Chapter 13 Blake
BLAKE
WYATT
Come to the playing field.
THE TEXT APPEARS AS I’M pouring a cup of coffee at the counter. My heart stutters. He wants me to go outside and meet him?
This has to be about last night. The almost kiss.
Because that was totally an almost kiss.
I think.
I still can’t make sense of what happened in his bedroom. His fingers in my hair. His eyes boring into me like he was peering into my soul.
My palms are clammy from nerves as I carry my coffee outside and step off the front porch. A minute later, I find Wyatt standing in the grassy clearing on the far side of the house, staring at a net.
This was not what I expected when he texted to come to the playing field.
We call it the playing field because this is where all the dads go when their competitive instincts kick in, propelling them to play volleyball or croquet or lawn bowling or whatever else allows them to either high-five as teammates or shout obscenities as opponents.
Yesterday, there was nothing in the clearing.
Today, there’s a net. Not a volleyball regulation net but a couple of feet shorter.
Gripping the handle of my mug, I saunter toward him. “Badminton?”
“Yeah, I think so,” he replies, still staring.
“Did you set that up?”
“No. Henry must have done it when we were asleep.”
“Okay, I’m about to put forth a hypothesis, and I need you to seriously consider it.” I purse my lips for a moment. “Do you think Houseman Henry might be one of the Tahoe ghosts?”
“No,” Wyatt says.
“You didn’t even consider it!”
“Because it’s dumb.”
“Here. Hold this.” I hand him my cup and pull up my phone. “I’m texting my dad so he can explain the net.”
Why is there a badminton net outside?
DAD
Oh, we just decided last night. Badminton tourney this summer when we’re all there. Participation mandatory. G’s making up the brackets.
I groan in dismay. “They’re going to force us to participate in a tournament, and there are brackets.”
“Why are there always brackets?” Wyatt sighs.
Did we not learn our lesson from the lawn bowling tournament? You and Dean didn’t speak for weeks afterward.
DAD
Because he’s a fucking cheater.
I’m going now.
I slide my phone in my pocket and give Wyatt a questioning look. “Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?”
“Nah. That was it.” He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his sweatpants, causing them to dip lower. Oh no. I can see the top of the man vee. It’s too distracting.
I force my gaze upward. “Nothing at all?” I prompt.
“Nope.”
My frustration mounts. Really? We’re just going to ignore it? He defended my honor last night, unbraided my hair like some kind of sexy hairstylist, and almost kissed me. But “nope.” Nothing to see here, folks.
Annoyed, I chug the rest of my coffee. “Okay, great. I’m off then.”
“Wait. Where are you going?” He scrutinizes my attire—bike shorts, rash guard, and cross-trainers—as if noticing for the first time. “Why do you look like you’re about to run a triathlon?”
“I’m going on a hike with the Spencers. They’re picking me up on the dock in ten minutes.”
“I’m sorry—you’re going on a boat ride slash hike with the crazy men in the lake?”
“They’re not crazy.”
“How are you even in contact with them?” Wyatt demands.
“Oh, Little Spencer slid into my DMs.”
“I don’t like this.”
“Which part?”
“Any of it,” he says in exasperation. “Random men DMing you. Luring you onto their boat by inviting you on a very suspicious hike—”
“Why is it suspicious? We’re just visiting Darlie and Raymond’s tree near the Loughlin place.”
“The sex tree?” Wyatt sounds outraged.
“Yeah.”
“Let me get this straight. You’re letting two grown men whisk you away by boat so you can hike up a cliff to visit a tree where the ghost who haunts our dock used to fuck her lover before he left her for her sister? You are literally begging to get murdered.”
I lean in to pat him on the arm. “You know, if you and my dad entered an overprotective competition, I honestly don’t know who would win. Same goes for who’s crazier.”
Wyatt clenches his jaw. “Give me five minutes to throw on some real clothes.”
“You’re not coming with us,” I protest.
He’s already stalking toward the house. “Yes, I am.”
“You said you have to write today—”
“I’ll write later,” he says over his shoulder.
The Spencers pick us up in their rented speedboat and make no effort to hide the fact that they’re checking Wyatt out as he climbs on board.
I don’t blame them one iota. He’s wearing khaki shorts, hiking boots, and a tight white T-shirt that hugs his abs, and with his sunglasses on and a baseball cap shielding his face, he looks like some kind of edible adventure boy.
It’s hard to talk over the wind, so I lean back and enjoy the water misting my face as the boat bounces on the waves.
Less than fifteen minutes later, Big Spencer slows as we approach a little cove shaded by towering pines.
A small dock juts from the rocky shore, and he carefully glides up beside it while Little Spencer hops onto the rickety wooden platform and ties us off.
Wyatt jumps out next and extends his hand to me. I take it, ignoring the jolt of electricity that travels through me. I hate how much he affects me. Stupid pheromones.
“It’s just up here,” Little Spencer says when we’re all on land. He’s sporting another Mollie May shirt today, this one sky-blue with fringe around the hem because Mollie May wears fringed costumes at all her shows.
“You’ve been here before?” I say as we follow them toward the opening of the path.
“A few times. We spent the night last week.”
“Really?” I say in surprise.
Big Spencer nods. “Camped right under the tree. We thought maybe she’d want to return to her lover.”
“Of course,” Wyatt says solemnly. “Who wouldn’t.”
Little Spencer rolls his eyes. “It’s okay, handsome. You don’t have to be a believer.”
“You camped here? But isn’t this private property?” I ask.
“Not the tree,” Big Spencer says smugly. “We pulled all the county surveys to check the property lines. Loughlin land ends a half mile east of the tree.”
We trek up the path, which is only wide enough for two people to walk side by side. The Spencers prove to be surprisingly athletic, bounding ahead of us. Wyatt and I follow behind, silently navigating overgrown roots and pushing away branches that hang too low on the trail.
It isn’t until the Spencers are out of earshot that Wyatt glances over and lowers his voice. “So about last night.”
“Oh,” I say brightly, “are we finally going to talk about how you almost kissed me?”
“I didn’t almost kiss you,” he mutters.
“Really? So you didn’t fall into some sort of love trance and finger comb my hair and then touch my mouth and lean in for a kiss?”
When I hear an audible snicker from up ahead, I realize the Spencers are not as out of earshot as I thought.
“It wasn’t a love trance,” he argues. “It was a music trance.”
“A music trance,” I echo dubiously.
“Yeah. I was hearing music in my head. It was your hair maybe. I don’t know. I had an idea for a song and got lost in thought.” He gives me a sidelong look. “I wasn’t going to kiss you.”
“Uh-huh. If you say so.”
Grumbling irritably, he walks faster and is soon outpacing the Spencers.
Little Spencer slows, waiting for me to catch up. As we fall into step with each other, he murmurs, “Oh, that boy was absolutely going to kiss you.”
I feel vindicated. “Right?”
It’s another ten minutes before we reach the top of the bluff and five more before Big Spencer calls out, “Over here.”
The tree is more impressive than I expected.
It’s a lone pine but not some scrawny one.
The trunk is massive, gnarled with age, and the high branches stretch wide and uneven, casting pockets of shade all over the tall grass.
At the base, wildflowers push up through the dirt, and one of the tree’s lower limbs juts out low enough that it creates a natural bench you can actually sit on.
“Wow, this is beautiful,” I marvel.
“Right?” Little Spencer beams. “You can totally picture Darlie and Raymond coming out here and boning, can’t you?”
“I mean, I wasn’t picturing them boning, but…sure.”
I approach the tree, breathing in the scent of pine needles and earth. I half expect to find initials carved into the trunk, a romantic heart with DG and RL scratched inside it, but there’s nothing but jagged, flaky stretches of bark.
“So Raymond lived up there?” I peer at the slope in the distance, trying to make out the Loughlin house through the pines. You can see the enormous property if you’re on the water but not from here.
“Yep,” Big Spencer confirms. “And according to legend, he snuck out every night to meet Darlie here.”
“To bone,” pipes up Little Spencer.
“What legend is this?” Wyatt sounds exasperated. “Like, is there any actual proof they met at this tree? For all you know, this is just a random tree that got dragged into this story against its will.”
“We read it in interviews,” Little Spencer says defensively. “Members of the Loughlin family have spoken about it over the years.”
“Okay, and what proof did they offer?” Wyatt challenges. “Other than hearing it in stories passed from generation to generation?”
“Oh, so you’re discounting oral history?” Little Spencer shoots back. “You’d make a terrible historian. Who wants a granola bar?”
I blink at the sudden topic change. “Ah, no thanks. I’m good.”
“Same,” Wyatt says.
“Suit yourself.” Little Spencer digs into his fanny pack, glancing at Big Spencer. “Chocolate chip or chewy oats, babe?”
As the Spencers sit on the branch bench and munch on their granola bars, I wander off, phone in hand. Might as well capture some pictures of the view while we’re up here. Wyatt comes up beside me as I’m framing a shot of the lake.
“You feeling better about this murder hike?” I ask him.
“Yeah,” he says grudgingly. “They seem harmless.”
“Told you.”
I turn around to snap some photos of the sex tree.
“I can’t imagine loving someone so much that I’d want to kill myself if they broke my heart,” I muse. “Can you?”
“Me personally? Nah. I can’t see myself ever catching feelings that run that deep.”
“Goes against the fuckboy code?”
He rolls his eyes. “Careful, Blakey… Keep using ‘fuckboy’ as a slur, and I’ll tell everyone you’ve been slut-shaming me.”
“Don’t call me Blakey,” I grumble. “Only Gigi gets that pass. And we both know you own that label. You go out of your way to make it clear to girls that you’re there for a good time, not a long time.”
That gets me a shrug. “Nothing wrong with knowing your own limitations.”
“But you have been in love, right?”
Wyatt nods. “Plenty of times. But not the kind of love we’re talking about.” He goes quiet for a beat before continuing thoughtfully. “I think I can imagine it, though. What Darlie felt for Raymond. Love so all-consuming that when it’s gone, you don’t want to move on. You don’t want to heal.”
I bite my lip, overwhelmed by the sudden intensity.
“It’s like…” He trails off again. “You just want to stop existing in a world where you’re no longer loved by her. Because erasing yourself hurts a lot less than staying behind without her.”
My throat constricts, a strange sensation traveling through my body. For a self-proclaimed good-time guy, he’s conveying some very profound thoughts about love.
“Have you ever felt anything like that before?” Wyatt asks gruffly.
Slowly, I shake my head. “No. But I thought maybe with Isaac…” I stop, unsure where I’m going with this.
“Isaac acted like he loved me like that. He was so over-the-top about his feelings, especially in public…all the grand gestures and declarations of love…” I swallow through my tight throat.
“But I don’t think he felt even a fraction of what you just described. ”
A flicker of discomfort crosses Wyatt’s expression, almost as if he’s realized how deep we’ve gone. “Eh,” he finally says. “Makes for a great love song, but in real life? It’s probably overrated.”