooding on the front porch. It’s below freezing, but I barely feel the cold. I don’t feel much of anything except deep, crushing regret.
I should go after her. Screw the snow, I’ll just—
The rumble of a truck’s engine slaps me from my half-baked plan. I squint throu
gh the trees, scanning the space where the road lies buried under two feet of snow. Gretchen. It has to be Gretchen.
I jump from my chair, heart hammering in my chest. She’s back. It’s my chance to say what I should have told her an hour ago.
I shouldn’t have lied.
I wanted you to like me.
I love you so much.
But the truck that rumbles into view has no female occupants. Four men, all big and made bigger by thick parkas and wool hats. There’s a huge steel blade on the front of the truck, chewing through the thick crust of snow as it clears a path to the cabin. I squint at the logo on the side, at the words Ponderosa Luxury Ranch Resort. That’s what kicks my dumb brain into gear.
I step off the porch as the truck grinds to a halt in front of the fallen tree. The passenger door lurches open, and my brother, Dean, steps out.
He stares at me with piercing brown eyes that have graced the cover of every magazine in America. “Gable.” His gaze sweeps me from head to toe, making sure all the pieces are there. “Not what I meant when I told you to get lost.”
I’m deciding how to answer when he jumps the fallen tree like a fucking decathlete, striding past the cars and up the walk Gretchen and I shoveled last night.
“Dean.” Love for my brother floods out all my other emotions as I grab him in a bro hug that’s way too fierce and forceful. “You’re here.”
I’ve never been so glad to see my big brother in my whole damn life.
“Dude.” He coughs as I crush his ribs. “I just got off a plane. You’re going to break a blood clot out of my lungs or something.”
Jon’s voice slips through our brotherly capsule, oddly jovial. “You look like shit, man.” He slides out of the truck with a chainsaw. “Glad you’re still standing.”
I’m not sure how to take that, but James climbs out after him and surveys the fallen tree. “Quite the mess you’ve got.”
There’s the understatement of the century.
As James pulls a second chainsaw from the cab, Mark slings himself out of the driver’s seat and reaches into the truck’s toolbox for an axe. “Let’s get to work.”
I start down the steps, ready to do my part. But Dean grabs my arm. “Not you. We need to talk.”
“But I want to help.” Also, I want to tear shit up. It seems therapeutic.
Mark shakes his head. “Not enough tools.”
James surveys the tree, probably doing mathematical calculations. “We’ll need your help stacking firewood, but not yet.”
Jon starts up the steps, frowning. “Where’s Gretchen?”
I try not to stare at the chainsaw in his hand. “Gone. She snowshoed to that old cult compound. I tried to stop her, but—”
“Oh, right.” He nods and surveys the tree, seemingly unconcerned his sister just went trudging alone into the snowy woods. “She said she got a call from Fish and Wildlife. They spotted the fox, right?”
“Right.” I swallow hard, needing to come clean about what an asshole I’ve been to his sister. “Look, I—”
“My sister can handle herself.” He swings his gaze back to me and flashes a smile with an edge to it. “And she can handle you, too, if you fuck with her.”
“Right.” I swallow again, not sure what to do with myself.
The other two Bracelyn brothers are swinging into action, arguing about the best way to approach the tree. Mark revs a chainsaw, ending any chance for quiet conversation. As Jon heads off to join them, my own brother grabs me roughly by the arm.
“Come on.” Dean nods toward the cabin. “Let’s talk.”
The urge to unburden myself to someone I shared Legos with is overwhelming. I lead him inside, making a halfhearted offer of coffee.
“No.” Dean leans back against the counter and folds his arms over his chest. “Tell me everything.”
So I do.
He already knows about the shooting, of course. The lawsuits, too, so I bring him up to speed on the rest. The salmon chowder and the mix-up with the key. The blanket fort and the lies. I leave out the sex stuff, but I’m sure he reads it in my face anyway.
He reads the rest, too. “You love her.”
“Yeah.” I never said that, but I’m not surprised he guessed. “And I’m a fucking asshole. That pretty much sums it up.”
Dean sighs and looks at me like he’s not sure whether to hug or punch me. “You’re not an asshole.”
“You have to say that. You’re my brother.”
“Your brother is the person best equipped to tell you you’re an asshole,” he says. “And I’m telling you you’re not. Messed up, sure. But not an asshole.”
I sink onto the couch and anchor my hands on my knees. “I wanted her to like me,” I admit. “To like me for me instead of the Hollywood bullshit. Or to dislike me for me, if that’s what it came to. I just wanted to do it without all the baggage.”
“You think you can get away from the baggage?” Dean snorts. “That’s cute.”
“Fuck you.” God, I’ve missed him.
Dean shakes his head and ambles over to sit beside me. I’m not sure he’s made up his mind yet about the hugging or the punching, so I edge away just a little.
“You can run a million miles from Hollywood, and it’ll always be part of you,” he says. “You can change your name, hide under a damn rock, take a vow of silence—it doesn’t matter. There’s no escaping the way we were raised. Who we are.”
“Gee. That’s uplifting. Ever consider a career as a motivational speaker?”
Dean elbows me in the ribs. Not hard, but enough to tell me he’s not messing around. “A career change may be a good starting point for all of us.”
I think about Gretchen and her career quiz and feel shitty all over again. “I fucked up,” I tell him. “Really badly.”
“Yeah, you did. We all do. It’s what you do next that counts.”
I shake my head, wishing it were that simple. “Not just with Gretchen, but with everything.” I hesitate, not sure I should say the words out loud. “I should never have made that film.”
Dean gives me a hard look. “Are you kidding me? Skeleton Dreams is your best work.”
“It got people killed.”
“It got people talking,” he argues. “They’re having the exact conversations you hoped they would about violence and societal norms. You’d know that if you weren’t holed up in bumfuck nowhere.”
I shake my head, not believing him even a little. “The film will be forgotten by next month. I was naïve to think I could create meaningful change.”
My brother stares at me for a long time, like he’s weighing whether to tell me something. I brace for the blow. More lawsuits? Another shooting? A scathing spread in Entertainment Weekly?
“They announced Oscar nominations yesterday,” Dean says quietly. “Did you know that?”
“I—forgot, I guess.”
There’s a first. Credit goes to Gretchen for making me forget what’s normally the most nail-biting day of the year.
“Six nominations,” he says roughly. “That’s how many Skeleton Dreams got. Best director, best screenplay, a bunch of other shit. Don’t talk to me about fuckups, Gabe. You’ve got plenty, but that film isn’t one.”
I stare at my brother, too stunned to respond.
When his words sink in, I shake my head. “It doesn’t change things,” I tell him. “Because of me, two men are dead.”
“Because of you, a would-be mass murderer shot a serial sex offender before getting himself smashed by a truck filled with shit,” he says. “If you can’t see the poetic justice in that, maybe you’re not the artistic genius everyone thinks you are.”
“Maybe not.” I’m definitely no genius. No idiot in his right mind would have let Gretchen walk out the door.
That’s when I realize I don’t care about the Oscar nods. I don’t even care about the conversation the film may be sparking, though I’m grateful if that’s true.
But none of it matters without Gr
etchen in my life.
I look my brother square in the eye. “Ever been in love before?”
Dean doesn’t blink. “Yes.”
Right. I know better than to go there.
“It sucks,” I tell him. “It makes you feel naked and scared and vulnerable and turned inside out.”
“Now who’s the motivational speaker?”
I ignore him, needing to get the rest out. “It also makes you feel like Superman. Like there’s nothing in the world you can’t do, as long as she’s part of your world.”
Dean frowns. “Can’t say it worked out like that for me, but sure.” He nods once, eyes still hard. “So what are you going to be? The scared, naked asshole, or Superman?”
Outside, the chainsaws stop whirring. I hear the Bracelyn brothers shouting and glance out to see they’ve hacked a big void through the tree. The path is clear.
I know what I need to do.
My legs aren’t shaking like I think they’ll be when I stand up. I start walking, adding steel to my spine as I grab my coat from the peg on the wall.
I turn back to look at my brother. “Superman.”
“There you go.”
I move toward the door, squaring my shoulders. “I’ll be motherfucking Superman.”
“Good man,” he says. “Wear a cape, it’s cold outside.”
Dean’s laughing as I stride out the door.
Chapter 10
Gretchen
“Let’s see if we’ve got anybody in there.” Colleen Mumford creeps slowly through the underbrush, her long braid snagging on a snow-covered branch. Her wife, Patti, sets her free and crawls after her, quiet as a cat.
I tiptoe behind, grateful to be included. They’re wildlife biologists intent on collaring the elusive—and nearly endangered—Sierra Red Fox. After four sightings the last two days, we’re all hoping the fox they’ve dubbed Francine has made her way into the live trap.
“Damn.” Colleen shoots me an apologetic look. “Darn.”
I laugh. “Please. I’m hardly opposed to cursing.”
“Well, in that case, fuck me sideways with a blue potato.” Colleen sighs. “We’ve seen Francine at least a dozen times in the last month, but she outsmarts us every time.”