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Curiosity tugs at me. Are they still in contact with each other? She hasn’t said anything about it other than alluding to her damaged reputation last week. I had the impression they weren’t a thing anymore, especially considering all the media attention around his wife’s pregnancy and the fact that Mindy’s still strangling the steering wheel.
“What were you saying about your brother?” I ask, a not-so-subtle attempt to distract.
“It’s nothing.” The words are delivered wrapped in frost.
I fall silent, not wanting to push.
An invisible barrier erects itself between us, growing thicker and thicker with each passing mile.
I’m staring out the window, contemplating what will happen when I finally have to sing in front of her. Will I throw up, pee my pants, or black out? The choices truly are endless, and all lead to my inevitable humiliation.
She clears her throat. “This goes without saying, but I’ve had bad luck in the past mixing my work with . . . other, more personal parts of my life, so we have to keep everything as professional as possible.” Her jaw is set, but there’s something vulnerable in the way she’s holding herself, in the rigid line of her shoulders. Like she’s waiting for my judgment of her history. My eyes drift over to the phone on the dash, the screen still dark.
Or current events.
“Should we put it in the contract?”
She almost smiles. One corner of her mouth twitches and she pretends to consider it. “That’s not the worst idea.”
A crack forms in the wall between us. A small one.
“Don’t worry. I would never do anything to compromise our working relationship. You’re the only person who wants to work with me. I would never do anything to ruin things with my one fan.”
“Thank you. And I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make anything weird or uncomfortable, that’s the opposite of what I want. We’re going to be working together really closely over the next month and beyond, and I want us to be friends.”
I nod. “I understand. I appreciate your honesty. I want us to be friends, too.”
She clicks on some soft music and the miles pass in relative silence, but at least the strain has left the car.
She slows down as we approach the town limits and the sign announcing Whitby, population 1,803.
We pass a barn-shaped hardware store and drive slowly through a town center boasting an idyllic row of shops along Main Street: a bakery, a grocery store, a restaurant, a barber, and a few others before the buildings thin out and nothing but soaring pines line the road, stretching out in front of us.
A few miles outside of town, Mindy slows the vehicle, and we turn onto a paved driveway. A rustic wood sign faces the street: “Camp Aria,” it reads, in bright blue cursive lettering.
The narrow road forks, and we head to the left, curving up an inclined drive. Outside my passenger window, the road to the right narrows and tapers into a cobblestone street lined on either side with quaint, colorful cottages.
The view is brief, and seconds later Mindy brings the SUV to a halt.
I peer up at the asymmetrical structure looming over us.
The wooden porch has been painted a light bluish-gray color and appears relatively new, a contrast to the building surging up behind it.
I step out of the car, stretching my legs and peering up at the house. It’s a large two-story home, built with a variety of materials like dark wood and red brick, topped with a splash of stucco. I’ve barely had a chance to take it all in when a figure comes speed-walking around the corner.
It’s a guy with dark hair, maybe a couple of years younger than me. His clothes are covered in mud, and he’s holding a red rag around his hand, held up in front of his chest.
He winces, and I zero in on his tense shoulders and the strain bracketing his features.
Wait. That’s not a red rag. It’s stained with his blood.
ChapterEight
Mindy
“Jake?” I call out, coming around the side of the car and jogging over to him. He’s muddy and disheveled and my stomach turns at the blood seeping through the cloth wrapped around his hand.
“Are you okay? What happened?”
