Finn's dad and uncle are arguing in the kitchen. Something about how much the ranch costs to maintain and if it would be better to sell it to a rancher who can actually use the land.
I'm sitting on the porch, sketching the gnarled branches of the juniper tree and trying not to eavesdrop -- until their voices start filtering through the screen door.
" -- I don't care who made you the offer!" Floyd shouts. "I thought I made myself clear when I said I'm not selling outside of the family --"
"This ranch has been unprofitable for years. You're just too nostalgic to realize --"
"Unprofitable? Is that all you care about, how much money you can squeeze out of this place? You can't even pay your child support, but you're worried about how unprofitable the ranch is --"
"Don't you dare bring my kids into this --"
A breeze gusts across the porch, and I have to pick Floyd's next words out of the melody of wind-chimes. "Then don't try to make deals behind my back, Billy. You know this isn't what dad wanted --"
"Dad died twenty years ago, and you still want to be his favorite so fucking badly --"
The screen door slams open, and I nearly fall out of my chair.
"We were looking all over for you," Finn says, tossing a set of car keys to Becca. She grins and jogs over to the mud-splattered Dodge. "Do you want ice-cream?"
"Uh, sure." The last I checked, the temperature had spiked into the hundreds. Driving to get ice-cream definitely beats baking in the sun and listening to Finn's family yell at each other.
"Great. I've gotta get out of this house." He glances at my sketchbook before I can close it. "Gee, that's cool. Did you know that junipers can be trees or shrubs?"
"There's a difference between the two?"
"Duh. I could talk for hours about the biodiversity of the genus Juniperus --"
Becca honks the horn at us. "Stop talking about plants and get in the car! If they run out of mint chocolate chip before we get there, I'm burying both of y'all in the desert."
***
The rest of Dusty Valley must've had the same idea as us, because the ice-cream shop is overflowing with customers when we arrive, the line snaking out the door and around the block. Finn wanders away to pet someone's dog -- typical -- leaving Becca and I to hold our spots.
"So," I say, lifting a hand to block out the sun, "that was some argument."
Becca sweeps her hair out of her face, her blue and brown eyes attracting quite a few stares from the other people in line. "I saw the business card Finn's dad left on the counter. Leigh Real Estate. Rachel must be desperate to get her hands on the ranch."
"Desperate isn't a word I'd use to describe Rachel Clairvaux," I say. Becca shrugs. "What? Do you think the ranch is a loose end?"
"I think it's the last original property on her list." Her expression turns grim. "Last night, Andy called me to say that the bank doubled her family's mortgage. They blamed it on the interest-only loan, but it's pretty obvious who was really behind the increase. The Hill's house was built in the eighteen-hundreds. Rachel is trying to price them out."
"That's terrible," I say. I feel guilty about going out for ice-cream when Andy's family is on the verge of losing their home, but it's not like there's anything I can do to help. Sure, I might be able to find some useful connections through Sabrina's company, but then what -- I convince them to stop doing business with a highly profitable real estate agency? All because I feel bad for a friend? Talk about desperate.
"We'll find a way to stop her," Becca says, though she doesn't look very convinced. "In the meantime... maybe you could try to think of a workaround?"
I adjust my sunglasses a bit self-consciously. "I already told you, I'm not like you. I'm not a psychic. I can't even predict the weather."
"Some psychic I am," Becca says glumly. "I haven't had a vision in ages."
Finn hops back into line with us. "Whatcha talking about?"
"Sports," I say.
"Politics," says Becca.
"Okay, fine," he says, holding up his hands. "You don't need to tell me."
I'm trying to think of a more believable response when I hear someone calling my name in line. It sounds like a male voice -- maybe Jackson, or his friends from the party? I try to recall some of their faces, but my memories from that night are blurred by alcohol and falling off a fence. Maybe if I ignore them, they'll leave me alone.
They don't. Fine. I can shake Jackson's buddy loose when we get inside the store.
I turn to greet him, plastering an easygoing smile on my face -- a smile that vanishes in an instant when I see who was really calling my name.
Jesse Brooks.
Impossible. Jesse should be in New York, not California. Maybe it's his doppelganger. Or his professional look-alike. At this point, I'd even accept an evil twin.
But as he gets closer, I see that it's undeniably Jesse, looking the same as I remember. Same red sneakers with the grass stains on the sides. Same silver cross necklace that he thinks is so bad-ass, even though I know it was a communion gift from his grandma. It's too hot for his trademark denim jacket, so he's wearing an old baseball tee, the one with his last name and printed on the back -- Jesse fucking Brooks. What the hell was I thinking?
I am so unbelievably screwed.
"Ronan!" Jesse strides over to where we're standing in line and drops his duffel bag on the sidewalk. "Thank god, I've been looking all over for you."
"Hey," I say warily, taking in his disheveled appearance. There are dark half-moons under his eyes and creases in his jeans. It looks like he jumped straight into a taxi after getting off his flight. "What are you doing here?"
"I've been trying to get in touch with you for days! Haven't you seen the news?"
Finn elbows me gently in the side. "Do you know this guy?"
"Do you need us to get rid of him for you?" Becca asks, less gently.
"It's fine," I say, distracted. There are so many things I could say to Jesse. So many things I want to say, starting with, how's your girlfriend, you fucking cheater? But my mind is spinning out in so many different directions that all I can do is repeat, "The news?"
"They arrested your mother three days ago," Jesse says. "It's over, Ronan."
I laugh. I can't help it! It's so ridiculous that it has to be some sort of fucked-up joke. "What are you talking about?"
"You were right. The whole company is crooked. The Feds pinned her for fraud, tax evasion... it's all over the news. It's bad. It's really bad. You didn't leave a phone number, but I managed to get an address from your dad. What the hell are you doing in California?"
I legitimately don't know how to respond to this. "Surfing?"
"This isn't funny, Ronan!" Jesse exclaims. His distress is so over-the-top, so comical, that I feel another bubble of hysterical laughter rise in my throat, threatening to pop. "You're lucky I got here before the FBI. I think you might be in serious trouble."
"No, there must be some misunderstanding --"
He stuffs a newspaper into my hands. "Front page, right column. Read it."
Too bewildered to argue, I unfold the newspaper and glance over the articles. My mother's name jumps out at me almost immediately. Lockwood CEO Faces Claims of Fraud, Insider Trading. There's more information in the subtitle, but I can't bear to read it. I hand the paper back to Jesse.
"I tried to warn you," he says miserably. "I sent letters."
Letters that ended up in a fireplace. "How long have you known?"
"Only a few days. I booked a flight as soon as the news hit the papers."
Shit. If this has been going on for days, my parents must be losing their minds. "What am I supposed to do, Jesse?" I ask, wishing I didn't sound so desperate.
He gives me a look that's almost pitying. "I don't know."
The line moves forward, but I don't budge. My legs feel like they're sinking into the concrete.
"Is there someone you can call, Ronan?" Becca asks quietly. "Your parents, maybe?"
"I don't want to speak to them right now. I don't --" The starts to feel thinner around me. I try to take a deep breath, but that just makes my lungs squeeze tighter. "No," I choke out. "I don't know. I never thought this would happen."
Jesse casts an anxious glance at the customers waiting behind us. Our conversation is starting to attract attention. "Please, Ronan, is there somewhere we can talk in private?"
I open my mouth to reply, and find, for maybe the first time ever, that I have nothing to say. How the hell am I supposed to explain this mess to Finn and Becca -- sorry, be back in a jiffy, just need to make sure I'm not being investigated by the FBI for criminal conspiracy?
Becca extends her hand, as if reaching out to comfort me, then thinks better of it. She gives me a slight nod, as if to say, do what you have to do.
And then there's Finn, who's staring at me as if I've just been shot. Again. Honestly, taking a bullet to the shoulder would be less painful than trying to talk my way out of this -- and even if I tried, would he ever look at me the same again?
Is Jesse your girlfriend?
Something in my chest twists, then snaps.
"Yeah," I say. "I think I know a place."
***
We walk the three blocks to the Super 8 in silence. Jesse struggles with the strap of his duffel bag, his forehead already dripping with sweat. I don't waste my breath asking if he needs help. He can Pony Express his bag back to New York for all I care.
The gate is locked, but it pops open with a little encouragement from my shoulder. Thankfully, it's too cloudy for a pool day, so we have the space to ourselves.
Jesse drops his bag on the ground and collapses into a lounge chair. "I can't believe people actually live here," he groans, wiping his face on his shirt. I ignore the flash of tanned skin, the muscular lines. "I feel like I'm being microwaved."
I sink into the seat next to him, adjusting my sunglasses. "You get used to it."
"Why did you come here, Ronan? I thought you were planning to stay home." Jesse flashes me a concerned look, as if choosing to spend the summer away from the city is a verifiable symptom of madness, and it's such a New Yorker thing to do that I almost smile.
Almost.
"My friend from Lightlake invited me," I say. He makes a face. "What? I thought you'd be happy to hear I'm hanging with a different crowd. You hated my school friends."
"Mikey got busted for selling pot, and I'm pretty sure Elvis dropped out to work at a record store. Sorry for not being their biggest fan."
"You could just admit that you missed me."
Jesse scratches the back of his head. "I thought you weren't getting my letters. Why didn't you write back?"
"Too busy engaging in criminal activities with my delinquent friends." Every time I blink, I see that damn newspaper article, the words blazing across the inside of my eyelids. I need to get my mind off the company. I need to think about anything else. "How's Margot, by the way?"
Jesse makes a frustrated noise. "Can you please not bring that up? It was a mistake. I don't know what we were thinking." We, not him, as if I'm the one responsible for all this. He starts pacing the length of the pool, hands jammed firmly into his pockets, cross necklace bouncing against his chest. "Why do you want to talk about Margot, anyway? Shouldn't you be worried about the company?"
"The papers blow everything out of proportion," I bluff. Part of me is still scrabbling desperately for a solution, an answer, the magic words that will make this all go away. "I'm sure they'll drop the charges in a few days, and everything will be fine --"
"It's not fucking fine!" Jesse shouts. His eyes dart nervously around the empty pool area as if he expects someone to jump out and scold him for swearing. In a more subdued voice, he continues, "Don't you get it? Nothing about this is fine. The company is burning down, and if you're not careful, you'll go up in flames with it."
"All the Wall Street companies are corrupt, Jesse, it's not Watergate. I hope you didn't fly all the way here to tell me that my mother likes her coffee with a side of insider trading."
"I could care less about the company, Ronan. I flew here because I was worried about you." Jesse takes a deep breath, as if bracing himself for what he says next. "I know you were involved in a cover-up last summer. For once, just tell me the truth."
I lean forward. "You first."
"I've told you everything I know! What more do you want from me?"
"I want you to be honest for once in your fucking life!" I exclaim. "I want you to tell Margot that you've been cheating on her all year. I want you to admit that you like me!" All of the words I've been holding back since our first kiss at New Year's Eve ignite inside of me like a Molotov cocktail, and then they fucking combust. "Four years. Four years of my life I wasted on you! Waiting for you to give me -- something you're not capable of giving!"
"Really? Your mother was just arrested by the FBI, and this is what you're fixated on?" Jesse shakes his head. "Your priorities are so out of whack, Ronan."
"Don't lecture me about priorities. And don't try to tell me that you flew all the way to California out of a misplaced sense of concern. You don't care about me -- you've only ever wanted to use me!" I wait until he's looking me in the eyes to say, "I'm just someone you like to kiss when you get bored of pretending to be straight."
"That's not true. I have a girlfriend. I'm not like you."
"Do you really believe that?"
"It doesn't matter what I believe. I don't get a choice."
"Bullshit. You just don't want to admit that you're a coward."
Jesse's expression hardens, freezing over like ice on the Hudson. "Not all of us have an inheritance to fall back on, Ronan. My family would disown me if they found out about us. I'd be left with nothing. You have no idea how lucky you are --"
"You don't know anything about me. Why do you think I went to Lightlake? For the kicks? Because Sabrina asked nicely? Why do you think the FBI isn't knocking on your door, even though you were there the night I crashed that car, and everyone saw us together? You think I'm lucky? Your life is a fucking miracle!"
"That's not --" He shakes his head again, bewildered. "What are you even saying?"
I stand up and walk over to him. I think he takes this as a challenge, because he steps forward, leaving us only inches apart. I can see the scar on his jaw from when he tripped playing soccer in sixth grade. The sweaty strands of hair sticking to his forehead. "I'm saying you should count your blessings, Jesse, that I'm a better liar than you."
This makes his eyes widen. "You'd tell the Feds I was an accomplice?"
"Wasn't planning on it, but I appreciate how quickly you jumped to that conclusion." I let out a humorless laugh. "Yeah, I covered for my mother last summer. I read the audit. I knew Simon was planning to report her to the SEC and I crashed his car to give her time to cover it all up. You wanted the truth? My confession? Here it is. I don't regret it. Any of it. And I don't feel guilty, not at all, because at least I didn't drag anyone else down with me. At least I owned up to my mistakes."
Jesse has the decency to look somewhat ashamed. "You never told me."
I shrug. "I didn't think open communication was our style."
"I'm sorry about the company, okay? And I'm sorry if you went to that camp because of me. But, Ronan, I..." He speaks so softly, it's almost a whisper. "I really like Margot. I can't tell her the truth about us. It would break her heart. I want to be -- I want to be with her."
"Prove it," I say.
I step forward and kiss him, angrily, on the mouth. I feel him flinch at the force of it, and then -- so goddamn predictable -- he leans in, closing the space between our bodies. My back slams against the brick wall of the motel. I kiss him so hard, I taste iron in my mouth.
Fucking Judas. He thinks he can forget about me so easily? As if I haven't known him for four years, haven't spent the last one memorizing the shape of his mouth? I'll show him what he's missing. I bet when he kisses Margot he thinks about kissing me.
"That's what I thought," I say, shoving him away. "Some girlfriend, huh?"
Jesse pushes me back even harder, and I laugh as I hit the wall, my teeth rattling with the impact. The bullet wound in my shoulder twinges in pain.
"I didn't spend five hours in La Guardia to deal with shit like this," he snaps, jabbing a finger in my face. "Fuck you, Ronan."
"You wish," I say. I'm still laughing. It's starting to make me lightheaded. "Run along and play house with your girlfriend. We're done, Jesse. We're done."
That's all it takes. Jesse gives me one last furious look before he stomps off and grabs his bag, slamming the gate shut behind him.
I walk over to the lounge chair and sit down. Then I get up and walk back to the wall and hurl my fist at the bricks.
"Shit!" It hurts more than I thought it would. I shake my hand out, knuckles already bleeding. Now both halves of my body can suffer equally. Misery loves company.
The pain doesn't solve anything, though. Jesse is still gone. My mother is still going to jail. If my family doesn't sell me out first, it'll only be a matter of time before the Feds learn about my role in the cover-up. And then it will be game over. For all of us.
I limp over to the pool and wash the blood robotically from my hand. Tendrils of red snake through the cloudy water, the chlorine stinging my fresh scrapes.
I can fix this. I need to fix this. But how?
I force myself to stand up and head over to the payphone on the other side of the motel. There's a few loose coins in my pocket, enough to call my dad's office in New York. I punch his number in from muscle memory.
"Hello?" It's the first time I've heard my dad, not his secretary, pick up the phone. "Who is this? Listen, if this is the New York Post again, I'm not saying shit to you vultures, and I've already told you where you can shove your exclusive interview --"
"Dad, it's me. It's Ronan."
The line goes silent. For a second, I'm convinced my father has hung up on me, too paranoid to talk on an unsecured phone. Then he starts speaking Cantonese too rapidly for me to understand. When he finally switches back to English, he's mid-sentence: "-- and I booked you a flight for tonight so you can see your mother before the trial --"
"What?" I don't mean to interrupt, but he's not making any sense. "I can't be in New York tonight. I'm in California right now."
"That's why I bought you the first ticket home," he says impatiently. "Your flight leaves at midnight from San Bernardino. I expect you to be on that plane, Ronan."
"And if I'm not?"
"What are you talking about? The company needs you. Your mother needs you."
That's when it all makes sense. The only time Sabrina ever needed me was when she needed a human-shield. No wonder my father answered the phone so quickly; I bet he's been waiting for this call all day. Waiting for me to offer myself up like a sacrificial lamb.
"So," I say, dragging it out, "she wants me to lie for her again?"
"Ronan! You know you can't say things like that on the phone." His voice drops to a panicked whisper. "You never know who could be listening. The FBI isn't playing around, they'll be demanding their pound of flesh. Wall Street is a fucking bloodbath right now. If you would just come home, you'd understand how precarious the situation is --"
"Okay," I say. "I'll do it."
Another pause. Clearly, my dad was expecting more of an argument. I don't blame him. This is the most constructive talk we've had in years. "Really?"
"Why not? Like you said, the company needs me."
If he picks up on the irony in my tone, he doesn't mention it. "Right. We'll have to get our stories straight, of course. I doubt the Feds will believe a teenager could do so much damage, but they're desperate for a scapegoat, anything to make the bureau look good. We can tell them you gained access to company funds through an internship program; got in over your head, made some unwise decisions. Our legal team is polishing the details. It will all be very convincing, you won't need to improvise anything, just stick to the script. You're a minor. They'll go easy on you."
"I'm seventeen," I remind him. "What if they decide to try me as an adult?"
"Oh, they won't," my dad says, with such laissez-faire confidence that I can't help but wonder how many officials the company has bribed in the past.
I press a few fingers against my temple. This conversation is giving me a headache. "The FBI isn't going to buy a script, dad. They'll want a paper trail. Bank statements, hiring records, invoices -- hell, even the receipts for your designer suits. Your case is gonna fall apart real quickly when they find out I never worked for the company."
"But you did," he says, with a lawyer's conviction. "For the past three years, you've been interning for our financial department, delivering coffees and earning fifty dollars a week -- money that gets deposited directly into your savings account, which, for some reason, you just emptied." He pauses, letting his words sink in. "You should really be more responsible about your spending, son."
Damn it. I knew I should've been smarter about the savings account. Still -- "That was twenty thousand dollars. Sabrina is on the hook for millions."
"No, she isn't. When the Feds dig deeper, they'll find three credit cards registered in your name, as well as millions of dollars in cash withdrawals. You're also the owner of a brand-new Ferrari and an oceanfront property in Massachusetts. Do you know how easy it is to fake a signature these days? I certainly don't."
I stare at the graffiti scrawled on the payphone box. "You set me up."
"Set you up? No. This is just how the game is played, son. Don't take it personally." My dad pauses again. I'm half-expecting him to apologize, but all he says is, "If it makes you feel any better, it wasn't my idea. Your mother was the one who insisted we have a back-up plan in case the company ever got into trouble."
I don't know how to respond. It doesn't make me feel better.
"You know we'll take care of you no matter what, right?" He lets out an easy laugh. I don't know who he thinks he's fooling -- even from two thousand miles away, I can tell that he's lying. "We have connections in the courts. The Lockwood name still means something in New York."
I nod, picking at the dried blood on my knuckles. "Sure."
"The judge will go easy on you. I'll make sure of it. And, when this whole ordeal is over, you'll be the successor to one of America's wealthiest CEOs. Think about it, son! Your mother would be so proud."
"I'll be on the plane tomorrow," I say. "I promise, dad, I'll --"
A recorded voice cuts through the call. "Please deposit twenty-five cents to continue the call. Please deposit --"
The line goes dead.
I hang up.