In the distance, in perfect view between the trees beyond my balcony, stands a mountain, its granite peak gray and foreboding, skirted with green pines and topped with white clouds that make the scene so beautiful I stop breathing for a moment.
Holy shit.
It’s just there. A cathedral, sitting in front of a blue sky, and before I can stop myself, I raise my hand, reaching out for it like I want to take it in my fist, but all I can feel is the morning air breeze through my fingers.
I inhale, the smell of the earth and stone drifting through my nose even from here, the memory of the dead animal smell from last night forgotten. The scent of water hangs in the air, fresh but musty where it soaks into the soil and rock, and I inhale again, closing my eyes.
The hairs on my arms rise.
I need to leave now. I don’t want to get used to that smell, because it’ll stop being special before long.
“If you want to be here for the funeral, then be here,” Mirai goes on as if I still care about anything we were discussing. “If you don’t, I don’t think anyone will question the only daughter of Hannes and Amelia de Haas if she’s too distraught by the sudden death of both parents to attend the funeral.”
I open my eyes, part of me wanting to smile and part of me disappointed in myself, because I know I won’t leave. Not today, anyway. I raise my eyes and look at the peak, not wanting to stop looking at that view yet.
I swallow, remembering Mirai. “Thanks,” I tell her. “I’ll take a few days and think about what I’ll do.”
The funeral wasn’t for four or five more days, at least. People from around the world would need time to get to California, as well as all the arrangements that had to be made. I had time.
“I love you, Tiernan,” she says.
I pause. She’s the only one who says that to me.
All the memories come flooding back, except now I catch things I didn’t catch before.
All the times she—not my mother or father—called me at school to see if I needed anything. All the presents under the tree I know she—not them—bought for me and the birthday cards she signed for them. All the R-rated movies she got me into that I couldn’t otherwise, and all the travel books she’d leave in my bag, because she knew they were my favorite things to read.
The first pair of dangling earrings I ever owned were a gift from her.
And I fucking nod through the phone, because that’s all I do.
“Breathe, okay?” she adds.
“Bye.”
I hang up, needles pricking my throat, and continue to stare at the beautiful view, my hair blowing in the soft breeze and the wild smell of the air so much like a drug. Heady.
A woodpecker hollows out a tree in the distance, and the wind sweeps through the aspens and pines, the forest floor growing darker the deeper the woods go until I can’t see anything anymore.
Do they hike? Jake, Noah, and Kaleb? Do they ever venture farther into the forest? Take time to explore?
A chainsaw cuts through the silence, loud and buzzing, and I blink, the spell broken. Turning around, I drop my phone on the bed and walk for one of my suitcases, digging out my toiletry bag. Walking for the door, I squeeze the handle, slowly twisting it.
It squeaks, and I flinch. My parents didn’t like noise in the morning.
Stepping softly into the dim hallway, the dark wood floors and paneling lit only by the glow of the two wall sconces and a rustic chandelier, I tiptoe past the room Jake told me was his last night and head for the next door, reaching for the handle.
But before I can grasp it, the door swings open, light spills into the hallway, and a young woman stands there, damn near naked. Her mussed auburn hair hugs her face and hangs just above her bare breasts.
Jesus… I turn my head away. What the hell? Is she my uncle’s wife? He didn’t mention being married, but he didn’t say he wasn’t, either.
I cast another quick glance at her, seeing her smile and fold her arms over her chest. “Excuse me,” she says.
Taut, flat stomach, smooth skin, no ring on her finger—she wasn’t his wife. And definitely not the boys’ mother. I have no idea how old Kaleb is, but Jake said Noah was his youngest, and she’s not old enough to have grown sons.
She looks only a few years older than me, actually. One of the boys’ girlfriends, maybe?
She stands there for a moment, and my shock starts to turn to ire. Like, move or something? I need to get in.
“The difference between pizza and your opinion is that I asked for pizza,” she recites.
I falter and turn my head to look at her, but she’s looking down at my sweatshirt. I drop my eyes, seeing the one I’d donned and the writing she was reading on the front of it.
She chuckles at the words and then slips past me, out of the bathroom. I rush inside, and I’m about to close the door, but then I think better of it and dip my head back into the hallway. Unfortunately, though, I just hear a door close. She’s gone before I can see which room she disappeared into.
Closing the door, I busy myself washing my face, brushing my teeth, and removing the ribbon I use to tie my hair out of my face every night. Years ago, my mother started doing that, because she was told it was healthier than rubber bands.
So I started doing it, too, for some reason.
After I brush out my hair, I open the door just as quietly as my bedroom one and peer cautiously into the hallway in case more naked strangers are around. I guess it’s good to know I’m not cramping their style.
Seeing no one, I dart for my room again, smelling the coffee that woke me up drifting up from downstairs. I make my bed, dress in a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved top, and start to unpack my suitcases, but then I stop just as I’m pulling out a stack of shirts.
I might not stay. I put the shirts back and close my suitcase, deciding to wait.
I remain planted in the middle of the room for another eight seconds, but as much as I delay, I can’t think of anything else to do in here to put off making an appearance. Leaving the room, I blow out a breath and close the door behind me, not stopping before I dive in head first and descend the stairs to get this over with.
But as I step into the living room and look around, my shoulders relax just a hair. There’s no one down here. A couple of lamps light the spacious room, and I turn my head left, seeing the kitchen, dimly lit by a few lights hanging over the center island, empty, as well. I spot the red light of the coffee machine, though, and pad over in my bare feet, keeping an eye out for one of the guys.
Finding a cup in a dish rack, I pour myself a cup.
“Morning.”
I jump, the cup nearly slipping out of my hand as the coffee sloshes over the rim. Searing drops land on my thumb, and I hiss.
I glance over my shoulder, seeing Jake stroll into the kitchen and open the refrigerator,
“Morning,” I murmur, brushing the hot liquid off my skin.
“How’d you sleep?” he asks.
I cast another look, seeing him take out a drink, sweat already glistening all over his arms, neck, and back as his T-shirt hangs out of his back pocket. It’s only about seven. How early do they get up?
“Fine,” I mumble, taking a paper towel and wiping up the coffee. I actually slept like shit, but that will only open me up to more questions, so it’s easier to lie.
“Good,” he replies.
But he just stands there, and I can feel his eyes on me.