We’re
dealing with, I should say. Because that’s
the thing with trouble. You can get into it alone, but getting out is
rarely a solo operation. That’s what big sisters are for, I
guess.
But it’s going to be difficult to keep protecting Jamie when I
have no idea where he is. While coming home yesterday was sort of a
hasty decision for me, once I bought my plane ticket, I emailed Jamie
to tell him I was on my way back to the States, and to my great
shock, he actually emailed me back to say
Cool!
So though I
had no expectation that he would meet me at the airport or anything—I
mean, we’re talking about someone whose solution to having
overdue Blockbuster rentals back in the day was to just wait for the
company to fold—I thought maybe he’d at least be at the
house or come by for dinner or
something
since we haven’t
seen each other in two years, not since I left for England.
But after my encounter with Ryder, I guess I know why Jamie didn’t
bother to throw me a welcome home party. I’ve called him about
a dozen times this morning, and every time I get voicemail:
It’s
Jamie, yo. Check you later.
I quit leaving messages about six
calls ago. On the last few I even started saying things like,
It’s
your sister, Cassie McEntire. You may remember me from growing up? We
used to live down the hall from each other.
Just in case he doesn’t recognize my voice from the
Call me,
because if these guys you owe money to find you first, you may not be
walking the next time I see you
part of the message.
I select a door, white and pristine and, most importantly, sturdy.
But there’s one thing missing.
“Can you put a deadbolt in it?” I say to Danny.
Kick my door down once, shame on you. Twice, shame on me.
And I don’t do shame anymore.
***
“Cass?”
I almost drop my new American mobile (Mental note: cell phone, not
mobile.
We’re not in England anymore, Cass.
) in the
washer when I hear Jamie’s voice, both familiar and foreign,
like the ghost who makes your house haunted but whom you’ve
never actually seen. After the Home Depot guys installed the new door
this afternoon, I took the ten-year old Hyundai Mom left behind to
the Apple store, the grocery store, and Target, where I even bought a
pair of flip flops, my first in two years, with the faint idea of
going to Lake Lanier sometime this summer. The normalcy of everything
had made me nearly forget I was waiting on this phone call.
So, of course that’s when Jamie calls. When I least expect it.
When I’m least prepared.
All day I’d been imagining the whole big sister speech I’d
give him when I finally talked to him about how dangerous a game he’s
playing with Ryder and the broken door and taking responsibility and
does Mom know and what would Dad think?
But all I manage is: “Where the hell are you?”
“Dude, chillax,” he says. Typical Jamie. His philosophy
has always been if you’re worried, you’re overreacting.
There is no situation in which he thinks concern is warranted. When
we were teenagers, I thought maybe he was braver than I was. In high
school, I acted out occasionally, sneaking out with my friend
Savannah once or twice, sometimes sliding home a little after curfew,
but I was never that much of a scofflaw. I mean, I have an accounting
degree, for goodness’s sake; I kind of
enjoy
following
the rules.
But no matter the risk or how often he got caught, if Jamie wanted to
smoke that joint or jump off that roof or hotwire that car (which he
swore he was going to return anyway, so what was the big deal,
really?), by God, he was going to do it.
Now, at twenty-six, I realize what I thought was his bravery was
mostly brazen stupidity and a near compulsion to push the limits of
my parents' patience.
And today he’s pushing mine.
“So, your friend Ryder tells me you’re having some money
problems,” I say.
“I’m working it out,” Jamie says. “It’s
all good. I’ve got a plan.”
“Other than giving away our house?”
Silence.
“Look, Cassie, I’m sure you’ve been through a lot
lately with the move and everything, and I’m sorry you got
involved in this, okay?” he says. “But you need to stay
out of it.”
“No. You need to tell me what’s going on, Jamie. I
deserve to know. Because your sympathies aside, I am in it now.”
“If I tell you stuff, then that’s going to make you…”
He stops. “What’s the word I’m looking
for?”
“Responsible?” No surprise he struggled
for that one.
“Yeah. I guess so,” he says. “Like an accessory or
whatever.”
“Then why don’t you come back and let’s fix this
together? I don’t have to be an accessory. I can be your
partner,” I say. “I don’t think this Ryder guy is
just going to go away on his own.”
The pause on the other end of the line is so long I worry that the
call has been dropped. In the background, for the first time, I hear
the low noise of TV, and I try to imagine where he is. Motel room?
Sports bar? Someone’s house?
At least I know it’s not jail since he’s calling
on
his cell and not
from
a cell.
“I really am sorry, Cass,” Jamie finally says quietly.
“Don’t be sorry, Jamie,” I say. “Be here.
Come home.”
“I can’t. I’ve got to, you know, figure some shit
out. I’m just taking a breather out of town right now so I can
think.” He pauses. “You don’t have ten grand, do
you?”
“Is that a serious question?”
“No,” he says. “Unless you have the money. Which I
assume you don’t.”
I slam the washer closed harder than I mean to. “You know,
Jamie, for a smart guy, you say some really dumb stuff.”
“If I had a nickel for every time I heard that,” he says,
“I could have paid back Ryder Cole by now.”
***
At dusk, I sit on our back patio swing, watching the sky turn from
blue to orange as the sun sets. This was one of my favorite spots to
sit and think when I was a kid. The swing itself is identical to the
one on the front porch, white-painted metal woven into tiny diamond
shapes that stays relatively cool even in the relentless Georgia
summer heat, but the back one has the advantage of an unbelievable
view into the wildlife world.
Our back yard is a wooded lot of trees and boulders, and
consequently, it’s a stomping ground for all kinds of animals;
there are the usual birds and squirrels and chipmunks, of course, but
foxes race through the grass sometimes, raccoons come out at night,
deer have been known to graze in the early mornings. Growing up, it
was amazing to watch these animals so closely, the way they
interacted with each other or responded to any perceived danger. If I
even so much as shifted in the swing while a doe and fawn were
feeding, they’d take off into the thicket at the far part of
the yard like I was a hunter who’d just revealed myself. They
knew how to survive, how to calculate risk and reward, how to listen
to their instincts to protect themselves—skills that humans
seem to have let lapse.
Well, some humans. Jamie seems out of touch with his abilities to
stay safe, only avoiding peril just before it kicks down his door. I
guess I was, too, for a while. It’s weird—or maybe just
devastating—how long you’ll let yourself live in
circumstances that might kill you just because it seems easier than
changing them.
And then one day you get on a plane and you come home and you realize
that was all it took to get back to yourself, that your
self-preservation instincts had been there the whole time—you
just hadn’t been paying attention.
So if I can save myself, maybe I can save Jamie, too.
I just need to know more about who’s hunting him. And I think I
know who might be able to fill me in.
***
In
high school, Savannah Sunday was voted Most Likely to Succeed, Best
Looking Girl, and Most Intelligent, and according to the internet,
she’s continued to live up to those honors: same curly blond
hair, big blue eyes, bright smile, a Harvard Law degree, and a job at
one of the most high profile entertainment law offices in Atlanta.
We’d been pretty inseparable when we were teenagers, and even
during college, though I stayed in town and went to Georgia State so
I could keep working at Dad’s auto shop and Savannah took off
to the University of Texas. But we kept in touch regularly. I knew
all about the Texas oil heir who looked like a real cowboy but could
only come if she tickled his balls during sex. She knew about the
blind date I went on sophomore year, only to find out the guy was my
third cousin. I was the first person she called when she got into
Harvard. She was the first person I called when Dad had his heart
attack.
But
the last couple years we’ve drifted apart. While I was in
Europe, I was pretty MIA, I know. So I hope it won’t be weird
to call and ask her to fill me in on Ryder Cole. Jamie may think the
way to get out of whatever he’s gotten himself into is to run
away—believe me, I know the feeling—but the
miscalculation he’s made is that he’s not only left Ryder
behind. He’s left me, too, right in the middle of it.
I
think I owe it to myself, if nothing else, to find out more about
this guy. Learn what I can about what he’s hiding underneath
that blue suit, other than just the tattoos that peeked out of the
bottom of his shirtsleeves last night.
I
can’t help but imagine how far up the ink goes, sprawling over
his biceps and around his triceps, which were rock hard as they
brushed against my own, cascading over his wide shoulders, the design
maybe teasing over his firm pecs, out of plain sight, only visible if
he’s entirely shirtless.
If
I’m in a situation in which Ryder Cole is entirely shirtless, I
have a feeling I’d be in even more trouble than Jamie is now.
Though
it might be the good kind of trouble.
I
rock back and forth in the swing while I dial Savannah’s number
from her law firm website, pushing off the cement slab gently with my
toes, the sun going down over the horizon behind the trees. I know
it’s probably too late for her to be at the office, but I
figure I’ll leave a message and maybe send her an email, too.
Get the ball rolling on finding out who exactly Ryder Cole is other
than just a greedy bully with a sexy smile that probably always gets
him everything he wants.
And
everyone.
The
phone rings four times, and then I hear a voice that I didn’t
even realize how much I’d missed. Except it’s not a voice
mail recording.
“Savannah
Sunday’s office.”
“Savannah?”
I say.
“Speaking.”
“Hey, it’s me,” I say, shocked not to be leaving a
message. It’s nearly eight o’clock at night, but I guess
being successful is a twenty-four-hours-a-day kind of job. “It’s
Cassie.”
“Cassie Fucking McEntire,” she says, and I can
practically hear her smile. “Holy shit. Is it really you?”
“It really is,” I say. Savannah always had that
pretty-girl-with-a-dirty-mouth thing down to a tee. It’s part
of what I love about her: she is who she is, and yet she’s not
who you might expect when you see her.
“What
time is it in England? It must be, like, the middle of the night.”
“Actually,
I’m in Atlanta. I came home yesterday.”
“Is
Sebastian with you?” she says.
I
plant my feet on the patio floor, stopping the swing, my chest heavy
at the sound of his name, those snake-hiss S’s coiling around
my heart, squeezing. It’d been more than a day since I’d
said it or heard it, not on TV or standing in line somewhere or even
in my dreams.
I
take a deep breath. “Nope, it’s just me,” I say,
trying to work up a smile she can hear through the phone, too. “Hope
that’s okay.”
“It’s
fucking fantastic,” Savannah says. “God, how long’s
it been, Cass?”
“Years,”
I say. “I think I still had bangs.”
“Jesus,
you changed your hair without calling me?” she says. “And
I thought we were friends.”
“I
can always grow them back,” I laugh.
“Your
face is too good to hide.”
“Oh, you say that to all the girls,” I say, tucking my
long hair behind my ear. I let my fingers trail up over my brow bone,
lingering for a second over the scar from last New Year’s Eve
when my heels and alcohol intake were both too high for me to brace
myself against the wall. The cut has healed so imperceptibly that I
imagine the only people who would ever even know what happened when
we got home that night are Sebastian and me. And maybe I’m the
only one who would remember how it happened.
“Nope,
just you,” she says. “I’m a high-powered attorney
now. You have to pay me by the hour for that kind of charm these
days.”
“Like
a hooker?” I tease.
“I
plead the fifth, your honor.”
“Whatever
your rate is, I have no doubt you’re worth every nickel,”
I say, “but do you think you could float me a freebie?”
“It’s
not British law, is it?” she says, her tone suddenly serious.
“I was only number two in my international class.”
“No,
it’s a local matter,” I say. I can’t help but shake
my head.
Only
number two at Harvard. That’s Most Likely
to Succeed for you. “Do you know a guy named Ryder Cole?”
“The
nightclub guy?”
“Maybe.
I’m not sure,” I say.
“Tall
and tatted and imminently fuckable?” she says.
“I
guess you could say that,” I say, heat rushing to my face as my
brain associates the word
fuckable
with an image of Ryder.
“Which club’s door does he work?”
“He owns the doors at several places in town,” she says.
“Just opened another one downtown.”
I pause, absorbing the shock of this information. “So, he’s
a legitimate businessman?”