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“Well that’s an art project I haven’t seen before,” Reggie snickers.
I run my hands over my shorn hair, making a mental note to sucker punch Finn next time we’re alone. “Yeah, they’re real crafty,” I deadpan.
A few minutes later, he comes strolling out to meet us in rumpled jeans and an untucked and crookedly buttoned dress shirt. He still has streaks of blue and gold paint on his cheeks and in his hair. “You should have called,” is all he says with a bored roll of his eyes.
“I did, asswipe,” I huff. “Give him the phone.” I flick my chin between Reggie and him.
He pockets it and nods. “Alright, find something to do for the next hour while I check this out.”
The wet, mossy smell of the forest brings back memories of running around here as a kid. We didn’t come often, but sometimes my father would send us with his lieutenants for a few days. We spent nearly a week here after Mom was killed. I realized as I got older that these weren’t random trips, but rather times when June Harbor—or just being near my father—wasn’t safe.
Just the earthy smell conjures scenes of running barefoot, weaving in and out of the trees in epic games of tag, and makes a fruity sweetness tickle my tastebuds. Back then, operation had decreased along with the Bartletts’ increasing age, but there were still what seemed like miles of wild blackberry bushes.
Reggie walks next to me now as we aimlessly stroll. Recalling the warm memories on the farm melts a little bit of my icy exterior, and I find myself being the one to start conversation. “So, what’s the story between you and your dad’s guard dog?”
She stops in her tracks and gives me a cutting side eye. So much for trying to be nice. “Daniel?”
“Yeah.”
“Just because you’re a glorified guard dog doesn’t mean everyone is.” The defensiveness in her voice only confirms what I suspected after dinner. They have history. But she seems to have recognized her haughty reaction and takes a collecting breath. “He’s my father’s driver, and I guess part of his security. I don’t know, it’s a long story.”
I give her a crooked smile. “We’ve got time to kill.”
She sighs with a slow nod, and I wonder what’s going on behind those mahogany eyes. I recognize the flicker of something both solemn and full of guilt. The look of someone who has spent so long shoving down their pain that when it’s mentioned, it’s a struggle not to push it down out of instinct. I understand the debate between not wanting to face it but also feeling like maybe if I can look the gaping maw in the eyes without backing down, it won’t hold so much power over me anymore.
“We were born just a few weeks apart, and grew up together. His father was a close business associate of mine and his mother was Santiago’s godmother. But it was his older sister, Sofia, who ended up being my best friend.” She drops my gaze and kicks a stick on the ground, then continues walking down the half-cleared path.
“We were inseparable. She was my sister, my partner, my…” She struggles to find a word that encapsulates what she was to her.
“Your person,” I say, understanding.
She looks up at me meekly, and there’s a soft vulnerability in it that makes my chest pinch. “Yeah.” Her lips twitch, and a small crease appears between her eyes. I have to resist the urge to reach out with my thumb and smooth it. “We got initiated into the cartel around the same time.”
I remember seeing her shoulder tattoo that night at dinner. I gently guide us toward the lake on the property and the decrepit dock that by some divine miracle is still standing.
She continues as we walk, “One of our first runs together was a routine drop, a simple exchange with a smaller gang we’d been doing business with peacefully for years. Low level shit. After the catador approved our sample, Sofia went back to the car to get the rest of the product and—” She suddenly stops and looks at me like I’m crazy as I step onto the dock.
“It’s a lot sturdier than it looks, I promise.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be concerned for my safety?” She looks at me sideways and eyes the dock with absolute distrust.
I bite back a smile at how quickly she bounces back to being the same pain in my ass as always. “Which should tell you how confident I am.” I walk backward with my arms held out to my sides. “C’mon, Cortez. You cut up bodies for a living. What are you scared of?”
Her mouth flattens into a thin line, and she looks off to the side like she too is holding back a grin. Then she holds her chin high and walks right past me to the end of the dock. Stubborn, competitive, and unable to resist a challenge. Classic Aries. Goddamn Stella for putting all that useless rubbish in my head.
She sits down on the edge of the dock and swings her legs, taking in the floating water lilies below. When I join her, she starts talking again without me prompting. I wonder how long it’s been since she’s talked about whatever happens next. “There was a bomb in one of the other crew’s cars that was parked right next to ours…” The sinking in her voice fucking hurts, and shit, I’m so tempted to move my hand a half inch to just barely let our fingers touch.
“She died instantly.” She pauses and glances to the sky. “One small blessing.” She inhales through her nose and fixes her eyes on the opposite edge of the lake in the distance. “And I, I couldn’t handle it. The randomness, the unfairness, the complete lack of a reason she went to the car instead of me, why it went off at that moment. No one ever looked into it, figured it was meant for someone else since it wasn’t on our car. But it never sat right with me, and instead of looking into it, I ran away. Like a fucking coward, I dropped everything, cut ties as a member, and came to the States for school.”
She pauses, and I let the silence hang, never knowing what to do in situations like this. We weren’t taught to empathize, we were taught to suck it up and shut the fuck up. After a few beats, she continues, “I used to wish it were me instead of her, but then I realized I’m the one living with all this fucking pain and guilt and regret. I wouldn’t wish it on my enemy, let alone my best friend. So, I guess I’m glad she died and didn’t—isn’t—suffering.” Swallowing, she picks at the ragged wood of the dock. “Does that make me a terrible person?”
I force a dry chuckle. “You really think I’m the best person to ask about what makes someone a terrible person?” She huffs an equally heavy laugh. “But if you really want to know what I think.” She turns her head and hits me with those soulful brown abysses, and my throat constricts. Somehow, I still find the breath to speak. “I think grieving is always fucked up. There’s no right way to do it, but not because there’s no wrong way either. There’s nothing right or just or healing about grief. It’s a wound that never heals.”
She pulls apart a splinter of wood. “I think you may be right.”
I wish I wasn’t.
1. I Guess—Saint Levant, Playyard
