Chapter 7
With my hair in a towel, I wander into the kitchen, and my eye catches the clock on the counter.
I’ll be the first to admit I have no idea how long pruning an herb garden should take, but an hour seems like an unusually long time to be gone.
Mostly fueled by curiosity and only a tiny bit out of worry for Gavin’s safety, I go outside to check around the property.
Despite the gray cloud that’s been following us since we got here, the sun’s rays burst onto my face as soon as I open the door.
I have to shield my eyes as I walk down the steps of our stoop to get a proper look around.
In the daylight I’m disappointed to discover the place looks worse than it did last night.
Every panel on the house is peeling in a color that can only be described as shit brown, and the concrete driveway is covered with veinlike cracks all the way down to the dirt road.
On the side there’s a shed that is horror-movie levels of decrepit, and behind it is a field that stretches farther and wider than I imagined it would.
It isn’t until I almost make a full circle of the property that I find Gavin.
“What are you doing?” I huff, annoyed he made me trek across this massive wasteland only to find him unharmed. Not only is he not near the herb garden, but he’s sitting on the steps to the back door, reading something.
He folds the magazine in half and abruptly stands up. “I’m about to trim the chives.”
“Sure you are.” I eye him suspiciously.
“God, you’re exhausting,” he says in an exasperated way I don’t understand.
“Gavin, you’re being weird about reading a magazine.” I raise a brow at him.
“I’m not being weird,” he says unconvincingly. Now he’s shoving the magazine deep into his back pocket, as if that’ll make me forget I ever saw him reading it.
I couldn’t care less about Gavin’s habits, reading or otherwise, but his strange behavior does strike me as odd. I just can’t understand what could possibly be making him this uncomfortable about reading a—I gasp, putting a hand to my mouth. So this is what he meant by pruning the garden.
“What now?” He sighs, irritated.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed, Gavin,” I say knowingly. “I won’t say anything.”
Gavin jerks his head back. “What are you talking about?”
“Looking at porn is nothing to be ashamed of. I mean, I’ll definitely judge you for it, because you’re my brother and no one should know that much about their family.
” I alternate between snort-laughing and gagging.
I manage to keep it together long enough to finish my thought.
“But you shouldn’t let that stop you from being who you are.
Exploring your sexuality is a natural thing. ”
“Ugh, Elena. It’s not porn.” He rolls his eyes so theatrically, all I see is white. “And if I seem embarrassed, it’s because of my secondhand embarrassment over you thinking I need your approval to look at porn.”
“Ha! So it is porn.” I point a finger at him.
“You’re missing the point.” He shakes his head pitifully. “That may be how you operate in life, one pleasure-seeking opportunity after another, but some of us have responsibilities.”
Ah yes. His responsibilities. I know what that really means. The way Gavin gets off on Mom and Dad’s approval, I wasn’t too far off the mark with the porn accusation.
“Where did Mom and Dad go?” I ask, suddenly reminded of them. I mean, how is Gavin supposed to win their approval if they’re not here to witness him being responsible?
“They went to get supplies for the farm. Don’t you listen to anything they say?”
“Honestly I try to block it all out.”
“Typical,” he mutters. Before I can challenge him by saying that it’s typical that the family didn’t include me in their conversation in the first place, he brushes past me to pick up the gardening shears on the ground.
Of course, now that I’m here, he walks over to the boxed planters with tall grasslike strands and begins cutting them.
Once he has a bunch in his hands, he places them in a reusable bag that’s already filled with leafy greens.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the bag.
He cringes at my catchphrase. “These are herbs. This leafy one is parsley, and this one with the needlelike leaves is rosemary,” he says, slow and high-pitched, like he’s talking to a child.
“Or are you unfamiliar with greens that aren’t in the chopped salads you eat religiously?
The ones with names as pretentious as you, like Green Goddess and Waldorf Astoria?
” He reverts to his usual voice but maintains the same level of condescension.
“It’s just Waldorf, Gavin. And that’s not what I meant.” I make a face at him. “Where did the herbs come from?”
“Where else would they come from?” he says, irritated by the question.
“I had to trim the rosemary because it was blocking the sunlight from reaching the oregano. The parsley was getting overcrowded, so I had to cut the foliage off to relieve the stress. And the chives were also getting too tall, so I trimmed them.”
“So you really were pruning the garden?”
He doesn’t dignify my question with a response. Instead he stares at me, as if to say duh.
“When did you learn how to do all that?” It occurs to me, leveling my gaze with Gavin’s, that we’re staring at each other as if we’re strangers. Is it possible that, while I’ve been trying to tell Gavin I’m not who he thinks I am, he’s been trying to do the same about himself?
His eyes dart around self-consciously. “I mean, Mom and Dad said I should clean up the garden, so that’s what I did.” The arrogance in his voice is gone. In its place is an insecurity I’m not familiar with coming from Gavin. “I’m just doing what I was told to do.”
Nope, I had it right all along. Gavin is exactly who I think he is. Not only that, but it now hits me that Gavin’s act is not an act at all.
“Oh my God.” I shake my head, laughing incredulously. “This is just like you to all of a sudden grow a green thumb.”
“What are you talking about?” Gavin’s eyes are half closed, like he doesn’t have time for my nonsense.
“I always knew you thrived on Mom and Dad’s attention, but to force an interest in farming?” I tsk. “That’s desperate.”
“Wow,” he says, slow and drawn out. “Not only are your assumptions about my insecurity tendencies completely wrong, but you’ve now made it super obvious what your insecurities are.”
I arch an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Then how do you explain your newfound hobby?”
He narrows his eyes. “How do you know it’s a new hobby?” he challenges.
Gavin’s right to call me out. I wouldn’t know that about his habits, not firsthand.
I learn about my family the way everyone else does: Google.
Last week Forbes magazine put out its annual Who’s Who list. This year they did a roundup of the top twenty under twenty, which included Gavin.
And I’m pretty sure he specifically mentioned he doesn’t have time for hobbies, calling them a waste of time.
“I would have read about it somewhere if you did.” I pull out my phone to look up the article, then remember I’m not allowed to use it. I groan.
“Just because it isn’t mentioned on Page Six doesn’t mean it ceases to exist,” he says. “Not everyone has to alert the press of every little thing they do.”
“I don’t alert the press of everything I do,” I counter.
“Sometimes they just show up without my knowledge.” I sigh.
The good ol’ days. “And that’s beside the point.
Why is everyone in this family suddenly interested in farming?
” Call it paranoia, but I’m starting to feel like they’re all in on some secret mission that I’m on the outside of.
“Elena, I know this is a difficult concept for you to understand, but not everything is about you.” He waves the bunch of limp chives at me, then continues walking. “I’m only now learning about Mom and Dad’s interest in farming, same as you.”
“If that’s the case, then aren’t you curious as to why Mom and Dad never mentioned they had property in Blaire or that they grew up on a farm?”
“In my opinion, it’s better not to ask too many questions. Especially ones you don’t want to know the answers to,” he says, brushing me off. “Just follow their lead; it’ll keep you out of trouble. You should try it sometime.”
“That’s the problem, Gavin. I am following Dad’s lead. I’m being smart and steadily building my brand. But how can I get him to acknowledge me if he doesn’t take anything I do seriously?”
His head jerks back, a little too dramatically if you ask me. “You want to be taken seriously?”
“I’m sorry, are you gaslighting me?” I spit back at him. “In case you haven’t been paying attention, Gavin, I’m quite business-savvy.”
A ridiculous sound escapes Gavin’s lips. “What experience in business have you had?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I blanch. “I’m in the business of people. Why do you think people pay for me to attend their parties?”
He snickers.
I glare at him. “My point is, if you know as much about farming as I do, then why didn’t Mom and Dad ask me to prune the herb garden? I mean, if you can do it, how hard can it be?” Leave it to my family to make me feel FOMO over something I can’t even fake caring about.
“Since when have you been interested in what the family does?” Gavin glances at me sideways.
I wish I could take it as cavalierly as he meant it, but he struck a nerve.
I want to tell him he has it wrong. It’s the other way around.
I’ve always been interested in the family.
It’s the three of them who haven’t shown any interest in me.
The resentment builds and builds until a defensive rage bubbles in me, preventing me from saying all those things.
“I’m not interested,” I say instead. “I was just wondering when you had time for all these hobbies when you’re the one who’s been on the fast track to getting a business degree at USC so you can take over the family business.”
Now I must have struck a nerve, because Gavin stops on the front stoop of our house.
Instead of pushing the door open, he spins on his heels to face me.
“Elena,” he says, “when are you going to get it through your plastic head that you aren’t as perceptive when it comes to people as you think you are? ”
His caustic tone catches me off guard, so I respond with the first thing that comes to mind. “I don’t know, Gavin. Maybe when you finally accept that you shouldn’t wear clothes that accentuate your worst features?” I gesture to his stature of disproportion.
“Face it, Elena,” he says, ignoring my comment.
“There’s a lot about me you don’t know.” But despite his bold claim, he predictably takes the corded phone with him into Mom and Dad’s room to call Sonya, who I’m willing to bet is not just his girlfriend but his only friend.
I don’t feel the least bit sorry for him.
With a personality like his, I’d say he deserves it.
While he’s in the room, I take the towel off my head and brush my damp hair.
I’m about to style it when I discover something disturbing.
The walls, just like the rest of the house, are shoddy, and no matter which room I’m in, I can hear Gavin talking to Sonya.
Blech. Their conversation is so polite and lacks spark, it’s nauseating.
Thinking quickly, I grab my phone. Mom said I’m not allowed to turn on cellular or Wi-Fi, but she didn’t say anything about music.
I tap on my phone to find my playlist and put my AirPods in so I don’t disturb the Quiet Zone.
Seconds later the electronic beat of my playlist drowns out the background noise. Sweet relief.
With the threat of overhearing Gavin’s conversation with Sonya out of the way, I decide to unpack.
Or at least I try to. Without drawers or hangers in the closet, there’s no place to put my things, and I end up leaving everything in the bag.
Next to my bag I discover Gavin’s essential items by accident.
And by accident, I mean I maybe, sort of riffled through his belongings.
(How else am I supposed to pass the time without my friends or a phone?)
Gavin’s essential items:
A handful of business attire
A picture of Sonya
Business 101 textbook
A surprising amount of athletic wear (?)
Not one but two pairs of running shoes (??)
Like he is in real life, his personal items are a snoozefest. Except for the athletic attire. Didn’t think someone as wound up as Gavin did anything remotely leisurely.
Suddenly a noise startles me. Thinking I’ve been caught snooping, I reflexively throw Gavin’s things back into his bag.
I peek my head in the hallway expecting to see Gavin, but the door to the room he’s in is still closed.
When I realize it’s not Gavin making the noise, I pop my AirPod out just as a loud knock at the door comes.
I’m pretty sure Mom and Dad would not be knocking on the door to our new, but very temporary, home.
But if this isn’t Mom or Dad, who could it be?
Gavin’s head pops out of the room with the same puzzled expression on his face.
We flinch when the knock comes again, this time with even more force, like someone’s pounding on the door.
“Blaire law enforcement,” a deep male voice announces through the door. “There’s been suspicious activity happening in this location. Please open up.”
Gavin and I stare at each other with the same helpless expression. Even though my head is swirling with a mix of fear and uncertainty, it’s not lost on me that this is the most Gavin and I have had in common since we got here.