Chapter 7
Nate is pulling the car out of the driveway when I remember that the plant Bailey gave me is still in the house. I run back inside for it, and then we’re on our way, talking logistics as we head down Lake Tahoe Boulevard.
“According to Instagram, Logan stayed at the Cosmopolitan on his last Vegas trip,” I say.
“Should we just book rooms there, then?”
“Sure,” I say, but I only reserve one for him.
With my mountain of debt, I can’t justify an expense like that, so I get myself a room at the older, budget-friendly hotel across the street.
When we get to the Cosmopolitan, I’ll pretend I’m staying on a different floor.
It’s no secret that I make pretty good money, and I’d rather not explain to anyone—especially not him—that my finances are such a mess. That my CycleLove salary isn’t enough.
Thankfully, it’s early enough to get most of my money back on the Airbnb I rented for later this week in Twin Falls.
It was cheap, airy, and close to the Snake River Canyon, where I planned to take a boat tour and walk the rim of the gorge to see the water slicing through the ancient volcanic rock.
One force of nature exerting its will against another.
This detour is pretty much the opposite of that. Once we find Logan, I’ll research rentals in Utah, where you can’t walk without tripping over another national park.
“We really should talk,” Nate ventures, soon after we pass the casinos at the state line. It’s obvious from his wary tone and the tap-tap-tap of his thumb on the steering wheel that he doesn’t mean a discussion about Western water shortages or the most recent Cyrus family relationship drama.
My chest tightens. “I know.” But trapped in a car with four hundred fifty miles ahead of us feels like a high-pressure setting for such a tough conversation. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready, okay?”
His eyes widen but stay glued to the road. “Yeah. Yeah, whenever you’re ready, that’s fine.”
As we head deeper into Nevada, the green in the landscape disappears and the scenery turns dusty and sun-beaten, with scrubby bushes and wind-sculpted hills in the distance. I focus on social media reconnaissance while Nate drives.
With my “Get Shit DONE” playlist (mostly Beyoncé and Shania Twain) urging me on, I create a burner account.
That way, none of the relationship conspiracy theorists who’ve been posting about Logan and me will notice when I mass-follow everyone in his social circles.
First, I add everyone from Beach House Season 6.
Then everyone from Beach House: Ski Trip and all the people he’s tagged in photos over the last year.
After studying my new feed, I identify three candidates for further monitoring, all of whom regularly socialize with Logan and posted from their home airports this morning.
“I’m like a damn detective,” I crow. “This is exhilarating. I feel like I could run through a wall right now. No wonder people enjoy Internet stalking so much.”
“Easy, Spy Kid,” Nate says.
My surveillance activities gave me cover not to interact with him.
But now I’m done, and a little carsick from so much screen time.
We have three hours left on the road, and I need to make conversation and try not to stare at his soft gray eyes tracking the cars ahead of us, or his hands and forearms—lightly muscled and dusted with golden-blond hair—as he grasps the steering wheel.
Why is that so hot? Like, Ooh, this man is in complete command of this wild, powerful steed, this crossover SUV with blind-spot monitoring and remote parking assist. Teenagers have it right.
Hormones are completely embarrassing. Especially since I know I don’t affect him the same way.
“How’s work?” I ask, the safest, blandest question available since I’ve already commented, “That was a weird plant,” three times.
“Summer was good. Busy. All our groups were full, plus we had waitlists.” He pauses.
“This year I got to implement some of my own ideas, and I think they’re making a difference, which is cool to see.
Plus, I’ve been trying to learn more about the financial side of the business from the owners, so I basically worked nonstop. ”
“Does work know you might be leaving?”
An odd look crosses his face. “Yeah. Yeah, they know. Everyone there is supportive, so I didn’t have to hide it or anything.”
I feel a twinge of envy, for these faceless coworkers who got to know that Nate had a dream before I did.
Ambitious was never a word I’d use to describe him. Once, during the month I stayed with him in L.A., I’d asked what drew him to the job there. Presumably, there were lots of places he could’ve worked as a camp manager. “I guess you didn’t want to run First Cove?”
He gave me a strange look from the other end of the couch.
I was stretched out, my ankle grazing his thigh, as we ate bowls of homemade peanut chicken stir-fry.
“It’s not like I had a bunch of options.
This job fell into my lap, and I needed distance from Seapoint.
Besides, running First Cove wasn’t on the table. The Forresters never asked.”
“You could’ve asked them.”
He huffed. “I was fine with being an instructor. I like teaching kids to swim. It’s not like being a fancy doctor or a famous fitness coach, but it’s a good thing.”
I ignored the edge in his voice. “Of course it is. I’m just saying. I’m glad you moved here, but don’t sell yourself short. They wouldn’t be flying you back to run things while Mr. Forrester recovers from his knee replacement if they didn’t respect you.”
His cheeks had turned pink. “That’s only because they’re desperate.”
Nate didn’t think much of himself then, but he clearly wants more now. Which means he finally sees his own worth.
“I’m happy for you,” I say. “This is huge.”
He assesses me, gauging my sincerity, then ducks his chin in a reluctant nod. “How’s work for you?”
“It’s great.” I force a smile. “We’re focused on growth right now, so that’s exciting. The company’s made some changes to give us a boost.” Those statements are true. CycleLove wants us to thrive, and I can’t let myself forget that, no matter how stressful the adjustment has been.
“What kind of changes?”
“They streamlined things by getting rid of the in-studio riders, so now we can focus completely on the riders at home. And Tracy’s given each of us a specific focus, to keep things simpler and more consistent for everyone.
” I can’t bring myself to use the phrase deepening our niches with Nate.
His eyes will roll straight out of his head and into the desert like a pair of tumbleweeds.
“A specific focus, like hills or intervals?”
“Broader than that. Like the overall experience we provide. Since I’m generally an upbeat person, my rides are light and fun.”
“And you like it?”
I’ve loved spin since I worked at a studio in college.
I loved it enough to teach in the mornings and evenings after I got my sales job.
Now what I like most is knowing I’m giving a ton of people an experience that’s just for them, that makes their day a little better.
Even if I can’t see them anymore. “I’m so lucky,” I say.
“People would kill for a job like mine.”
He looks at me. Only for a second before turning back to the road, but in that second, he pierces through my facade to the emptiness underneath.
He knows I dodged the question. I had to do it, because I’ve never been good at lying to Nate, and if I tried to answer him directly, I don’t know what would come out of my mouth.
He doesn’t push it further, but I can practically hear him reading me, judging me, in his head.
A cluster of road signs come into view. “We should stop here for gas,” he says.
Tonopah is an old mining town full of mismatched, flat-roofed buildings of varying heights, like a messy set of teeth. There’s a Western apparel store and a couple casinos mixed in with the used bookstore and post office. Oh, and a clown-themed motel next to an old cemetery.
The rainbow-painted Clown Motel delivers on its namesake.
It is bursting with clowns, the largest of which is two stories tall, wearing a blue-and-pink-striped vest and polka dot pants, flashing the double peace sign and a huge red smile.
The open space past the parking lot is dotted with gravestones and crosses.
I press my face against the window. “Oh my god. Can we take five minutes to check it out?”
Nate shivers. “There’s no five minutes. If we stop there, they’ll never let us leave. For the rest of time. ”
I spot a name tag and shriek. “The clown’s name is Jolly!”
“He has murder in his eyes.”
I cackle and do some quick Googling. As Nate pulls into a gas station, I shove my phone in his face, forcing him to admire photos of the interior: the shelves in the lobby packed with clown figurines, the room with a Pennywise mural painted on the wall next to the bed.
His eyes widen. “I saw It, and I still didn’t know I was afraid of clowns until I saw this place.”
“I might apply for a job. Jolly and I bonded when he looked into my soul as we drove by.”
Just kidding. Despite everything, I’m committed to working for Tracy.
Even if she did recently ask an intern to track how frequently I smile during rides so she can inform me every time I drop below her preferred minimum.
Which, in light of recent developments, isn’t as funny as I originally thought.
Nate hops out of the car and slides his wallet from his pocket. I get out too, so I can stretch my legs. “I have a challenge for you,” he says.
“Steal a doll from the lobby? Even I’m not bold enough for that one.”
“Let’s see if you can complain until the tank is full.”
I freeze, mid-lap around the bank of gas pumps. “What?”
He twists off the gas cap. “Once it clicks, you’re off the hook. I bet you can’t do it. Winner gets to pick whichever terrible fast-food place we’re going to regret later.”