I swallow my pride and text Dane Friday morning. When that goes unanswered, I assume he’s just busy with work—or whatever it is he does on a Friday—and send one that includes an actual apology. Maybe the first was too casual. But I work through the day, and when I’m finally off, I have nothing new in my phone other than a text from Lynn telling me she’s going stir-crazy working from home and wants me to meet up with her. I’m only too happy to oblige.

I settle for a bottle of gas station pinot grigio, thanks to Kirkwood’s being closed early for some undisclosed reason, and when I show up to Lynn’s, she’s sitting in the middle of her barn, surrounded by spare pieces of furniture and cans of paint, dusted with wood shavings.

“Aren’t you supposed to be finishing a set for the Jordans?” I interrupt her as she’s scrolling rabidly through her phone.

“Oh, praise Jesus. I’ve locked myself in here all day to get this finished, and I’ve had no less than ten conversations with myself in which I’ve debated the merits of drunk furniture-refurbishing.” She tosses her phone back over her shoulder and rests her elbows on her knees, making a face that says she’s at her wits’ end.

“Okay, well, get some glasses and let’s handle it.”

Lynn throws her hands in the air in response. “Where have you been all my life?”

“Failing at marriage. Now, do you have cups in here, or do I need to get them from the house?”

Lynn describes where in the kitchen her wine glasses are, and I fetch them while she puts the final touches on an antique dresser. When I return and give her a topped-off glass, she thanks me by chugging half of it in two huge gulps.

“I see you’ve also been staying hydrated today.”

“My physical health is a little low on my list of priorities at the moment,” she quips.

“As well as your mental health, I see.”

“Well, it took me forever to find the right crib for the Jordans’ nursery, so I’m running a little low on time. I should’ve delivered this stuff a week ago.”

“Oh, what did you end up finding?” I ask, scanning the room. Although baby-related items are still a sore subject for me, I can’t deny my curiosity when it comes to other couples’ nursery themes. One of my favorite parts of expecting a baby, besides the whole growing a human being that was half-me, was dreaming of the room he or she would grow up in.

“That right there,” Lynn says, pointing with her pinky.

I follow the direction of her finger, and my eyes land on some contraption of iron that looks like it might’ve been involved in either medieval torture sessions or criminal interrogations, I’m not sure which.

“That?” I ask, and she nods. I take a long pull of wine and swish it around in my mouth a bit. “That’s a baby cage.”

“Shut up. It’s classic. And it will look better when it’s painted.”

“Fine. I’ll ‘trust the process,’ or whatever it is you artsy-fartsy people say. Where can I start?”

Shoving the tiniest power tool I think I’ve ever laid eyes on into my hands, she pushes me in the direction of an end table. “Knock yourself out.”

Lynn turns up her music, and I get to work sanding the old finish off the table. Despite the ear-splitting volume, my thoughts circle restlessly and soon land back on the subject of Dane. I debate bringing it up to Lynn, but being as forthcoming as she is, I’m kind of afraid of what she might say. Or what I might do in response to what she might say. I don’t need to get involved with anyone I would classify as unpredictable, but if I were to believe the things Marissa said, Dane is someone who was dealt a shitty hand of cards and has never been given the opportunity to redeem himself. I think of the situation with Caroline and some of my old friends, pondering how I would feel if they forever defined me by my mistakes—namely, the dissolution of my marriage—and refused to see the good in me.

I used to be someone who only saw the good in people. I was forever the optimist, until Reed. Reed was the one before Jenson, who destroyed my self-esteem and primed me for years of believing myself inadequate. Then Jenson happened, and while he invested years into building me up, I still managed to come out the other end of our relationship feeling jaded. I was good enough for a few things, but not for the effort it took to be sober. Not for improving his life for the future. And that, above all, made me feel the most worthless.

I can run my cynical inner-commentary all I want, but at the end of the day, I feel bereft. Barren. Like a failure. I failed to persuade my husband to put down the bottle, and I failed to keep our baby safe. I couldn’t even keep my friends on my side. I did all that, and now I’m trying to fend off a person who has been nothing but kind and helpful to me. Maybe I’m destined to pulverize the relationships around me forever.

It occurs to me as I brush sawdust off my pants that this is something I can fix. Jenson might have to fix himself, but Dane . . . Dane is someone I shoved away before even finding out what kind of person he was. Maybe the fact that I can salvage this is why I’m so preoccupied with him in the first place. To prove to myself that I can nurture something, maybe. Give something a chance to flourish.

“Jesus, what are you thinking about over there? Every funeral you’ve ever been to?” Lynn calls, and I realize I’ve been running the sander over the same dull spot for who knows how long. I switch off the power and sit back on my heels.

“I was actually thinking of last Thursday.”

A crease forms between Lynn’s brows as she thinks back to it. “Which part?”

“Mostly the Cross-family bashing that took place. It made me rethink my relationship with Dane. I told him last weekend I didn’t need his help with the house anymore, and I’ve been feeling guilty ever since. I don’t know why I’m still stuck on it.”

“Maybe because you’re not a soulless mom-bot who’s content to tear other people apart all the time to make yourself feel better,” she says with just a tinge of humor.

“True. Most of the time, anyway. I just don’t know what to believe. My neighbor seems to think along the same lines as you do—that Dane isn’t the person everyone makes him out to be.”

“He’s not some predator, Rae, he’s just a guy who can’t outrun the rumors. Think of how shitty it would be if everyone judged you solely based on your mistakes.”

“I have, and I know how that feels. That’s why I feel so shitty now.”

Lynn rests her brush across a can of paint before pegging me with an analytical stare. “Let me ask you this. Why the fascination? Is it really weighing on your conscience that much, or is there something else inspiring this?”

“Definitely guilt,” I say, but that’s a lie. I know it, and I’m sure Lynn knows it, but I don’t feel comfortable acknowledging that right now. There’s something that flits around in my stomach when I think of Dane, but I’ve thus far chosen to ignore it. My path to self-discovery won’t be put on hold for a man, I won’t let it, and my emotions feel like they’ve been run over a cheese grater for the past year. I don’t want to subject them to more abuse my allowing them to hover around someone whose edges might be rougher than mine.

“I texted him a couple of times today to apologize, but he didn’t respond.”

“Can you blame him? He’s been crucified for years in this town. Most of the people he knows talk shit about him, and the ones who actually try to get to know him only do so out of curiosity. Did you know that someone once asked, straight to his face, in the middle of the café, if he killed that man Dalton Briggs a few years ago? They accused him of hiding behind Trey.”

I’m at a loss for words, so I just shake my head.

“It’s not often that someone new shows up here, much less someone halfway interesting, so I’m sure it was refreshing for him to meet you. You were like a blank slate; unmarred by everyone else’s opinions. Until you weren’t.”

My sigh drags from my lips. Now I really feel ashamed. It’s impossible to be the bold, fearless girl I was before Jenson, or before Reed, but I can at least try to be fair. Allow Dane to write his own narrative instead of believing the one I’ve written in my head based solely on rumors. “I came here with the goal in mind to stay out of everything, but I got mixed up in it anyway.”

Lynn waves me off. “Ehh, that was nothing. It’s natural to believe the worst about people, especially when the stories come from that crew. It’s like, you know their sources of information are sketchy, but they’re so damn dramatic that they’re convincing. I learned that in high school. But you’re not past the point of no return, yet. Dane doesn’t know how to hold a grudge. He’ll come around. Just be genuine.”

“I can’t if he refuses to answer me.” I down the rest of my wine like I’m seeking answers at the bottom of the glass.

“Well, you can’t avoid anyone in this town for long, as you’ve already learned.”

“I have a feeling he could if he tried.”

Lynn stretches her arms above her head, before picking up her brush and resuming her task. “You could just show up at his place, you know. He’s done it to you. And if you end up on his doorstep, he’s basically obligated to hear you out.”

  The knot of stress resting just at the base of my neck seems to intensify in that moment, and I roll my shoulders to relieve it. “I have no clue where the guy lives, and besides, it’s not like I’m going to just show up at his house unannounced.”

“What are you talking about? You’ve been out to the shop.”

“Yeah, I didn’t stop by his house while I was at it.”

She rolls her eyes. “You think they just have that place out in the middle of nowhere for nothing? Their house is out behind the shop. You just keep following the driveway.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose in disbelief. “Are you telling me they live in their junkyard?”

Lynn presses her lips into a thin line and shakes her head, suppressing laughter. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

 

 

I move mechanically as I’m getting ready, like I’m having an out-of-body experience and watching as someone else manipulates my limbs. I put on a dress and take it right off. I’m not desperate. I try a top and jeans, but the top is way too booby for my purposes. It says “come and get it,” and that’s not the message I want to convey. I pull on a v-neck tee and cringe. I look like an off-duty elementary-school teacher. I’ve never regretted the decision to chop off my hair more.

On my way out of Nashville, I gave my stylist free reign to do whatever he wanted. He transformed my long, lightened locks into a dark auburn lob, and it looked so strikingly different that I loved it instantly. A fresh ’do for a fresh start. Not now. Now, I feel like a teacher preparing for a parent conference, only what I’m really doing is showing up to a house that may very well turn out to be a single-wide drug haven out in the woods. I know I vowed to be less judgmental, but the place is sharing property with an auto shop.

I curl strands of my hair and brush it out into messy waves, before pulling on a flannel and the jeans I kicked off earlier, stuffing my feet into ankle boots, and grabbing my car keys. I need to do this before I find eighty more excuses not to.

The night is moonless, and the darkness of the surrounding countryside gives my mission a sinister undertone. This is starting to look like the beginning of a horror film, starring me. I don’t realize I’m going twenty miles-per-hour down the road leading to Cross Automotive until someone behind me flashes their brights and honks. I guess small-town courtesy only extends so far. Luckily, his driveway appears ahead. I’m really doing this.

It's so dark I can only see what’s immediately in front of me. Ghostly, hulking black shapes are the only suggestion that a maze of scrap metal sits just off to my right. It would be easy to get lost out here, even just off the main road, so I focus on staying within the boundaries of the gravel driveway as I round the bend and pass the spectral shell of the now-empty auto shop. As Lynn said it would, the driveway continues through the patches of pines, like a ribbon of white unfurling before my headlights. When I catch up to the vehicle in front of me, I slow down to follow them through an automatic gate—much more technologically advanced, and far less rusted, than the one right off the farm road. Interesting. I didn’t expect anyone else to be out here, but, then again, I didn’t really know what to expect at all.

That gate is the only interruption in a fence line that disappears into the distance; the kind tall enough to keep deer or other wild game in. When the car in front of me pulls off of the gravel to park, I follow suit, gasping audibly when I look up and discover just where I’ve ended up.

The house just beyond the sprawling, well-kept front yard is no trailer. Strategic up-lighting gives me a dramatic first impression of a low-slung, modern construction consisting of concrete and smooth wood. Gardens border the flagstone walk out front; plots of gravel and xeriscaping more reminiscent of Scottsdale, Arizona, not rural Tennessee. It’s the last kind of dwelling I would’ve associated with the Cross family, and it makes me wonder why Dane would ever choose to spend his Saturday at my place. I also remind myself to ask Lynn why she didn’t better prepare me for this. No wonder she looked so pleased with herself.

Without any better ideas, I follow the couple that stepped out of the vehicle in front of me, too distracted to dwell on their expensive attire and the fact that I look like the groundskeeper in comparison. With each step I take, my fear dissolves, and the intrinsic pull inside me grows stronger. The need to figure out what’s going on, how this all adds up.

My eyes travel up the solid expanse of the home, a place that, upon closer inspection, looks more like a fortress. I’m not the most economically savvy person, but even I can tell there’s no way someone who owns a secluded auto shop would be able to afford a place like this without a side job or three. The strangeness of the whole situation rises around me like water in a tank, apprehension lapping at my heels. If I turn around now, I can go home, change into pajamas, and crawl into bed. Just me and my loneliness. And the sound of my past echoing in the empty rooms around me.

But I keep walking because curiosity grows bigger than my caution. It is as tangible as two physical hands, pushing me in the small of my back, urging me toward the answers I hope I’ll find, and as I walk inside the towering set of solid-wood front doors, my subconscious eggs me on.

Go ahead, Raven. Let me show you a reason to give this guy the boot and you an excuse to shut everyone out again.

The words provoke me, and I shove down the urge to assume the negative. I’m in an entry hall with smooth maple floors and mostly bare, cream walls. The couple in front of me has disappeared, just the sound of their retreating footsteps to let me know they were even around in the first place. The wall opposite me is one I would reach in just a few strides. Less a wall and more a window, made up of solid glass. I can see the yard sloping beyond and the glow from the house reflecting off smooth water—a pool. Though my reflection is mostly distorted in the window, lit from above by a chandelier of twisted, silver metal, I can see the nerves written plainly across my shadowed face. Taking a moment, I arrange my expression into one that looks less out of place, but I can’t do anything about my outfit choice at this point.

To my left, the hall only extends about thirty more feet or so, but music and voices filter from the right, where the hall continues even further. It sounds like a party or a gathering of some sort. My suspicion mounts as I continue toward the noise, traveling slowly past enormous paintings—modern things with muted colors slashed across them—and alcoves in the walls housing sculptures that look like they could be obscene if I could only tell what they were. I try to envision Trey or Dane in a place like this and find it difficult. I wouldn’t have guessed that either of them were curators of modern art, but then I remember there is one last Cross I know nothing about.

I approach a sunken living room—more walls of glass, low, leather furniture, pale wood tables with more art or expensive-looking books atop them, and a gleaming piano near the back of the room. At this point, it’s no longer the furniture or the features of the house that hold my attention. It’s the people. There are around two dozen in attendance—both male and female, though it seems like the latter outnumber the former—and most are dressed in a way that leads me to believe they aren’t from around here. Or at least, I haven’t seen anyone like them since I arrived. There are tight dresses and shiny shoes, large flashy watches and jewelry winking in the dim lighting.

A few here and there are more inconspicuously dressed—dark clothing that would fit in on any city street—scrawls of ink across their skin and gazes flitting, less at ease than their more upscale companions. But no matter where I look, I don’t see Dane. I cast my eyes down so I won’t draw attention, but every now and then I’ll try to glance at the face that belongs to the pair of legs before me to see if I recognize anyone. I’m mostly ignored until I meet the eyes of Trey Cross near the bar to my right, and he stares right back at me with instant recognition and a little bit of what the hell are you doing here? My inner commentary goes a little something like this: Ohshitohshitohshitohshit.

Before I can spin around and retreat the way I came, he’s pushed away from the countertop and the busty brunette he’s chatting up, and he crosses the room in two deliberate strides, catching me by the elbow just outside the kitchen.

“What the fuck?” he says. An angry statement posed as a question.

“Yeah, whaaat the fuck.” I snap my mouth closed, cursing my brain’s inability to think of anything witty when I need it most.

“What are you doing here?” He drops my arm and shoves his hand into his pocket. I didn’t notice before, at the shop, how expensively styled his hair was. Nor was he wearing the watch now gleaming at his wrist. The man looming before me now would look right at home in that Mercedes.

Meanwhile, the guests go on around us, as if whispered confrontations are standard in settings like this. What is this, exactly?

“I’m looking for Dane,” I say, my tone hardening into one that’s more authoritative.

“That may be the case. But why are you here? He had a phone, last time I checked.” Trey appears casual, leaning against the wall beside one of the paintings, but I get the sense he’s luring me into a false sense of security. I recognize the predatory gleam in his eyes.

“Couldn’t get a hold of him,” I respond lamely, like I don’t know Dane’s avoiding me.

“Hmm.” He takes a sip of something that smells oaky. Bourbon, I would guess. “Did you come here with someone?” He’s sizing me up with his eyes, all but putting his hands on me and feeling my pulse to check for lies. A sudden cackle makes me jump, but Trey doesn’t even flinch.

Everything I’ve learned thus far tells me this is not a family who swallows excuses and shits out praise. No. I think honesty would work better in this situation.

“I followed someone in. Didn’t even know this shindig was happening.” I circle my finger around the room for good measure, pasting a bemused expression on my face. “I really just wanted to find Dane. Have you seen him?”

Trey sneers. “My little brother is a party pooper these days. You’ll probably find him pouting somewhere.” I could’ve snorted with laughter hearing a grown man say the words “party pooper,” but he is all seriousness. He lifts his shoulders in a careless shrug. “But hey, you’re a guest. First time, right? Let me make you a drink.”

I swallow my retort. I was on the verge of giving up and leaving, but something tells me that if I persist, I’ll soon gain some freedom to roam the house and find whom it is I’m looking for. And maybe discover what the hell these people are doing while I’m at it.

Noticing my reluctance, he says, “Come on. Most of these girls have been dying for me to do the same thing.” As if to prove his point, a girl passing by reaches out a hand and runs it down his back, over his ass, and is pulled stumbling away by her more sober companion.

“I would love one,” I lie.

I’m led through the kitchen—all concrete countertops and sleek stainless appliances—to the bar, and I stop short when we reach the expanse of liquor bottles displayed on glass shelves. I can’t even tell what most of them are.

I scan my surroundings to occupy my time while Trey mixes something in a glass, hoping Dane will show up and whisk me the hell out of here. At first it’s just a curious glance from one girl, then two, and soon I’m getting all the looks from females and males alike, ranging from confusion to nastiness. I’ve just put myself on their radar without meaning to. No worries, ladies. He’s all yours.

“Some party,” I say, ignoring the hyenas. “What’s the occasion?” I want to find out more, and I hope it’s not obvious.

“Just a little networking,” Trey says leisurely. He hands me a crystal glass, which I regard warily.

“What is this?”

“I didn’t roofie it, if that’s what you’re worried about.” His off-center grin reveals a sharp canine.

I take a sip. I’m not a big drinker, aside from the odd pinot binge, but I am at a party. I haven’t been drinking, I’m not dressed for this setting, and I don’t want to do anything else that might raise suspicion.

“Thank you,” I say as the carbonation fizzes on my tongue. Gin and tonic.

“Sure.” Then, in response to my wandering eyes, he says, “Guest house,” and tilts his head toward the hallway he just caught me in. I nod like I know exactly what that means and waste no time fleeing from the kitchen.

By the time I arrive back at the wall of glass, I’ve drained half my drink already. I see that there’s an open sliver on one side, muted conversation and just a hint of the sweet smell of the outdoors drifting through it. What I thought was a wall now appears to be a door. I place a hand on the glass and push, and the entire pane rotates, swiveling on a set of hidden hinges until an opening forms that’s large enough for me to pass through. I land on pale stone, a terrace of some sort surrounding the pool. Where the patio area ends, the backyard slopes downward, ending at a shadowy line of oaks and pines. Just before the trees, I spot squares of hazy light—windows. I can just make out a squat, single-story structure I didn’t notice before, about twenty yards away. The guest house, I assume.

I press onward, breezing past an outdoor kitchen featuring a stainless grill. I can imagine that if it were summer, the party would be spilling outdoors. Currently, there are only a handful of people laughing and speaking in low voices, the ends of their cigarettes—or whatever it is they’re smoking—aglow in the darkness. I keep my eyes ahead and trudge to the guest house.

A wedge of light slices across the lawn from the crack in the front door, open just a sliver like someone walked in and didn’t kick it shut hard enough. I push inward slowly, not sure what I’ll find. An extension of the party? A twenty-person orgy that’ll leave me scrambling for bleach and hand sanitizer?

It doesn’t occur to me to knock until after I’ve pushed it the rest of the way open. There’s a game being noisily announced on TV, but other voices attract my attention. A woman—tight dress, shoes off—is leaning her hip against the counter of a small kitchenette, as relaxed as if she belongs here. But they haven’t noticed me yet because her back is to me, and just past her is an outline I recognize. Dane’s facing away from me, standing over a stove, murmuring his assent to whatever it is she’s saying.

“I told her Trey wouldn’t want her here, and she didn’t listen to me, did she? Nobody does. She’ll learn, though, just as soon as one of them pops off like they always do and Trey tells ’em to kick rocks,” she’s saying, flipping dramatic brunette curls over her shoulder.

I’ve come to a stop just inside the door, hand clutched around the perspiring glass of liquor, when Dane turns around with a skillet in hand and spots me over the girl’s shoulder. He barely responds, just sets the pan down on an oven mitt and braces his forearms atop the counter, watching me. The brunette turns, her own eyebrows raising to her hairline. Her expression and general appearance give me Sarah Michelle Gellar circa Cruel Intentions vibes.

“Hi,” I manage to say. Then, for lack of anything else, “Surprise.”

She smiles at me, all underhanded and demeaning. “Ohhh, keeping the bench stocked. I see. Come find me when you’re finished, Dane,” she says, grabbing her stilettos out of an armchair and walking past me, so close that I get a whiff of her cheap perfume. That cloying scent of roses lingers even after she’s out the door.

Dane’s enamoring voice cuts through the silence. “You in my house. Imagine that.” He’s not angry, per se. Just contemplative. Resolute. I approach slowly, setting my empty glass beside the sink.

“I followed someone through the gate.”

“Mhmm.” He’s looking at me like I’m something he can’t read, a book in a different language. It’s not totally unfamiliar; Jenson used that look often. I suspect he’s fishing for words, and right now, the gin is going straight to my head and all I feel like doing is talking. That, on the other hand, is unfamiliar.

I track him to the door with my eyes as he glances through the blinds on the side window before locking it. The hollow click of the bolt seems to echo with meaning. It’s then that I realize my mistake. I’ve walked right into a place where he has the clear advantage—as if he needed another—and now I’ve allowed him to come between me and my only way out. I don’t know him, I don’t know if the things I’ve heard are true, and the last time I spoke to him, I likely offended him. The problem is, I’m not as daunted as I probably should be.