He nods.
“Good. Head towards the highway like you’re going home. And by the time we get there all this will be behind us.”
Nate and I have a chat. And that chat includes little details about his life that I’m one hundred percent sure Indie has no clue about. All these years I pegged Nate as just the boy next door. Some pussy kid who got lucky when my girl came to live in the big house across the lake.
But then I heard he was playing ball. And he was good enough to get himself a full-ride scholarship to Ole Miss. Which, OK, I get it. Ole Miss isn’t Harvard by any stretch. But it’s no joke, either. So I started wondering what else I didn’t know about our friend Nate.
I needed some specifics.
Which led me to specifically finding out about that hot cheerleader he’s dating from high school. The one he just had dinner with.
Specifically… he banged her in the front seat of this very truck just two hours ago.
Specifically… Nathan St. James has a thing for rough sex.
Because he had his hands around her throat, squeezing her windpipe, the whole time they were fucking. And if I find out he choked Indie when he got her pregnant, I will cut off his cock, shove it into his mouth, and let him experience sexual asphyxiation for himself.
Not that I’m real worried about anyone hurting Indie like that. She can most definitely take care of herself. I just want to set some ground rules for my buddy Nate.
And then, just as we turn down the dirt road that leads to Old Home and the little driveway to the carriage house, I tell him what we’re gonna do about this little problem.
So when I walk past the duck lake towards my house, and Nathan St. James is safely tucked away inside his with my girl, Indie, who is none the wiser about our conversation, I feel a little bit of satisfaction.
Not a lot.
But enough.
For now.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - McKAY
PRESENT DAY
I wake up to the sound of Donovan and Indie talking downstairs. They aren’t sharing secrets or anything. Just some normal conversation. And I figure they’re putting groceries away, because I can hear the tell-tale crinkling of plastic bags and the refrigerator door being repeatedly opened and closed.
I don’t really want to get up. I feel like I could sleep for months and still not be ready to get up and face what’s coming. But I do. I get myself together and wander into the hallway, still half listening to Donovan and Indie. Though things have gone quiet down there now.
I peek over the railing that overlooks the foyer and arched entrance to the front rooms. Someone—Indie or Donovan—has pulled a bunch of the white sheets off the furniture and has piled them in a heap just in front of the dining room.
Adam not being here should feel weird. It’s his fucking house. But so much about that dude has been weird since Indie disappeared, I think I’ve become immune to it. We’ve talked a few times. Mostly texted. But I have not seen him since that day everything went down.
I don’t know that I fully expected Indie to come back. I mean, I had always hoped. But there was a big part of me that figured she’d get herself killed somehow. Who knows how? Any number of ways, I guess. Or that she’d just… forget about us. All of us. Because Indie is very good at forgetting. She’s very good at losing track of things.
Herself, mostly. But lots of other things too.
But here we are on the verge of something.
And it could go a lot of different ways. I guess we won’t know that until Adam shows up and we get Indie to remember what happened and explain what she was thinking that day. Why she did what she did.
There are two ways to get downstairs from the second floor. The front stairs, which I am standing in front of. And the back stairs that lead directly into the kitchen. And for a second I’m not sure which route to take. I could throw those sheets in the laundry if I go down the front. But I could sneak up on Donovan and Indie in the kitchen if I take the back ones.
I choose the front ones, fairly certain I don’t want to sneak up on them.
So I go down, pick up the sheets, and I’m heading towards the laundry room on the other side of the front room, trying to mind my own business, when I hear them.
Do I get jealous? Doesn’t everyone? So… yeah. I do. But this is something I need to come to terms with. I have fucked her twice now. Twice in the span of less than one full day.
But that doesn’t mean she’s mine.
She is not fully mine. Or Donovan’s. Or Adam’s.
She is ours and that’s just how it is. We can deal, or choose not to, but there is no way around that fact.
Still. I know what they’re doing in the kitchen.
At least I think I do. But then I hear them whispering. I place the sheets on the stairs and wander down the hallway to the back of the house where the kitchen is. Trying to be quiet so I can catch a few words.
Because while I would be happy to give them their privacy if they were fooling around, secrets are something else altogether. I don’t actually like secrets. I’ve been living with them my whole life and they are a burden I could do without.
I stop and press my back against the wall just before the archway opens up into the combined family kitchen area. Straining to hear them. Because while I like Donovan, I’ve never fully trusted him. All those tapes. I told Adam they were a bad idea but Donovan wanted them for some paper he was writing back in the day. And even if Adam put all of his on some super-secret hard drive, Donovan didn’t. I know that because he brought them with him. A whole fucking bag filled up with Indie’s thoughts.
I hear Indie say, “They’re gonna find out, Donovan.”
“It’s fine,” Donovan whispers back. “I can handle them.”
I should get really suspicious about this line of conversation between Indie and Donovan, but I figure it’s about them. Something to do with their relationship. And I’m not sure that’s any of my business.
I wait there for a little bit longer. Hoping—and not hoping—I will hear more. But then they really are fooling around because I can hear kissing.
I go back the way I came. Pick up my sheets, take them into the laundry room, and shove them into one of two commercial washers. Then I go back upstairs, put on my boots, and jacket, and come back downstairs making noise.
It’s juvenile. But fuck it.
I don’t care. I slam the door on the way out too.
But the last place I want to be is outside. Because that’s where everything happened that day. And everywhere I look there’s a bad memory waiting for me.
It’s raining again. Not hard, but a healthy drizzle. So I head to the pavilion. My one spot on this vast acreage of marshy woods that is all mine.
Of course, I have not been out here in four years and it looks it. Leaves everywhere. All the cushions, and pillows, and blankets that made this place feel homey and comfortable are gone now. There used to be mosquito netting around the perimeter in the summer. And in the winter, I would hang thick, canvas curtains all the way around to keep the wind out.
I don’t much like the hot, sticky summers but Louisiana winters are perfect. Adam and I used to watch football out here all fall. Then basketball all winter. And when Indie was still small and young, we’d have movie night with her. That was fun. And we’d all pile on top of that giant swing I made and just have a little bit of fun. Try and forget who and what we were.