“Of course.” She bows slightly—actually bows. “I’ll know your car and license plate next time.”
“You’re just doing your job. No need to give me special treatment. You feeling okay? Any concerns?”
“None at all! Orientation took care of all that pretty thoroughly. I feel great. So much stress off my shoulders.”
“That’s what we like to hear.” Jay salutes her. “See you around.”
“You too.” She backs away and hurries toward her vehicle.
Jay angles back onto the road. Silence thickens in the car, and the weirdest part is that Nick, my over-expressive and over-curious cousin, says absolutely nothing and questions nothing.
“Jay,” I say at last. “What was all that about?”
He clears his throat. “I have provided…insurance for some members of law enforcement around here. It helps them out, and they give me certain privileges in return.”
“Like being able to host parties with underage guests and not get busted for serving minors alcohol…among other things?”
His eyes dart to the rearview mirror again, his brows slanted inward. “The other rich folks in this area have their own ways of shimmying out of trouble. Why shouldn’t I do the same? Especially when what I’m offering can save lives?”
“Don’t the police have their own insurance?”
“Yes, but this is like a bonus package. Supplemental, you could say.”
“I know what supplemental insurance is.”
Nick inhales as if he’s about to speak, and Jay cuts him off. “We must be close. Where should I park?”
I don’t press the issue, even though my brain is a whirlpool of questions, sucking my mood down. Jay’s reluctance to tell me the truth is frustrating, but I’m not angry with him. Curious as I am, part of me doesn’t really want to know everything he’s hiding. What if the truth tarnishes the image I have of him, the one I cherish from when we were kids together? I always admired how good and true his heart stayed, no matter what happened to him. When I knew him, he had an unerring moral compass, a sweetness and hope that dimmed occasionally, but always came back even brighter.
Truth always forces a choice. Once I find out what Jay has done, or what he’s doing, I’ll have to accept it, and him—or I’ll have to give him up. So the longer we do this noncommittal dance, the longer I can hold off the decision.
I’m so buried in my thoughts that I stumble on the rocky steps leading down to the head of the trail. Jay catches me, his hand cupping my shoulder. He does it so lightly, almost carelessly, as if I weigh no more than a twig. As if he has a great reserve of strength to draw upon. I can feel that strength thrumming through his fingers.
When I’m steady again, he lets go. “Careful there.”
“Yup.” I run lightly down the rest of the steps just to prove that I can. At the bottom, Nick pauses to look anxiously back at me.
“There are more people than we planned on,” he says significantly, nodding toward the group waiting for us by the stream.
There’s Jordan, looking vibrant and goddess-like as always—and McKee and Bek, and Catherine (ugh), and a teenage boy I don’t recognize—and Myrtle and Tom.
“What the hell,” I hiss to Nick.
He winces. “I don’t know. Did Jordan invite them?”
“She wouldn’t do that to me.”
“Must have been Catherine then.”
Jordan spots us and stalks over on those impossibly long legs of hers. Her movements are quick and tight, brimming with half-restrained energy. “Daisy, I’m so sorry,” she says in an undertone. “I invited McKee and Bek, and Bek invited Catherine, and Catherine invited Tom and Myrtle. And Myrtle brought her little brother. It’s a mess. I’m so sorry.” Her eyes leave mine, latching onto Jay. “Oh, Gatsby. You’re here, too.”
“Is that all right?” he asks.
“God yes. I’m thrilled to see you!” She grabs his hand. “Feel that? I’m so much stronger now!”
“As promised.” He smiles back.
I narrow my eyes, looking between them.
“Oh, uh… He told me about this new workout regimen,” Jordan says. “Well, since Gatsby’s here, you’ll be fine, right, Daisy? He can keep Tom at bay. Let’s go! I’ve got so much energy, and I haven’t even had a drop of coffee!”
She bounds back to the others. Nick, Jay, and I follow her slowly. Here at the start of the path, the stream is a wide, clear belt, burbling over smooth dark rocks and pooling in sandy shallows. There’s a stubby waterfall glistening nearby, but it’s only the great-great-grandchild of the big waterfall we’ve come to see, whose source springs straight from the high heart of the mountain.
Tom is already straddling two rocks midstream, arms crossed and head canted, posing, like he often does. Beyond him, at the top of the muddy bank, the trail twists away through lush forest thick with rhododendrons and oaks and maples. This clearing by the stream feels like the inside of a stained-glass window, all emerald and gold, with hazy sunlight sifting through the leaves, heating the air and lifting earthy, spicy scents from the undergrowth. If Tom and Myrtle weren’t here, I’d be in heaven.
I love nature like I love parties. They’re both immersive and multifaceted experiences—you can throw yourself into the flow of them, lose your way and wander, forget about expectations and futures. At a party or in nature, your attitude determines your reality. That’s what I like—not grades and metrics and structured career paths, but the freedom to let my personality and my inner strength determine my place in the world.
Not sure what kind of career allows for that.
Tom is staring at me, oblivious to Myrtle’s glare. Objectively, he looks magnificent, his black hair curling across his temples, his sharp face dappled with sun and leafy shadows. His biceps swell beautifully, which is no doubt why he has crossed his arms.
I used to worship him. But once I found out he’d cheated, that veil of worshipful love evaporated, and I realized that he wasn’t mysterious and moody, but sneaky and sour. He wasn’t thrillingly dangerous—he was just plain cruel.
Jay’s hand grazes my inner elbow, a light touch to let me know he’s here, and he’s got my back.
“Check it out, Daisy,” Tom says loudly, turning his head and pointing to his ear, which has a couple additional hoops along the edge. “Got two new piercings. And this.” He points to a stud glinting above his eyebrow. “And these.” He rakes up his T-shirt to show a tiny bar through each of his nipples. “Hot, right?”
I avert my gaze, refusing to feed his vanity. “That’s one word for it.”
