3. It’s the Honey
It’s the Honey
Josie
Despite my vehement protests of innocence, I am—for the first and hopefully last time ever —wearing a pair of handcuffs in the back of a police cruiser, sweating profusely.
To be clear, I’m not talking metaphoric sweat. Jail time is not a legitimate concern of mine.
I don’t think .
No, I am sweating literally and to an embarrassing degree because Officer Eyebrows left the car engine off with only the front windows down while they were getting Wyatt’s autograph.
At least, that’s what it looks like they’re doing. I’m only able to twist so far with my hands cuffed behind my back. My line of sight can just barely make out Wyatt with a permanent marker in hand and a permanent scowl on his face while the officers stand on the porch with goofy smiles.
It’s so very Wyatt. Just like this whole experience.
At first, when the two cops jumped out of their vehicles and ordered me to drop my weapon and put my hands up, I chalked their overzealous response up to boredom.
I drove through the postage-stamp town of Kilmarnock, made up of about four blocks of adorable storefronts, boasting antiques, restaurants, and things branded with the word rivah .
A trespassing call is probably the most exciting event the cops have had in months.
I figured Wyatt would clear this up a little more quickly.
We’ve known each other for years through Jacob.
Disliked each other for just as long. But this is taking it a bit too far.
A prank gone wrong sounds even less likely than a misunderstanding.
Wyatt is not known for his sense of humor.
And the handcuffs digging into my wrists don’t feel like a joke.
What I know for sure is that when my brother gets here, he’ll kill Wyatt, and I will kill my brother.
Killing isn’t really my style, though, so maybe instead I’ll find one of those zoos where you can pay to name a cockroach after your ex before it’s fed to a monitor lizard or something.
I’ll submit both Wyatt’s and Jacob’s names.
When Officer Eyebrows passes my door and climbs into the front seat, reality sinks in.
I’m so confused I barely register the relief of the air-conditioning blasting as he turns on the car. “Wait—you’re actually arresting me? He didn’t, I don’t know, decide to drop the bogus charges?”
“Sorry, hon,” Officer Eyebrows says, putting the cruiser in Drive.
“I know him,” I say. “My brother is his agent.”
“I’m sure he is. Make sure you hold on back there. Might be a little bumpy.”
A lovely suggestion when my hands are cuffed behind my back.
I’m honestly stunned. Wyatt saw me walking around this— his?—yard. Called the police on me. And is letting them drive me away.
I know the man never liked me, but this?
There’s always been something hostile between us, ever since the very first time Jacob brought Wyatt home from college for the weekend.
If it were a one-time incident, maybe I could write it off.
Consistently, though, Wyatt finds a way to ruin things: my self-esteem, my birthday dinner, my college graduation. You know—little things like that.
Still, Wyatt and I are not quite Taylor Swift “Bad Blood”– level enemies, so I don’t understand this sudden escalation to having me arrested .
Before now, our interactions have been snarky, though minimal. We give each other a wide berth, even if I’m always half aware of his gray eyes piercing into me, like he’s watching for me to make a mistake.
Jacob has always defended Wyatt, a fact that chaps my hide. Where’s the sibling loyalty? You just don’t understand him , my brother has said more than once.
What’s not to understand? The man is some kind of egotistical sports player who has the attitude of a honey badger with a hangover. And for whatever reason, he seems bound and determined to make me suffer every chance he gets.
“Do you mind not kicking my seat?” the cop asks.
This only makes me want to kick it harder.
Look—I’m not normally the kind of person who enjoys bucking authority.
In our family, that’s always been Jacob’s role, where I’m more of a rule follower.
Not quite a people pleaser, but maybe with people-pleasing tendencies.
I’ve always been polite to police officers in the brief interactions I’ve had with them.
Which is probably why, even though I’ve gotten pulled over twice for speeding, I’ve only ever driven away with warnings.
But after spending at least ten minutes in a hot car, I am plumb out of politeness.
“Oh, sorry.” I don’t even attempt to sound sorry or soften the bite in my tone. “I’m just trying to avoid smashing my head into the window. But if you don’t mind the legal ramifications of me getting a concussion while in custody, that’s cool.”
He slows down. He also glares at me in the rearview mirror.
Then his eyes suddenly widen, those massive eyebrows shooting upward. Without warning, he hits the brakes. Hard enough that I actually do hit my head—my face, really—on the wire mesh separating the front and back seats.
“Was that really necessary?” I ask, but he’s out of the car, leaving the door wide open as his boots crunch on the driveway.
And of course, he turned off the car, which means the air flow stops. Again.
I wiggle to look out the back window, wondering if I have an imprint of the partition on my cheek.
“Oh, now you want to come outside,” I grumble when I see Wyatt standing in the middle of the driveway, talking animatedly to both cops.
I’m shocked to see Wyatt leaning on crutches. Did he get injured? I didn’t hear about it, but I also don’t follow hockey. Jacob knows I’ve never been the least bit interested in updates on his clients. Especially Wyatt. I think it kills Jacob a little bit that I don’t get starstruck.
He doesn’t understand or know why I have an aversion to athletes. No one does. And I’m not about to start explaining.
Still, considering his friendship with Wyatt, an injury seems like something Jacob might have mentioned.
All three men look toward the cruiser I’m in, and when their gazes fall on me, I tilt my chin up in the universal dudebro signal for What’s up . Best I can do in handcuffs.
“Come on, Wyatt,” I mutter. “Before I melt into a puddle, tell the nice officers of the law this is all just a misunderstanding so I can get out of here.”
And that’s exactly what I’ll be doing the moment I’m freed: getting out of here.
I also plan to have a strongly worded conversation with Jacob because what was his endgame here ? Why am I here at Wyatt’s murder cottage while my brother is nowhere to be found? You can’t have a Super Summer Sibling Extravaganza without both siblings.
Wyatt is still having what looks like a heated discussion with the cops. Speaking of heated...A bead of sweat rolls down the center of my spine. People are always going on about why you shouldn’t leave pets in hot cars—not even for five minutes.
But what about innocently accused trespassers? Don’t I have at least as many rights as a dog?!
Maybe I can sue Wyatt for emotional damage.
If the officers leave me here much longer, I’ll tack heatstroke onto the list. I may not have known about the crutches, but Jacob did brag to me about Wyatt’s latest contract with Boston.
He is perfect lawsuit material. And my school nurse salary could do with a little boost.
The two officers suddenly turn and walk toward the cruiser I’m in. Wyatt does not move but continues standing in the driveway, leaning on his crutches, staring at me. Even from here, I can see the hard clench of his jaw.
Like he has any reason to be frustrated.
Then again, he always looks caught in a state of frustration. Or constipation? Maybe for all these years, I’ve misread Wyatt’s expression as open disdain when really, he just has a wicked case of IBS.
If so, serves him right.
Officer Eyebrows scuttles over to open my door. You know it’s bad when hot summer air entering a car brings relief. I sag toward the doorway and don’t even fight Officer Eyebrows when he takes my elbow and helps maneuver me out of the cruiser. A lot more gently than when he put me in.
“So sorry about this,” he mumbles.
“Which part are you sorry about—leaving a human being in a hot car on a summer day? Or putting me in handcuffs when I haven’t done anything? Maybe both?”
I shake off his hand and close my eyes, leaning against the car.
I don’t think I really understood the extent of how hot it was—or the impact of those minutes in the back seat—until this moment. My stomach roils, and I hope I don’t throw up.
But if I do, I’m aiming for Officer Eyebrows’s shoes.
“I’ll remove the cuffs if you could just turn around.”
I crack open my eyes as the younger cop steps forward, looking slightly panicked. Moving makes me feel a little woozy, so I stay leaning against the car, turning to give him my back. My cheek presses against the warm metal as my stomach dips and clenches.
“All good,” he says as he slips off the cuffs.
Are we? I almost ask. Are we really all good?
I pull my arms forward, rubbing my wrists. I need water. And maybe an ice bath. Somehow I doubt Wyatt’s little murder cottage has this amenity.
“He decided not to press charges after all,” Officer Eyebrows says, and I shoot a glare Wyatt’s way.
He’s standing about twenty feet behind the second cop car, leaning on his crutches and still looking disgruntled. Not apologetic, the way a normal human would. But almost angry, like this whole thing is my fault.
“Can I ?” I ask.
The officers stare at me blankly for a minute. “Can you what?” the younger one asks.
“Can I press charges?”
“Press charges for what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe for being left in the back of a hot car while you collected autographs?”
Busted. They exchange a glance. Then they laugh, as though they think I’m joking. I am not.
“What do you want us to do, honey?” Officer Eyebrows asks. “It was a misunderstanding, and now it’s all cleared up.”
It’s the honey that does it.
“I do want to press charges,” I say, hopefully loudly enough for Wyatt to hear me. “For attempted negligent vehicular homicide. And false imprisonment.”
The string of words pulled straight from a patchwork collection of Law & Order jargon sound halfway legitimate. Again, the cops exchange glances, the corners of their lips turned upward.
Apparently, I’ve got a future in stand-up comedy.
A fat bumblebee buzzes past my ear, and a laughing gull careens in slow circles overhead.
I am suddenly reminded of precisely how thirsty I am. And how dizzy. I slump back against the cruiser and wipe sweat from my face.
“Do you need to sit down?” the young guy says, and when I shake my head, black dots crowd my vision. “You don’t look so good.”
I don’t feel so good. My stomach churns again, and a spike of pain drives through my head.
I don’t need my nursing degree to tell me what this is: dehydration mixed with overheating.
Standard summer fare when you’re left in the back of a closed vehicle for ten minutes and it’s nearing one hundred degrees out.
But knowing what it is doesn’t slow the effects, and my vision goes hazy. Turns out, knowing is not half the battle. Or if it is, it’s not the important half.
My mouth feels dry, my tongue thick as I try to speak. “I think I...”
My words slur, then trail off altogether as I slump, the black dots returning like an angry swarm of bats.
I’m going to pass out, I realize, half a second before the bats fully block out the sun. The last thing I’m aware of is Wyatt’s voice, closer than it should be, as strong hands grab my shoulders to break my fall.