Chapter 12
Rhett
When I was in sixth grade, Hollis got an ant farm.
She begged our parents for a Saint Bernard puppy for eight months before the ant farm came in the mail. We’d watched the sequel to that old Beethoven movie from the nineties, the one where the enormous Saint Bernard winds up with a herd of puppies somehow.
Of course, she’d fallen in love with Dolly, the one and only girl puppy in the film. She was already begging for her own Dolly by the time the credits began to roll, kicking off an eight-month argument in which our parents likely regretted ever watching the movie with her in the first place.
She spent month after month writing lists and poems about how she would be the perfect dog mom to a miniature Dolly clone if my parents would agree. Leaving the lists or poems on their pillows to read before drifting off to sleep.
Hollis, if it’s not clear yet, rarely relents when it comes to something that really matters to her. By the next school year, I’d never seen anything matter to her as much as that potential puppy had, and Hurricane Hollis blew hard on that idea for what felt like a lifetime.
Unfortunately for her, the only thing stronger than Hollis’ God-given will when it came to that puppy was my mother’s desire to never own a drool machine.
So when Hollis’ eleventh birthday came, instead of a pink bow wrapped around the neck of her dream dog, she got a pink bow wrapped around an ant farm.
It was almost cruel.
I remember helping her set it up after my parents began pouring coffee for all the relatives following dinner and cake that night.
I snapped a collection of plastic pieces together on her dresser while Hollis sat on her bed, running her palms across the weathered yarn nubs tied into the patchwork quilt beneath her, staring at the flat, little ant aquarium that had served as her biggest disappointment in life thus far.
Once the top was sealed and the ants were inside their new home, I sat beside her, elbows propped up on our knees, chins resting on our fists, watching.
“They could have gone with something a little fluffier,” she’d mumbled, scowling as one of the poor things repeatedly hit the plastic wall with its little ant antennae, looking for a way out. “That’s the wall, you dummy. Turn around. Turn. Around!”
I’d looked over just in time to see her mash one lone tear into her cheek with the back of her fist.
“At least you won’t have to shovel the backyard every day,” I told her. Ant farms were a shit alternative to a mini-Beethoven fur ball, and we both knew it.
But by the end of the week, she carried that thing into my room and set it down on my desk while I was busy trying to shade the shadow beneath my latest sketch of the Millennium Falcon.
“There are no shadows in space,” she said, plunking the farm down on my paper, covering up the drawing I’d just worked on for forty-five minutes to perfect.
“How do you know?”
“Because I know,” she insisted, like the brother with a year on her knew absolutely nothing regarding the physics of the universe. “Look at this.”
She pointed to the thin layer of plastic keeping the creepy-crawlies from tumbling onto my desk.
“Your ants?”
“No. Not just the ants,” she said. “The work they’re doing. The hierarchy.”
I sighed and leaned back, knowing that the best thing to do whenever Hollis got on a kick about something was to just let her get through it.
“Yeah, they’re carrying dirt back and forth, just like ants do,” I deadpanned. “Fascinating.” Then I pushed the farm aside so I could continue shading my drawing while wondering if shadows were, in fact, not a thing in space.
“No, Rhett, look. There’s a queen. Right there.
” She pointed to the biggest ant in the farm.
“I was reading about it. They all have a job to do. They all know what their job is, and no one gets in the way of anyone else. Obviously, they can’t talk.
Not like us, anyway. But I bet the queen can talk.
I bet she’s the only one with a little ant voice.
” She shot her eyes back to me when I laughed at that.
“What? It’s not like ants can tell us how they communicate, yet they all just know what she wants them to do. ”
We watched the ants troop around for the rest of the afternoon, admittedly spellbound by Hollis’ theories about the little city they were building in there, and I knew I was watching Hollis’ kid fantasy play out in a plastic box.
She eventually took it upon herself to give the queen a voice, speaking on her behalf through the tiny windowpane, while I took on the role of the other fifty-two ants crawling through their little tunnels.
Each with a different pitch and personality, even though Hollis started out scolding me that they didn’t have voices.
Only the queen did. Like she knew any of this for sure.
We talked back and forth like we were the ants in the farm, each with a duty, while Hollis ruled the roost through the glass, sitting on her fictitious throne as Queen Ant.
For a lack of more exciting things to do, we did that every afternoon for a few weeks before school got out, and we toted the farm up to the lake house, never to speak of our pretend ant roles or voices ever again.
And I’d completely forgotten about that ant farm until this exact moment, watching Hollis sort Bailey’s schedule through a phone screen propped up on the counter in Bailey’s kitchen.
Hollis has been moving around any book release events deemed non-essential to carry off the rest of Bailey’s schedule.
Two other assistants are on the line, all canceling or pushing the rest until later in the month.
My sister is running the meeting with an iron fist from her place behind the glass.
“Thanks, everyone!” Hollis calls out through the speaker. “Everyone’s free to go, except Bailey and Rhett. I have one more quick question for you.”
Simon and another PA wave and disappear from the screen.
“Rhett, how long do you plan to be there?” Hollis asks.
It’s early Sunday afternoon. We spent most of yesterday hanging out inside her apartment so Bailey could join a few remote interviews Hollis had already lined up for this weekend.
Each time Bailey disappeared into her war room for one of the interviews, I’d look around, but I hadn’t yet found a copy of her latest book anywhere.
I glance at Bailey, unsure of how to answer Hollis. We hadn’t discussed timelines yet.
“At least the week?” I ask.
Bailey nods in agreement. “At least.”
“Good. Wait. That means you two are staying under one roof together for the next week?” My sister’s voice hikes up.
“That’s the plan,” Bailey answers, nodding. “Unless you have a better one?”
Hollis chews at her lip, and her brows raise. Meanwhile, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying how nervous this plan appears to be making her.
I wrap an arm around Bailey, high enough so Hollis can see it through the screen.
“Why, Holl?” I ask, shaking off a grin. “You’re not excited about this plan?”
Bailey chuckles, but she scoots in closer, playing along.
“Um, hopefully, we figure out whoever sent that crap so you guys can get back to life under two separate roofs much sooner than that. And quickly,” she adds, glancing between us. “How are you feeling since Saturday?”
“Like I’m terrible at being stuck inside,” Bailey answers. “Restless.”
“It’s been, like, a day. Think of it like a vacation,” Hollis insists. “Forced relaxation.”
Bailey and I laugh at the same time. That’s a stretch. Even for Hollis to suggest. Nothing about having to stay home because of a stalker is relaxing.
The rules I’ve put in place are admittedly stifling.
No going out of the apartment alone.
No answering the door alone.
And no public in-person book events until this guy is caught.
I warned her that it would feel like overkill, but New York is a busy, chaotic place. He could show up anywhere. Right behind her on the sidewalk. In an Uber ride. At a food counter.
“Listen,” Hollis continues, “I have to go. But I’m glad you’re there with Bailey. I don’t care about the time change, just keep me posted if anything else comes up.”
Bailey says goodbye and ends the call.
“A vacation,” she repeats, rolling her eyes like it’s a joke. “A vacation while on house arrest.”
I make my way around the counter and push my sleeves up, cross my arms, then lean back against the counter, right across from where she’s sitting.
“Would you rather stay somewhere else? Instead of here? A hotel, maybe? Make it feel more like a true vacation?”
“No.” She sighs. “I’m comfortable here. And it’s nice having you around, even if I’ve been working the whole time.
” Her eyes flutter toward the counter. Last night, after doing a full day of remote appearances, Bailey was practically asleep on her feet.
We’d popped popcorn and watched the new Quinton Rockwell movie.
Something light that took place in Hawaii.
Pure escapism. Bailey laughed more in the first thirty minutes than I’ve seen her laugh over the last two days.
Then she’d passed out on the couch, just like she said she did often.
Being around her again feels like two timelines sliding into place, somehow.
I’ve kept to myself the last couple of years, far more comfortable on my own since getting back.
But she’s the first person I’ve felt myself missing when she leaves a room.
When we were younger, she was easy to be around, and I looked forward to seeing her every summer more than I looked forward to getting back into that old town.
I thought, after everything, that might have changed.
I stayed away after leaving the SEALs, partially because I couldn’t bear the thought of her memory changing.
But, despite our situation here being different, despite her being different — we’re both adults now — that familiarity between us hasn’t changed.
It feels easier to just exist when she’s in the room.
Like I can exhale fully. And I like that. I always have.
“Speaking of a vacation, when was the last time you went back to the lake?” I ask. It’s the first time either one of us has really brought it up, besides the photos she has tucked around the apartment.
“Not for a long time. You?”
“Not since that summer Axel and I graduated. My parents were talking about selling it a few years ago, but they decided to hang on to the old place.”
“I’m glad.” She smiles. “My parents keep threatening to sell ours too since none of us ever go there anymore, but they’ve kept it. My mom was happy to hear that you’re staying, by the way. She’s glad you’re looking out for me in all this.”
“Me? The troublemaker at the lake, torturing her daughter every chance I got?”
Her cheeks flush.
“Trust me, she never would have let me run around the woods with some boy she didn’t have a soft spot for, you know that,” she says. “And neither would my dad, believe me. I think he saw a lot of himself in you and Axel over those summers.”
“A boy needs to get his hands dirty.” I recite back what her dad used to say when handing chores out to both Axel and I like they were Halloween candy.
“Teaches him responsibility,” she finishes, puffing out her chest. “He still talks about his boys, you know. Like he was living vicariously through both of you back then. He used to go to that cabin a lot as a kid, too, do you remember all that stuff? My grandpa apparently gave him and my uncle a set of chores every day, a lot like the ones he gave you and Axel. Meant to put muscle on their chicken wings.” She repeats the phrase exactly how her dad used to say it.
We laugh.
How could I forget?
Mr. J kept a steady supply of chores for us boys to do each summer. Tune up the old ski boat. Get an ancient four-wheeler running. Re-sand and re-stain the dock. All stuff that was good to know, it turns out.
And the irony that I’ve been given the most important task yet hasn’t been lost on me now.
Keeping his daughter safe.
I watch Bailey smile.
Then I swallow hard, hoping I’m up to task.