Chapter 16 #3
Out of my hands. Into the world. Or at least into Marissa’s inbox, which is basically the world but with an editor and color-coded folders.
The door to the kitchen area slowly opens and Miles steps in.
Of course he does.
“Did you do it?”
I tuck my phone against my chest. “Maybe.”
His face lights up. “Daisy.”
“Don’t do that.” I make a mean face at him.
“Do what?”
“Look proud.”
“I am proud.”
My throat tightens. Absolutely not. Nope. We are not doing feelings in an RV while I’m wearing hiking socks.
“It could be terrible,” I say.
“It’s not.”
“You haven’t heard it.”
“I heard you recording some of it.”
“You eavesdropped? Creep!”
“I was checking the exterior battery bank.”
“And eavesdropping.”
“And being moved by your extremely professional podcast voice.”
I groan. “At least it sounded professional instead of vapid. I hate my podcast voice.”
“I like it.”
“You like alien documentaries made in 1987.”
“I have range.”
“You have VHS energy.”
His smile goes crooked. “Send it to me?”
I look at him.
He holds up both hands. “Only if you want. No pressure.”
The sincerity is worse than the flirting. A lot worse.
I unlock my phone and forward the email I sent to Marissa earlier before I can overthink.
His phone buzzes in his pocket.
He doesn’t take it out.
“Thank you,” he says.
Two words with too much weight.
That night, we go to a local bar.
Of course cheap beer and pool tables are the only appropriate response to finding potential evidence of an undiscovered primate, recording my first podcast episode, and nearly blowing up my entire professional life for one beautifully earnest man.
The place is called The Antler & Ash, which feels less like a bar name and more like the title of a folk album recorded by your high school bully’s whiny older brother.
It sits a twenty minute drive from camp at the edge of a two-lane road, low and dark against the trees, with a gravel lot full of mud-splattered trucks and one neon sign buzzing weakly in the window.
Inside, it smells like beer, fried food, old wood, and rain-soaked denim.
The walls are covered in license plates, taxidermy, faded trail maps, and Polaroids of hunters holding up things I choose not to inspect too closely.
A jukebox glows in the corner.
A pool table leans slightly to the left.
The bartender looks like he was carved out of cigarettes, jerky, and disappointment.
It is perfect.
“This place has definitely seen at least one unsolved disappearance,” Jax says happily.
Maya slides onto a barstool. “Don’t flirt with the building.”
“I’m not flirting. I’m appreciating the atmosphere.”
Taylor orders a whiskey neat, which surprises no one. Maya gets a cider. Jax orders something pink and tropical that will eventually involve regret. Miles gets one beer and then spends five minutes reading the label like it contains field data.
I get a tequila soda because I am a woman of mystery and also because the wine list is one handwritten word: red.
We claim a booth near the pool table, and everyone gets comfortable.
Jax tells a story about accidentally crashing a drone into a wedding arch in Sedona.
Taylor laughs so hard she has to wipe her eyes.
Maya, who I assumed was the responsible one, turns out to be quietly vicious at pool and destroys a man in a camo hat who made the mistake of calling her “little lady.”
Miles sits beside me.
Not suspiciously close. But his knee brushes mine under the table. Once. Then again. The second time, neither of us moves away. It is agonizing. It is also, unfortunately, fun. Secret things should not be fun.
That feels like how people end up making bad decisions in cabins, elevators, and apparently cryptid-adjacent dive bars.
My phone buzzes with messages from Marissa at one point.
Marissa
Okay, I love it. It surprised me, because it was as funny as I thought it was going to be. But you went deeper, and I’m here for it.
Me
Yeah?
Marissa
It sounds more like you than you have in a long time. I think you’ve got something here.
A wave of relief rolls over me, thankful that Marissa wasn’t upset about the direction being more serious and earnest. She sends me a link to a version with her edits and some social cuts to promote.
I bring up the first post draft and I’m hit with a fresh wave of excitement and nerves.
I have no idea how this is going to be received, but I’m still content knowing we made it past the first episode.
“To Daisy,” Jax says suddenly, lifting his glass.
I blink. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.” He points at me. “First episode shipped. History made. True journalism resurrected. Ridgefield quaking in his gross and probably very stinky boots.”
Maya raises her cider. “To Daisy.”
Taylor lifts her whiskey. “To asking better questions than the rest of us.”
Miles raises his beer last.
His eyes find mine.
“To Daisy,” he says, quietly enough that it feels like he’s saying it only to me.
And there it is again. That pull. That awful, golden, impossible pull.
I look down before my face can betray me.
We drink.
For maybe twenty minutes, everything is good.
Better than good.
The kind of good I don’t trust because I can already feel the story preparing to punish us for it.
Then the door opens, and the energy of the bar changes.
Not dramatically. No record scratch, though that would have been cooler. Instead, conversations dip slightly and the bartender looks up, already annoyed.
The Ridgefield crew is back.
Grant spots Miles immediately.
“Well,” he says, loud enough for half the bar to hear. “If it isn’t the Scooby gang.”
Jax mutters, “Lazy reference.”
Miles doesn’t move. “Grant.”
Grant’s smile widens. “Little Adler.”
He looks from Miles to Taylor, then Maya, then me.
His gaze lingers in a way that makes my skin tighten.
“And you brought your girlfriends,” he says. “Cute.”
I lift my chin. “And you brought unresolved issues with women. In cargo pants. Cute.”
Jax chokes on his drink.
Grant’s eyes sharpen on me. “Podcast girl,” he says.
“Man with no indoor voice.”
His crew laughs, but not kindly. Not because they think I’m funny. Because they think this is a game. Men like this always do until they start losing.
Grant steps closer to the table. “You know, I’ve been wondering what your little team was doing out here. Thought maybe Adler finally got tired of chasing shadows.”
Miles’s voice is calm. Too calm. “We’re not interested in whatever this is.”
“No?” Grant glances around the booth. “Shame. We’re very interested in what you found.”
I feel the whole team lock down. Miles’s knee is no longer touching mine. His body has angled subtly in front of me. Not enough for anyone else to notice, maybe. But I do. And God, I hate how much I like it.