Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
DANI
“Excuse me?” Amelia shoots back, but we both know she heard me just fine.
“What happened between you and Rhys?” I ask again, an eerie calm to my voice despite the churning in my stomach that started on Saturday and hasn’t stopped.
It’s ten p.m. I’m sprawled on my bed, exhausted from a day that refused to let my mind focus on anything but this call. Amelia and Dean took off for a couples’ weekend retreat in Whistler—their first since the twins arrived—and I had the decency not to sabotage their little getaway by unloading on her.
But now it’s time for her to come clean. Sisterly payback.
After a long silence, Amelia asks, “What did he tell you?”
“I don’t have the energy to talk in circles all night, Ames. You owe me a straight answer.”
In the background, I can hear the TV in her bedroom and Dean whispering, asking if she needs space.
Amelia's voice returns, tighter now, “Give me a minute, Dani. I need to make a tea and walk you through this.”
I hear the rustle of movement, the soft padding of feet as she heads downstairs into their dream of a kitchen that my entire apartment could fit inside of. At a future date, will we sit at the marble counter, eat home-baked cookies, and gossip? Or is this an unfixable rift?
The silence stretches, punctuated only by the muffled sounds of Amelia preparing her tea. Every second without closure is an unbearable burden.
“Did you sleep with Rhys?” I blurt out. “Yes or no.”
My heart seizes. Three agonizing seconds pass before she says, “No.”
But it's not a definitive no. It comes out cagey, loaded down with gravitas.
“Don’t lie to me, Ames. Don’t you dare!”
“Nothing happened,” she insists. “Not like that.”
My throat stays tight. “Then what?”
The kettle starts to shriek, then silence. I imagine her pouring hot water over a teabag, watching the color seep out. She always did this when she was buying time, gathering her thoughts.
“Hold on,” she says, and I bet she’s heading into the great room to curl up in Gramma’s rocking chair. The one where we sat in her lap while she read us bedtime stories. It’s her favorite place in the house. Her safe zone.
I feel robbed of breath, an icy grasp locked around my throat. Trying to make sense of why my sister has fibbed to me for years.
She clears her throat before taking a noisy slurp of tea. “When Dean and I went to Europe that summer, we had a stupid fight. Over nothing, really. And because I was drunk, and I’m petty, I ditched him. I hopped on a plane to Greece while he partied in Munich.”
“Greece,” I say tonelessly. “As in Corfu?”
“Yes,” her voice is strangely quiet, “I tried to connect with Rhys. I thought, why not? We had fun on the podcast.”
“Seriously? You were on your honeymoon.”
She sighs, and it's the heaviest sound she’s made in months. Maybe years. Even through childbirth, she barely whimpered.
“You have no idea, Dani,” she says in a barren voice I barely recognize. “I’ve fucked the same guy since high school. Every night it's the same damn thing. You’ve had the luxury of sleeping around. That was my moment. A chance to experience something different. Now, I’m trapped.”
“Trapped?” I repeat. Amelia wanted nothing more than to marry Dean. “I thought you were like two peas in a pod.”
“Because that’s what I make sure everyone sees,” she says with a trace of bitterness. “The anointed child who can do wrong.”
My mind rushes to process everything. Do I even know my sister? She’s pure as the driven snow. The one with the pristine life. And yet—she was ready to throw it all away by cheating with Rhys?
“So, then…”
I can almost feel her grimace over the phone. “I texted him and said I was on the island. Could we meet up for a drink? He said no, politely. It wasn’t his thing to hang out with the media. And I was pissed,” she admits. “I’d come all that way for nothing. I got hammered, and you know what the Rialto sisters are like after too much booze.”
“Go on,” I say through gritted teeth. I remember damn well Amelia line dancing on the bar in Mazatlán while I, the eternal wing woman, buffeted her from breaking a leg.
“Some locals at the bar told me where his house was.”
My heart gives a sharp little pulse. “You stalked him?”
“Listen,” she says, as if there is some legitimate excuse for her behavior, “I was a train wreck. Angry at Dean and Rhys. Men in general. Eventually, the police showed up, and I spent the night in jail. Or whatever they call it in Greece. A holding tank for drunks.”
I feel a mix of shock, disappointment, and pure incredulity. This is insane. Valedictorian Amelia in jail? “Jesus, Ames. I have no words.”
“You cannot tell Mom and Dad,” she stresses. “I managed to get out of there without Rhys pressing charges.”
“Did you apologize?”
“Yeah,” she says. “But Rhys warned me if I ever pulled a stunt like that again, he would call me out, no hesitation. Rake me over the coals of the public jury.”
I absorb that as best I can. The reality of this is weirder than I ever imagined. But now it all makes sense. “Is that why you shut the podcast down?"
“How was I supposed to carry on? My credibility went up in flames. Not to mention I was humiliated and embarrassed.”
If Rhys scoured my Instagram feed, he wouldn’t have recognized Amelia in our photos. Hair so blond, it was almost white with an adoring Dean gazing reverentially at his wife who made marital vows she had no intention of keeping.
“And Dean?” I ask. “Does he know?”
“Dani,” she drifts back into her authoritative voice, “when you get married, you’ll understand you pick your battles. Nothing happened in the end, so why open that can of worms?”
Holy shit. After living in Amelia's shadow for years, always the screw-up compared to her flawless life, will I ever see her the same way now that the illusion has shattered?
“What did Rhys say?” Amelia asks, a sliver of uncertainty embedded in the question, like maybe there’s more to the story she never shared.
“Same,” I lie.
“How did this topic even come up?” she asks, her tone more fraught. “You promised me you wouldn’t say anything.”
Before I remind her that this is her cross-examination and not mine, I hear a light tap against the window followed by an urgent whisper. “Dani? Are you awake?”
I jolt upright, breathing in sharply, practically a gasp. Rhys. I yank the top sheet around me, my heart pounding as I slide off the bed. I creep to the window, open the blinds, and peer outside. Right away, I know it's not good. The moonlight washes over Rhys, turning him a Sawyer-like ghostly pale. He hums with dark energy, an unnatural presence that sends a shiver down my spine.
“I have to go,” I tell Amelia, abruptly ending the call. Tossing the phone onto the bed, I slide the window open and face Rhys, standing as still as a statue.
“What’s going on? Are you okay?”
His face is a storm of emotion, and he swallows in a broken, defeated way. “My dad had another stroke,” he says. “I need to get to Vancouver tonight. Can I borrow your truck?”
It feels like the world tilts beneath me. I want to rage at Amelia for lying, for stalking Rhys, and for adding herself to his Crazy list. Because of her, I had the shittiest weekend, unsure if Rhys would even hear me out if I tried to convince him again that I knew nothing. But when all is said and done, I know my feelings will level out. I will love my sister for the mess she is.
I will love and forgive her as I should because, in the end, family is everything.
And that’s why my response to Rhys comes without a second thought.
“Give me fifteen minutes. I’m coming with you.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Rhys says a somewhat pointless fourth time as I roar up the highway heading west. “And I can drive.”
We crest the hill, the shimmering lights of Osoyoos disappear, and absolute darkness engulfs us. There are no streetlights on this remote section of road.
“It’s not safe at this time of night,” I tell him. “You have too much on your mind to navigate all the winding passes.”
The prognosis for his father remains shaky. Sawyer's most recent text said he might not walk again. If my heart feels like it’s gone through the wringer, Rhys’s must be near the point of collapse.On cue, he jams both hands into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie and blows out a sigh that sounds raw and jagged at the edges.
I get it. I was stressed to the max all weekend. Thankfully, Amelia killed my greatest fear and the panicky ache eating me alive has subsided. But I’m dying to hear his version of the event.
I approach it in a roundabout way.
“I spoke to my sister tonight.”
After a charged silence, he asks, “How did that go?”
I replay the conversation, leaving out the bit about Amelia and Dean already married to spare her some dignity.
“I swear on a stack of Bibles she never told me,” I finish, hating the wobble in my voice. “There was no plan for her to come up and have us ambush you.”
Rhys nods, but not the way you nod where you’re agreeing with someone. His silence stings. The refusal to comfort me with a morsel of confirmation or denial.
“And I’m sorry I lied about knowing you,” I blabber on. “But…” I exhale slowly, my voice barely rising over the low hum of the engine. “I’m not sorry about the other night. Not in the slightest.”
Rhys looks over. Dark eyes, his pupils dilated, black smothering brown. Does he want to hear all this right now? Likely not. But this feels like a game-changer night. One that requires brutal honesty.
“I’m not sorry either,” he says. “And I should have believed you. Forgive me for storming out the way I did. Bad form.”
A funny feeling takes over in the blanket of silence. This weird sense of déjà vu. Hurtling on the dark highway to the unknown waiting for us in Vancouver reminds me of the drive up in the dead of night two months ago. Nursing a broken heart but full of hope. If I had known then that Rhys was part of the equation—rather than Evelyn offhandedly informing me the day after I arrived that my internet crush was my five-week summer project—would I have jumped so high at the opportunity?
Yes.
I would have jumped fifteen feet. Cleared the moon, if need be. I liked Rhys then, and I like him even more now. Or should I say, I actually do know him, a little. He’s more complex and intriguing than I ever imagined. And he made my guarded heart bloom again.
If there is a chance for us, he deserves to know it all.
“About that shit I pulled at Yvette’s…” My knuckles tense on the wheel before I continue. “It had nothing to do with Amelia.”
“And,” he says, the slight rise in his voice a question to know more.
His gaze flickers toward me, a softer look now, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. I take a deep breath, slowing the car a smidge as I process what to say. It’s now or never. If I can’t be upfront on this raw, hurting night, I have no business being with Rhys.
I tell him everything. How I let Brett abuse his power, minus all the gory details. My insecurities and self-doubt, starting with the Dani of eighth grade, taller than every boy and hiding her boobs with baggy sweatshirts to stop the stares and teasing. Dani with a mouthful of braces mortally ruined at grad dance when Steve Ashe walked past without a second glance and into the arms of blonde, petite, and perfect Emily Reynolds with her venomous smirk that said, you have no chance, ever.
All the promotions I got looked over for.
“Why did you like him?” Rhys asks, zeroing in on Brett.
Why indeed? I've asked myself that question many times on too many wine-soaked evenings. Tonight is when I'm finally honest with myself. “He promised me the moon, and stupid me fell for it.”
“You’re not stupid, Dani,” he says. “You are smart and talented. I can draw, but what you create is real art.”
“What do you draw?” I ask, genuinely curious.
It’s the tiniest ripple, but in the tight confines of the truck, the energy shift feels seismic. Rhys rearranges himself in his seat and it strikes me that he wants to say something unpleasant.
“Things that catch my attention,” he says vaguely.
“You never mention drawing in any of your posts,” I say, unable to stop myself. But whatever. The cat’s out of the bag.Brand me a super fan and call it a day.
“Believe it or not,” he says, “I’m an introvert. Sharing my sad excuse for art is too personal, and the world already knows enough about me. I need to hold some things close to my chest.”
“I’d like to see some of your work.”
He glances at me with a look I can’t figure out. Pensive? Nervous? Worry? A little of all three. Maybe what he draws is actual garbage, and he knows it. I don’t push the matter.
Instead, I circle back to his question that I left unanswered.
“You asked me if what happened at the vineyard turned me on. The answer is yes, if that wasn’t glaringly obvious.”
A ghost of a smile flickers on his face. “I’ll never forget that.”
I swallow hard and say nothing. Embedded in his reply is a hint of nostalgia, as if Osoyoos and I are already a distant memory. Was I reaching to believe we were back on track, even if the direction was still unclear?
Damn you, Sawyer. For nailing it.
Because in what rational world does Rhys leave Greece to shack up in an old tractor shed and demean himself with double-doubles from Tim Horton’s?
I stare out the windshield at the headlights slicing through the dark, illuminating the sparse landscape with cold slivers of light, making everything feel distant, suspended in time. Maybe this is the Rhys-less world I need to prepare for, but all I can think about is the moonlit memory of us, naked on the raft under the stars, when I thought I could live inside that moment forever.