Chapter 17
Rhett
The summer I spent conditioning myself for Basic, Bailey’s dad had brought up a four-wheeler. They’d carted it up on a trailer, since he’d gotten it from some client back home who didn’t want the thing anymore.
Mr. J told Axel and I that if we got it running, we could mess around with it up in the mountains for the rest of the summer.
We’d spent that first week working on it every spare second we had.
When I wasn’t tossing Bailey in the lake, going on fourteen-mile runs, or swimming laps, Axel and I would sit in the carport with a box of tools under a couple of lightbulbs hanging from extension cords.
We tried everything we could think of to get that thing running.
We couldn’t even tell you the names of the parts, or what they did, at first, but we learned.
Axel or I would tinker around with something until it didn’t seem broken anymore, doing pushups in between and barking orders at each other for practice.
Tighten this, or unscrew that.
One night, around two a.m., we got that baby fired up. To celebrate, we took it out on a joyride through the dark woods, holding two flashlights out on either side as headlights, since those didn’t seem to be working quite yet.
By noon the next day, the girls had asked Axel’s dad for a turn enough times that he gave in while we were gone. Axel and I were running along one of the trails through the hills behind the houses when we heard that thing roar up the mountainside behind us.
The four-wheeler, later affectionately named Bertha by Hollis, who had insisted the machine was fierce enough to be female, came screaming around a bend in the road, nearly running us both over.
The girls flew by us on an overpass that felt way too narrow to fit two teenage boys on foot and two screaming girls doing their best to control the rickety machine on wheels.
I’ll never forget the grin on Bailey’s face when they passed, gripping the handles with both hands, their faces full of the type of freedom you can only feel when you’re young.
She and Hollis were whooping and cheering, kicking up thick mud in their wake, coating Axel and me down the front.
We’d finished our run covered in mud, then made sure to throw ourselves in the water after returning — with two wiggling girls shrieking all the way into the lake.
I haven’t thought of that four-wheeler in nearly a decade.
But that’s the exact same grin that’s stretched across Bailey’s face when she hits the gas on the Jeep Wrangler we picked up in the last town. I told her we should go for something a little more inconspicuous, but she’d argued, what could be more inconspicuous out here than a Jeep Wrangler?
And then she’d insisted on driving it.
Bailey leans toward the open window to unleash another whoop into the woods we’re passing through, then grins over at me, hair blowing wildly all over the car.
Her green eyes look almost neon out here, surrounded by thick groves of trees to match, glowing right above the faintest smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She’s the most casual yet, in just a tee shirt and shorts, sandals on her feet. Ready for that old beach tomorrow.
After leaving the lake and that entire time of my life in the past, I thought Bailey might have changed with all her success.
Sometimes I pictured her as this highfalutin New York City author, probably attending galas and dinner parties, having rousing conversations around some collection of fancy wines I can’t pronounce.
And I’m sure all that is in there too, because she is beautiful and successful and stunning, just like she was in that fancy dress she was wearing Friday night under that sea of spotlights — commanding a room with her own written words.
But she has more sides to her than that.
And every day I’m with her, another one comes out.
Once on a vacation to a boardwalk in Jersey, I stepped inside a vintage jewelry store with my mom.
She’d begged me to pop in with her on the way to the beach, just to look around, and I remember the salesperson telling her how the old, hand-cut diamonds there have imperfections and a unique depth that make them reflect light differently than the lab-created ones they make now.
The hand-cut stones in the glass cases were priceless and precious.
What one might call rare. Beautiful in a different, but very real way.
Stealing glances at Bailey as we fly down the road, I realize that’s what she is. Almost vintage in her nature, imperfect, impossibly unique, and rare. Beautiful. The type of woman you don’t come across very often, but hard to look away from when you do.
I’ve made a career out of blending into backgrounds, while Bailey’s made a career out of standing under a spotlight without the slightest hint of protection. All while her vulnerabilities and impossible fantasies are written out across every published page.
We’re so different in the paths we chose, but neither one of us got out of our twenties unscathed. And I don’t think I’ve realized that until now.
She turns the radio up and does her own drum solo across the wheel, one that would rival mine.
By the time she grins over at me, I can hardly remember why I ever thought I should leave this feeling she gives me behind when it should have been the first thing I came running toward when I got back.
“Has it been worth it?” I ask, seeing that smile come out of her again.
Her wild grin fades, and she glances at me — twice — growing a bit more serious each time while her eyes dart between me and the road.
“Was what worth it?” she asks.
“Staying in the city?”
She frowns. “That’s random. What made you think to ask that?”
“Honey, you look happier out here, driving this damn Jeep through the woods than you’ve looked since I got to your apartment last week. I think you’re half forest animal at heart.”
She laughs but squints at the road before pulling her sunglasses down over her eyes.
“Oh, I’m plenty happy,” she says, and the way she says it, I know that it’s true.
I turn the music down.
“I know, I’ve seen it. But if driving this Jeep gives you this much of a rush, then I can’t wait to see how much you love being back in that cold lake water again.”
She gasps and shoves my elbow off the console.
“You wouldn’t dare, Rhett Monroe. I’m a grown ass woman now, and there’s a whole rule about not throwing grown ass women in the lake.”
“A whole rule, huh?” I repeat, intrigued. “I thought I was the only one who made the rules.”
“Far from it,” she says, defiantly. “I have plenty of rules. I’m just letting you run things for now because that was the deal I agreed to.”
“I would have stayed, even if you hadn’t agreed,” I tell her, waiting for her cheeks to flush.
She tries tucking her smile into a frown, and her hand raises to her neck, as if she’s feeling its temperature for splotches that might appear.
An old Otis Redding song fills the car, but I decide to spare her the singing this time, even though it’s one of my favorites, with her nickname already in it. I hum the chorus instead.
Her knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.
“Was everything worth it for you?” she asks, turning toward me once the chorus begins to die off.
“Always,” I tell her, without hesitation. “I’m not unique. Time and growing up changes everyone. Besides, I knew what I was signing up for when I went.”
“To be a hero?” she asks, glancing over.
I shift in my seat. “God, no. To give people a fighting chance,” I correct. “The ones that deserve it.”
“I’ve always admired you for that,” she says, eyeing me lightly, probably to make sure I’m not shutting down after flipping the question back on me.
Tucking her billowing hair back so I can see the look she casts across the car, she adds, “It’s a shock when you realize they’re all just like us when you become one of them though, isn’t it? ”
“Who’s just like us?” I ask.
“Grown-ups,” she says, laughing. “I mean, obviously we’re grown-up now, but do any of us really know what the hell we’re doing half the time? We’re all just making it up as we go along, aren’t we?”
I chuckle, knowing the exact feeling she’s talking about. “What, just white-knuckling it every day without a dress rehearsal?” I ask.
“Well, yeah, that,” she says, nodding. “Life is always a first draft, isn’t it?
We don’t get to go back and polish up parts we wish we’d written better, or done differently.
And we all have to figure out what happens after the fairy tale effect has worn off.
I wanted so badly to be a grown-up, thinking everything would just work itself out magically. ”
“I think I’m still waiting for the fairy tale to start,” I tell her.
“No,” she says, like she’s already given this some thought, “your fairy tale was joining the SEALs. That was going to be the great love story of your life.”
“Shit. Fucked that one up, didn’t I?” I answer, ironically.
“We’ll call it a plot twist,” she corrects me, grinning. “But a good plot twist sometimes makes for the best story at the end.”
“You would know. You write them for a living,” I tell her, remembering the one I picked up at the airport once, but put back down soon after.
“Writing them is easy,” she says. “The characters all do exactly what I want. It’s the story you live out in real life that gets tricky.” She glances over, like she’s testing the waters. “How would you write the next chapter of yours?” she asks.
“Bailey Jones, coming in with the deep, philosophical questions, eh?” I tease, grabbing the chip bag from the floorboard at my feet, before tearing it open.
“I’m serious. What do you want now that you’re out and recovered? To run security for rich people in Boston?”
“And for successful authors in New York?” I add, grinning.
She scoffs and nudges my leg with her fist. It’s barely anything, but the touch sets my skin on fire. Every time she reaches for me after I tease her, even if it’s only punching my arm or nudging my leg, it makes me want to keep going just so that she’ll touch me again.
“I only know what eighteen-year-old Rhett wanted out of his life. But what do you want for yourself now?”
“Easy,” I answer. “I want predictable. Uncomplicated.”
“So, the exact opposite of what you’ve got going on now?” she asks, sounding defeated. “I can’t imagine security jobs to be either one of those things.”
“Things only got complicated when I came back to help you,” I tell her.
“Sorry,” she says, frowning.
“I’m not,” I correct her, faster than I mean to. “I mean, yeah, I’d love to wake up to a pretty simple life now. I thought I wanted grandiose and constant go-go-go when I was younger, but now I’m not so sure.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed that. What would you choose to do if you weren’t doing private security for people?” she asks, side-eyeing me.
“I don’t really know how to do anything else.” I shrug. “But most of the time, it’s simple. A lot of uneventful days. A lot of quiet, easy moments. Honestly, either chaos is breaking out, like today, or I’m bored out of my mind.”
“So, why is this particular case with me more complicated?”
“Because there’s nothing more complicated than trying to do this for someone I actually have a history with. It significantly raises the stakes.”
She stays quiet for a moment before saying, “I wish it wasn’t all history.”
“Well, it’s not anymore,” I tell her. “You’re stuck with me for a bit, now aren’t you?”
A hint of a smile curls her lips up.
“Plot twist,” she says, gently.
Then she turns, and we smile at each other over the console before her eyes quickly return to the road.
“Just don’t go disappearing after this one,” she says, taking her foot off the gas to study me, probably without realizing it. But that red truck behind us slows too, staying far enough back to not let me read the plate. Something about it sets me off.
“Hey, pull off on this next exit, alright?” I tell her. “I think it’s time we find a spot to stay for the night.”
“You don’t want to just push through these last two hours?” she asks, checking the rearview. “It’s not that red truck making you nervous, is it?”
“It’s not the truck,” I tell her, not wanting to scare her. “But it’s going to be dark soon, and I’d rather get us tucked in somewhere so we’re not out here driving these deserted roads when it happens.”
She nods. “I’m ready for a break anyway.”
“Pull off here.” I point at the next exit, noting the hotel icon on the sign. “We’re about to find out what type of lodging the Tiger Motel has.”
She shudders.
“What do you think the odds are that they’ll have a two-bedroom suite with a five-star restaurant and a view?”
I laugh as she pulls the Jeep off the highway, but I keep an eye on the truck. It turns off behind us and stays about eight car lengths back.
“The odds are about as good as you getting to sleep in tomorrow,” I tell her. “We’ll get back on the road bright and early.”
Bailey follows the sign to the right, turning out onto a two-lane thoroughfare that doesn’t have much more than a few fast-food options and gas stations dotting the way down.
There are zero stop signs or traffic lights, so the truck behind us has no reason to come any closer.
Very few things scare me, and small, rural towns are not one of them, but I certainly can’t say the same for Bailey, who’s grown quiet as she drives, turning the music all the way down like she’s concentrating on getting us there. Repeatedly looking at the rearview, then back to the road.
We’re both thinking the same thing.
I can’t remember ever stopping here on our way to the lake house, but now that we’re in a new town for the night, how bad can it be?