Chapter 9
Nine
Logan
We eat in silence for a while, perched on an antique bench near Poquito Poquito.
Every time someone walks by, Sierra ducks her head, tilting her ridiculous cowboy hat so the brim shields her face.
Between passersby, she picks at her burrito with tiny bites, barely chewing. Every swallow looks painful.
The day was going well. It was like no time had passed, only better. We were getting along. I thought we were making progress. But now she’s shutting down again.
I sigh and set my burrito down. “I know you don’t want to talk about it—”
“You’re right, I don’t.”
“But I think we need to. Sierra, look at me.”
I wait until she finally lifts her gaze. Her big brown eyes are so dark and haunted, I almost drop it. But it suddenly feels important that she knows I have ulterior motives for helping her.
“If not today, then soon.”
We eat the rest of our burritos in silence.
“Are they still together?” she asks finally. “The Hillermans.”
“No,” I say simply. “They divorced soon after. They don’t even live here anymore—not sure where they went.”
Good riddance. The older I get, the more horrifying it seems. John Hillerman was the kind of guy who sounded great on paper—successful business owner, respected town council member, devoted husband with two kids.
Turns out he was also a predator.
As Sierra’s neighbor, he knew Sierra’s mom was off on a bender.
He knew that Sierra’s petty, dickhead boyfriend—me—whose family provided a lot of extra support to her, lost his temper over something stupid and broke up with her to punish her.
She was vulnerable. Alone. And he took advantage of that.
It still pisses me off that he never faced justice for sleeping with an underage girl. It pisses me off more that I helped make her a target.
“I’m surprised they divorced,” she says. “She loved him so much.”
“You think? I’m not sure I could forgive my spouse for what he did.”
Sierra flinches. “Everything about it was unforgivable.” She stands and brushes her hands over her shorts. “We should call it a day then.”
I picture her hiding in her room for the next seven weeks, avoiding me. No way. We can’t start like this, or she’ll never open up to me. “Let’s go wine tasting.”
“Wine tasting?”
“Oh, come on. You can’t visit the new and improved Sagebrush without doing the bougie wine-tasting thing. It’s half the reason people come here now.”
“Why is there wine tasting? There are no vineyards here!”
“Yet,” I say. Arizona does have some vineyards, such as those located to the west of us and south of Tucson, but those areas have a lot of open, flat space suitable for that type of cultivation. Here? Not so much.
“We’re in the middle of a desert canyon,” Sierra insists, as if I’m unaware of the climate and terrain.
“Your point is? Come on. It’s a Tuesday night—it’ll only be tourists there with us. I know a great place.”
Moan and Wine is a little hole in the wall between Ada’s Antiques and an art gallery.
It looks like the owner purchased a complete saloon set from Old Tucson Studios and hauled it up here.
The only things missing are a honky-tonk piano and a couple of gunslingers hunched over a game of poker.
Instead, two bachelorette groups and a handful of stylish couples huddle around oak barrel tables, swirling reds while jazzy covers of top hits pipe softly through the speakers.
“This place is my favorite,” I say. “Not only because of the wine—which is delicious—but because of this.” I head to the bookcase in the back and pull out a Connect Four game.
Sierra laughs. “Oh, man! That takes me back. You know I’m going to destroy you.”
“Connect Four was always so cutthroat with you,” I say, grinning. “Glad that hasn’t changed.”
I order two wine flights, and we settle into a corner to play. True to her word, Sierra wipes the floor with me for the first two rounds.
“Let’s make this interesting,” I say. “Every loss earns the winner one question. The loser has to tell the truth.”
Sierra snorts. “This sounds like a terrible idea.”
“Fun questions only. Scouts’ honor.” I hold up four fingers in a V.
“I’m pretty sure that’s a Star Trek thing,” she says, laughing. “But fine. Let’s get a glass of this third wine option first.”
The next battle commences after I get us each another glass of wine. When my fourth chip drops into place, I slap the table in triumph.
“No!” Sierra cries. “Dangit. I thought you were trying to go vertically.”
“Ha!” I drum my fingers on the table. “What got you into rock climbing?”
“Ooh, good question.” She takes a sip of her wine. “A friend invited me to a climbing gym, and I was hooked. It’s fun.”
“That’s it? It’s fun?” I tease. “Don’t tell me that’s all you like about it. And don’t say it’s a good workout—there are plenty of other exercises and sports out there besides climbing.”
“Fine.” Sierra takes another slow sip, giving herself time to think over the question.
“I like that there’s not one right way to do things.
I can slow down, think. Find a better approach.
You know how, in rock climbing, you can’t just focus on the next move?
You have to be strategic and consider how each move affects the ones that follow.
Like if you choose the easier of two path options, but the next move has a huge reach that makes you fall—whereas the harder option would’ve been more manageable in the long run. ”
She pauses to take another sip of wine. “A friend of mine used to say it’s a lot like chess.
You can’t have blinders on and focus only on the immediate problem; you have to consider how each move flows into the next and how the whole game plays out.
Even if it doesn’t seem obvious at first, there’s a way to succeed, to get to the top.
I just have to use my mind and be open to new possibilities.
” She stops, looking suddenly uncertain.
“Gosh, that sounds so hippie woo. Maybe not the most eloquent way to say it. I was never much of a poet. But…there it is.”
Quiet pride spreads warmly through me. She’s grown so much. “Don’t get bashful on my account. I think what you said is beautiful. Another game?”
Sierra wins the next round. “Do you climb anywhere besides in your cave? And if so, favorite place to climb around here?”
“Isolation Canyon is the closest and the best. I’ll take you. The next day we’re off.”
“Sounds like a date.” Sierra freezes, her hands rising to cover her pink cheeks. “Sorry, too much wine. It always makes me a bit too flirty.” At my quirked eyebrow, she blushes deeper. “And a bit too honest. Jesus.”
Her lips have darkened from the wine, turning a luscious, soft pink color. My mouth goes dry at the thought of tasting them.
When I win the next round, I flounder for a minute. Her eyes are sparkling, her expression soft from the wine. “Are you dating anyone?” I blurt. What I wanted to ask was, Did you ever fall in love with someone else? Because I never did.
“Naw,” she says, mimicking me again playfully. “I don’t really date anymore. I think men can kind of tell what kind of girl I am.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know.” She takes another big swallow of her wine. “People sense my bad-girl aura. Good guys don’t want the taint to rub off on them, so shitty guys are the only ones interested in me.”
I rear back like she’s slapped me. I feel dumbfounded. Angry. Hurt. And simmering underneath all of it, ashamed. Because she isn’t wrong. I was that shitty guy once. “I—”
“Another round?” she says as she locks the board into place.
“Sure.” I’ve lost my focus now, and it’s embarrassing how quickly she wins the next game.
“Another win!” she crows with the ego of a grand master.
“Okay, your turn. Why are you not on a yacht somewhere? Seth said you found millions of dollars’ worth of gold in the cave.
A cave, might I add, on land that belongs to your family.
I know you totally had the right to keep it. What’s the deal?”
I turn a red chip over in my hand. “It didn’t feel like it belonged to me,” I say finally. “I found it by accident. Don’t get me wrong, it was super tempting.”
“That’s it?” she says, mimicking my response to her rock-climbing question earlier. “Come on, Logan. This was your game, remember?”
“All right,” I say slowly. “At the time, I thought you were dead. I remembered how much you loved this place, how you wished Sagebrush could just catch a lucky break. I mean, I wasn’t a total angel.
I set aside a portion of it for my parents’ retirement and invested in mapping out the cave.
Oh, and a down payment on our house. The rest went into a trust for Sagebrush. ”
Sierra blinks at me, her mouth open in surprise and confusion. “You thought I was dead?”
“Why would I think otherwise? No one had seen you or heard from you. No one knew where you were or how you could have left Sagebrush. The best I could figure out is that you left on foot over Compass Mountain. But then no one could find you on the other side. That was the hottest March on record. There was no way you could have hiked eight miles over steep terrain in that heat. You were already acting…I thought…well.”
“I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry, Logan. I didn’t think—I didn’t think anyone would miss me.”
That hurts. I turn my attention back to the red chip in my hand, flipping it between my fingers again and again and again. Is that the answer? She just thought I wouldn’t care?
“So that’s how you found the cave,” says Sierra finally. “You were searching for me?”
“When you first went missing, I searched until summer hit, and then I could only search for an hour or two at a time until it cooled down again in September. I found the cave a couple of months later.”
Sierra’s laugh sounds hoarse. “God, Logan. You were supposed to say that you lost all the gold in a bad crypto investment or something.”
“Crypto? Do I seem like that much of a tool to you?” I joke weakly.
“Don’t make me answer that question.”
I smile, but my heart is no longer in it. I drain the rest of my wine. The last swallow leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
“Another round?” she offers. “I feel like I owe you at least one glass of wine for what I put you through.”
“I’ve had enough,” I say. “I’ll close our tab.”
I berate myself all the way back to the house. What the hell am I doing? Taking her on wine-tasting dates. Forcing my company on her. Seth was right—some things are better left buried.
Shit. Seven weeks can’t pass fast enough.
When we arrive at the house, Sierra takes my arm and gently turns me toward her.
She searches my eyes, hers dark and liquid in the moonlight.
Then she plasters herself to me in a hug that feels almost ferocious.
My breath stops. I take a moment to savor the feeling.
Her arms lashed around me, her soft breasts squished against my chest, her hair tickling the tip of my chin as my breath and the wind stir it.
For years, I imagined this moment. What it would feel like to have her in my arms again.
My imaginings don’t come close to how sweet—how bittersweet—the reality is.
Even still, I enclose her in my arms and pull her even tighter against me, and we hold each other.
Seconds stretch to minutes, and yet I can’t bring myself to be the one who lets go, who steps away.
When we finally separate, it’s she who initiates it. But I know—because even after all these years, I know her—she didn’t want to let go either.