Chapter 9
“This is a new low, right?” I mutter to Shaw and Nessa, who stand stone-faced by the barn doors. I’m pretty sure their mirrored sunglasses are less about UV protection and more about hiding the fact that they’re dying inside.
We should be listening to the gentle lap of waves, not shoveling a ton of horse droppings as part of Tita Karra’s “equestrian education” initiative.
Elle and I are the guinea pigs for the horseback riding lessons she wants to add to the inn’s revitalization plans.
Cleaning up after animals being a necessary part of the program.
Who needs the ocean when you’ve got sweat dripping down your back and hay stuck to your ankles?
I think I prefer yesterday’s “vegetable garden education,” where we spent all morning learning how to plant heirloom tomatoes at the inn’s garden, followed by an afternoon of gathering said crops. We did make a wicked veggie surprise smoothie last night, though.
Elle has done her best waving brochures from the inn’s lobby advertising attractions nearby, everything from rafting to museums to even caverns, but Tita Karra has always been quick to point out activities on our property.
When Elle pointed out a flyer for a “Pat’s Famous Ice Cream” parlor and asked to go, ice cream was magically delivered to us an hour later, but from a generic brand.
I think whoever delivered this ice cream missed the point.
Just like I don’t want any ordinary brain freeze, I want to go to the store myself, and get my own supersweet and super-caffeinated, ice-chilled mocha latte—the perfect drink for my last high school summer.
I, of course, had plenty to catch up on around the activities Tita planned. For starters, my AP reading list and college essays. But it’s hard not to ignore Elle’s frustration.
With poor cell phone service, she can’t even vent to her friends. I, on the other hand, don’t mind. Most of my friendships outside Oliver are built around small group projects. If there’s no deadline looming, the conversation fizzles. Small talk isn’t my strength.
I wipe sweat off my brow with my wrists because my hands are stuffed into oversized leather gloves. I struggle to lift yet another heavy load.
I blush thinking about Gabriel doing this work. I see where the muscles come from. I’ve only seen him a few times in the three days since we arrived.
He seems to be working all the time. I caught him a couple times in the kitchen grabbing water or coffee, but our exchanges have been short. Polite. Nothing like the quick-talking, sarcastic boy I met at the state dinner.
Just a few more weeks. Elle and I must last until the end of this month. At least we’re not working outside, where the Virginia sun is doing its heat wave thing. Unfortunately, the heat isn’t helping with the smell of dirt and manure.
“Does cleaning up after horses count toward your bucket list?” Elle asks, shovel in hand as we work in the barn.
“Sure, it’s right there next to going to the dentist,” I respond.
Elle pushes dirt around with her shovel. “You know what? I think you should ’fess up to Tita about your last-hurrah-as-a-teenager-let’s-find-summer-love unofficial bucket list.”
I pause mid-shovel. “It’s simply my summer bucket list. And you added ‘summer love.’ ”
“Says the girl who wrote ‘first kiss’ on that list. Sorry it won’t be with Oliver on the beach,” she says dreamily.
“What are you saying? I’ll be kissing someone else?” My face brightens as I bat away pesky images of a certain boy with a camera.
“I meant Oliver won’t be able to kiss you in Hawaii.” Her brows waggle. “Why? Do you want someone else to kiss you?”
“No,” I say a little too forcefully. “I made a mistake. A first kiss isn’t something you list. It’s just something that happens.”
Elle snorts. “Not with Miss Perfect. I’m not one bit surprised you’d write it down like a bullet point to be checked off.”
I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin. Mom’s advice on how to compose oneself. “Elle. Seriously, are we done chatting about hypothetical first kisses? Let’s finish this task so we can get out of here.”
She guffaws. “Getting out of here is exactly what I’m talking about. Tell Tita about your bucket list.”
“I don’t think that would help.”
“You won’t even try,” Elle complains.
My fingers clench the wooden handle of my shovel. I’m uncertain what’s worse: admitting to my aunt that I have a list of silly activities I want to do—despite being grounded—or disappointing my sister. “I’ll think about it,” I say. That’s the best I can do right now.
Elle wrinkles her nose. “You know you owe me, right?”
I sigh. You owe me. There’s three words I’ve been hearing repeatedly the past three days.
I gesture around the barn. “For what it’s worth, I’ll add horseback riding back to my list and I can check it off.” This was a suggestion Elle made when I began drafting my bucket list.
“On the beach. Horseback riding on the beach,” Elle emphasizes. She says beach with longing. “Why am I being grounded because of your mistake?”
I deflate like a sad balloon. My guilt is alive and well. “I’m so sorry, Elle. I messed up.”
“I miss home,” Elle says. “And even though she grounded us, I miss Mom too.” My stomach lurches. I get that completely. We barely get to see her when we’re home, her schedule is so hectic. Elle sighs.
I don’t have any response but silently agree. I do owe Elle. And I am the worst sister ever. I deserve to be lifting this heaping pile of manure for the entire month.
A rumble draws my attention to the barn door. A truck passes by, and I catch a glimpse of Gabriel in the driver’s seat. I’ve watched him come and go in that worn green truck. Even though it looks like he’s running errands, I envy his freedom.
“Wish we could hitch a ride. I’d die for an ice cream run right now.” Elle returns to her pile of muck, reminding me of the sad puppy we once rescued when Mom was campaigning through Georgia.
I purse my lips and slam my shovel into the pile, like I’m planting a flag. I remove my gloves, then throw them forcefully onto the ground.
I’m Elle’s big sister, and I owe her one.
Shaw and Nessa don’t say they’re relieved, but I can sense it when I tell them Elle and I are done and are going to our rooms to clean up.
We take the back entrance of the “manor” so we don’t track in any dirt through the pristine front foyer. Elle mutters that Tita Karra will be annoyed we didn’t finish our task, but she’s not exactly rushing to complete it either.
Our security detail trails us up the back stairs to the second-floor hallway. They’re stationed on our floor, while the other two agents stay downstairs, monitoring cameras and screening deliveries. Dressed in plain clothes and driving a nondescript vehicle, they blend in by design.
Shaw and Nessa’s black SUV is parked at the back. Unless someone’s actively connecting the dots, no one would guess we’re here.
And if they did? My bet is the Secret Service would already be watching them.
Fortunately, as my mind races with a scheme, I realize I know enough about our security detail’s routine and camera positions to pull off my idea.
Nessa ducks into her hotel room when we’re on our floor. With Elle and I in the same suite, only one of them needs to keep an eye on our door, which they’ll do in shifts.
Elle does a happy dance around the sitting room. “I cannot wait to wash all this dust off.”
I stop her before she closes the bathroom door. “Don’t take a shower.”
Elle huffs. “Come on. I called dibs first.”
“No, that’s not what I mean,” I hiss. Even though we’re in our room, away from Shaw and Nessa, I’m still paranoid they can hear us. I turn on the bathroom fan and look at my watch. “We’re getting out of here.”
Elle still looks puzzled.
“We’re sneaking out.”
It takes a beat for her to catch on—then she clamps both hands over her mouth to muffle a squeal. “What? Who are you and what have you done with my sister?”
I roll my eyes, but I get it. Even I’m still wrapping my head around this.
Elle bounces on her toes. “How?”
I lift my chin like I’m leading a covert mission. “Wash up and change your clothes quick. We have ten minutes.” I look at my watch. “Make that nine.”