“Oh my God!” I yelp. “Gatsby, what are you doing?”

“Stay out of this, Annabelle,” he says.

I look at Atticus, who simply shakes his head and folds his arms across his chest.

“Can we please have one meeting that doesn’t erupt in violence?” he asks rhetorically. I stare at him in disbelief.

“Annabelle, is it?” he continues. “You probably don’t know this, but my brothers have been at each other’s throats like this since they were children. I’m just sorry Gatsby dragged you into this.”

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” the shorter brother climbed back up to his feet.

“Man, you’re so lucky that you’re the fucking face of our company. Otherwise, I’d bash your head in for this!”

“Yeah, right,” Gatsby says mockingly.

I want him to stop, to apologize, but before I can get a word to him, his brother lunges at him and knocks him on his back. They start to tussle and hit each other in the face. I try to get in the middle, but someone pulls me away from them.

“Ms. Annabelle, please, don’t get involved,” he whispers. And I realize that the voice belongs to the front desk employee, who is still in the room.

Atticus jumps in the middle and pushes his brothers apart. It takes all the strength he has, but because he’s taller than both of them, they respond.

When they are finally separated, I see that Gatsby’s bleeding from his left eye and his lip is busted.

“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.