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We pulloff the interstate in McDonough, and Randy’s voice fades inside the speakers. I can’t tell if the car knows to do that when the engine calms or if Jake did it from the controls on the steering wheel. When the car rolls to a stop at the light, I take the opportunity to ask an important question. “Is there anything I should know about your family before we get there?”
He flicks an amused look at me. “You’re the reporter. You haven’t done your research?”
Sure I did. His mom runs the show ever since his dad had a stroke. His sister Ruby is a neurosurgeon. His younger brother Preston…actually, I’m not sure what he does. He’s posed in a few pictures with Jake after some of his wins, always in a leather jacket and hair slicked into a ponytail. Always brooding. There were also a couple of Preston on Facebook at gay pride last year. “Naturally,” I reply. “I meant the stuff you don’t find online.” The things people don’t want you to see.
“Now what’s the fun in me telling you before we get there? Don’t you want the full experience?”
“I’m afraid to ask what that means.”
He laughs. “I would be too.”
I shift in my seat.
“Don’t worry,” he consoles, and then punches the accelerator when the light turns green. Randy’s voice gets louder. “They don’t bite. Hard.”
The frontof their property is exactly how I imagined a southern estate to look: Sloping brick walls framing both sides of a gothic-inspired wrought iron gate. Perching proudly along the walls’ top edge are gas lanterns as they flicker pointlessly in the daylight. Meticulously-groomed shrubs and carefully placed spindle trees dot the flowerbeds, red geraniums—McDonough’s flower, I read—lining the outer rim. The beginnings of an early pollen season dusts everything from the mulch to the tops of the lanterns, and a thin layer has even collected on the hood of Jake’s burgundy car. We haven’t been down here an hour.
He pulls up to a keypad, dials a series of numbers, and waits for the gate to open. He then punches a button on his steering wheel and Randy leaves us.
We’re both silent as we head down the driveway that looks to have been freshly paved, pear trees lining the sides. A minute into the property, I start to get antsy because it seems like it goes on forever and we’ll never find an end. I know they have hundreds of acres here and this is just the start of it, but knowing the vastness and getting a first taste are two very different things. I haven’t been exposed to this much land since I moved to the city.
I also can’t help the succinct feeling of, what the hell have I done? Now that we’re here, this idiotic scenario feels a lot more real…and idiotic. If something goes wrong, I’ll have a hell of a long way to run to escape.
Damn, I should have driven myself.
When I look over to Jake, he seems just as unsettled, and it should help ease the simmering panic inside me, but it doesn’t. I’m not sure him being chipper or excited would make me feel any better, though.
We eventually reach a roundabout and a sign pointing to the first exit reads: Stables. The next reads: Pavilion and Guest House, and the last one reads: Main House. We turn onto it and thankfully, this drive is shorter. In less than a minute, the trees abruptly end and the car vibrates as the driveway narrows and morphs into cobblestone. An expanse of green lawn, mowed into a meticulous checkered pattern, meets us there and my eyes are immediately drawn to the right where a massive white farm-style home demands its place along a lake—white, square columns joined together by railing. Black shutters. A wrap-around porch with single rows of rocking chairs on either side of the front door.
Another roundabout near the front porch dumps us by a sidewalk leading to the front door, and Jake’s car rolls to a stop.
I look over at him, and he’s squeezing the steering wheel as if gathering the courage to get out and go inside, the ropes of muscles along his forearms so tight they could snap. I try to think of something to break the tension. “Quaint,” I tease.
He huffs a sympathy laugh through his nose. Has a thousand-mile stare as he looks to the lake in the distance.
I decide to be more genuine. “Jake, we don’t have to do this, you know. We could just turn around and go back to the city.”
I say it as much for me as I do him. Do either of us really want to go through with this?
His blue eyes find their way to me and he pulls off his sunglasses as he studies my expression. They leave rivets on the sides of his prominent nose like two tiny footprints in golden sand.
My breathing stills.
“Is this you saying you want to bail?”
“I was asking you that.”
We stare at each other a moment. Assess.
“I’m still good if you are,” I lie. I can’t chicken out now. I can’t. My boss is expecting an addition to the story by Monday.
“I wouldn’t say I’m good, but I’m still in.”
I suck in a confident breath, my hand reaching for the door handle.
Okay, then. Let’s do this.
