PROLOGUE
My heart hammered with every strike of a footstep against the ground, leaves crunching between my soles and the dirt. I dodged trees, tripped over roots, stumbled into smaller bushes, brambles clawing at my arms and legs as I raced through the forest.
“Harley!”
He was gaining on me.
I ran for the break in the trees and spied the lake sparkling in the distance, then ran until I reached the water’s edge. Outside the woods a silver moon hung mid-sky, casting a pale glow across the surface. The sand packed along the bank was easier to navigate, the only sound the blood roaring between my ears and every ragged breath as it ripped from my lungs. I clambered over a pile of rocks and landed in a pool of ankle-deep lake water, submerging my shoes, but the shadow of the wooden pier stretched out in front of me.
I was almost there.
“Harley!”
.
.
.
.
A single gunshot pierced the air.
ONE
RIVER
Everything I knew about Harley Belle Thorpe was captured in the single framed photograph on the side table in my aunt’s foyer—a candid of a young girl with her toes buried in the sand. She couldn’t have been more than six at the time, and she wore a purple two-piece. A front tooth was missing and her brown hair was frizzy at the roots, the pigtails dripping seawater, the tan lines of some other bathing suit visible at her shoulders. The picture was taken on a vacation back when Graham was still married to Harley’s mother, before he met and married my Aunt Darla, a few years after Harley’s mom had packed up the essentials and her daughter and moved them across the country to start their lives over.
Uncle Graham didn’t talk about Harley much, but he flew out to the West Coast for a week every February when business was slow, and Aunt Darla picked out birthday cards and shipped packages of Christmas gifts like clockwork on the appropriate month of every calendar year. They talked about Harley visiting on occasion, the possibility of her spending a few weeks during the summer with her dad getting to know her East Coast family, but for one reason or another, the plans always fell through.
So when my twin sister and I arrived at Uncle Graham and Aunt Darla’s to pick up Jean-Luke and Gia—our cousins—we were surprised to find the house in a frenzy. In all fairness, since my aunt had announced her run for Senate the house was in a perpetual state of frenzy. The front living room turned into an office and the unofficial headquarters for her grassroots campaign, with key staff members and volunteers coming and going at all hours of the day and night. This was a different kind of frenzy, though. Lucy—the housekeeper—had brought in reinforcements, and a friend of Aunt Darla’s who did some of her personal shopping was in the process of transporting a dozen or more department store bags piled in the foyer up the flight of stairs.
“What’s going on?” I asked Jean-Luke as we entered the den.
“Our sister is coming,” he responded.
“Half-sister,” Gia corrected.
Jean-Luke shrugged his shoulders and turned his attention back to the video he was watching on his device, some kid who’d already financed his college education by unboxing toys.
“Graham’s daughter is coming?” my sister asked. The two of us exchanged a look, the twin telepathy thing very real to us in that particular moment as we considered what this might mean.
“Dad skipped work,” Gia explained. “He’s at the airport waiting even though her flight doesn’t arrive until two-thirty and is probably going to be late, anyway.”
Uncle Graham was a general contractor with his own company. He built luxury homes in the subdivisions of Aurora. He’d started small, but now he didn’t take on a project if the budget was under a million, and he still had plenty of work. There was a waiting list just to meet with him, and summer was his busiest time of the year. He never took a day off—not for anything.
“He’s excited, then,” I confirmed.
“He said ‘son of a bitch’,” Gia informed us matter-of-factly.
“Oh my God, Gia!” Lake hissed, glancing around the room and into the kitchen to ensure we were still alone. “Don’t say that!”
“I didn’t say it! Daddy said it!”
“You know you’re not supposed to repeat those words. What if you slip up in front of your mom? Or the press? Or, God forbid, Buffy?”
While I seriously doubted the phrase had never passed my grandmother’s lips, the expectations for her progeny were high. Foul language of any kind was for the lesser classes—those with nothing else to say—and to be avoided at all costs, especially by precocious six-year-olds. This made Sunday brunch with Uncle Graham entertaining, as he seemed to be the only member of our family who didn’t give a crap about what Buffy thought.
“So who, exactly, was he referring to when he said that?” I asked.
“Don’t encourage her,” Lake warned.
“I don’t know,” Gia said. “He was on the phone. It was late.”
“We couldn’t sleep,” Jean-Luke confessed.
My sister folded her arms across her chest. “Cursing and eavesdropping. It’s like we’re in charge of a couple of pint-sized reprobates.”
“We heard voices,” Gia said.
“All right. Whatever. We need to get out of here.” Lake headed to the desk just off the kitchen and returned with the day’s schedule and our instructions, always laid out by Aunt Darla the night before. She passed me Jean-Luke’s and studied Gia’s.
“Horse-riding camp,” Lake announced. “Home for lunch. Gymnastics at three.”
“Baseball clinic this morning, and play date and lunch with Ben at the park. Looks like you have a free afternoon. Do you want to practice swimming?” I asked Jean-Luke. “Your pool or mine.”
“No fair!” Gia cried. “I want to swim this afternoon!”
“You can’t swim before gymnastics, Gia,” Lake said. “You’ll be worthless.”
“Our pool. I want to be home when Harley gets here,” Jean-Luke said.
“Why does he get to be here and I don’t?” Gia whined.
“Because gymnastics. Go get your things,” Lake replied.
“We’re out. Have fun at horse camp,” I told Gia. I offered my hand for a high five, but she ignored it, choosing to sulk, instead.
I didn’t know the statistics for two sisters who were not twins to each have a set—a boy and a girl—but somehow my mother and Aunt Darla managed the feat, and without medical intervention. Between me and Lake, I arrived first. This was a good thing. When Aunt Darla had her C-section they pulled Gia out first, so she became the “oldest,” a fact which she’s happily lorded over her brother for the last six years. When she really wants to piss him off, all she has to do is remind Jean-Luke that she met their mother first. His cheeks would turn a fiery red, the vein in his neck popping as he forced back angry tears. They loved each other, of course, but Gia knew how to push every one of his buttons, not unlike Lake knowing how to push mine, and Buffy knowing how to push Uncle Graham’s (and everyone else in the family, to be honest).
This year, Aunt Darla decided they were old enough to have their own summer schedules—activities that would keep them both busy—and apart—for at least a few hours every day. This is where Lake and I came in. Rising seniors in high school, both with reliable transportation, and the fact that our mother was just a quick phone call or text message away made us the perfect candidates to look after the younger twins. We didn’t need the job, but Aunt Darla paid us well, including gas and mileage, and Jean-Luke was an okay little person to hang out with on most days.
“I wonder what she’s like,” he said from the back seat of my black Tahoe as we headed toward the elementary school where his baseball clinic was being held.
I turned down the volume of the radio and found his reflection in the rear-view mirror. “What?”
“Harley. I wonder what she’ll be like,” Jean-Luke repeated, gazing out the window.
“Nice, I’m sure.”
“She won’t look like her picture, though.” My thoughts turned to the image on the foyer table—the little girl at the beach, barely older then than Jean-Luke now.
“No. She’s seventeen or eighteen. Taller. She’ll drive, like me.”
A few moments of silence passed. “Is it weird that I have a sister I’ve never met?” he finally asked.
In today’s society? “No, I don’t think so. There are all kinds of families.”
I hit the turn signal and made a swift left into the school parking lot.
At the country club, it wasn’t uncommon to run into men and women who’d been married three and four times each, turning Thanksgivings and Christmases into logistical nightmares. My grandpa and Buffy had managed to stay together for more than fifty years, and my parents were doing all right, but they seemed like the exception rather than the rule.
When I checked the mirror again, I could see that Jean-Luke was still concerned.
“I think it’s cool,” I offered. “I bet you have some things in common that you don’t even know about.”
He wasn’t convinced.
“You could both hate broccoli.”
“Maybe.”
Jean-Luke was a worrier—the planner. He liked explanations and assurances. I’d gotten used to offering play-by-plays before dropping him off at camps and lessons—what he could expect to happen, when I would return, where I would be waiting for him, promising the staff members had my phone number in case he needed me. A sudden, unexpected visit from a half-sister he’d never met—or even spoken to, as far as I knew—seemed like a real cause for concern, especially when profanity was involved.
“What if we don’t like her?” he asked.
What if, indeed?
“How long could she possibly be staying?” I countered.
***
After a morning spent fielding ground balls and practicing his pitching, and after making a few of the sandwiches Lucy had prepared for us disappear, Jean-Luke nixed the pool plan, deciding to do a craft, instead. He seemed infinitely more confident about Harley’s impending arrival because he wanted to make her a “Welcome” card.
I gathered the crate of supplies from the game room closet and spread its contents across the kitchen island—construction paper, pompoms, crayons, markers, glitter pens, glue, stickers.
While he cut and colored, I checked my phone for new text messages. When I found none, I scrolled through an earlier conversation, reading several weeks’ worth of messages, which didn’t take as long as I thought it might since I was only hearing from her every few days.
“Are you texting Jocelyn?” Jean-Luke asked.
“No,” I replied, shutting off my phone and setting it aside. It wasn’t a lie. I wasn’t texting her—I was reading old texts from her.
“Lake says you’re wasting your time.”
“I try not to let what Lake says discourage me,” I said.
“She may have a point.”
“No, because there has never been a better time for me with Jocelyn than right now.”
“She’s in Nassau.”
“Just for another week.”
“Then she’s going to London,” he reminded me. “Lake says you’ll only be her rebound.”
“My sister doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Jocelyn has had half the summer to get over Brenden, and who has been there—her shoulder to cry on—the whole time? Me. It’s only a matter of time before she realizes that I was the right guy for her all along.”
“Face it. You’ve been friend-zoned.”
“On the contrary, I’m moving swiftly away from friend-zone and into solid boyfriend territory, Jean-Luke.”
He shook his head as if it were pointless to try to rationalize with me. “You should make one, too,” he insisted, handing me a sheet of light blue paper.
“Make what?”
“A card for Harley.”
I had to wonder what it might look like for me to present a homemade card to Harley Belle Thorpe. Jean-Luke was six. A construction paper card from a six-year-old was cute. I was edging on eighteen. A card from me wouldn’t even qualify as “endearing,” Jocelyn’s pet word for me, which Lake insisted meant I was not serious relationship material, but I took the piece of paper from him anyway and grabbed a few markers.
Jean-Luke’s first attempt at a card was a red “Welcome Home” on purple paper, which he’d sounded out and written in his big, block, kindergarten print, but ripped up after determining that Aurora was not her real home, and she might take offense. There was a fine line between thoughtfulness and over-thinking, and Jean-Luke would over-think himself to paralysis if we let him.
“I’m sure she’ll like whatever you make her.”
But he insisted a simple “Welcome” was best and began drawing a picture of their house while I made him a snack plate of cheese, crackers, and a few apple slices Lucy had chopped earlier that morning.
It wasn’t long after this that Aunt Darla returned from her afternoon event, her campaign manager, Beckett, at her heels.
“Has Graham called?” she asked me, removing her pocketbook and setting it on the desk in the kitchen.
“I haven’t heard anything.”
She checked the watch face on her wrist. Since she’d announced her candidacy, she’d taken to wearing one to keep track of the time. While the rest of us used our phones like normal people, Beckett had insisted early on that cell phones should be kept out of sight at all times. They were rude, he said, and the last thing Darla needed when meeting and greeting constituents and potential voters was to appear unavailable, checking the time like she had some other, better place to be. So Aunt Darla paid Beckett to be rude for her, hurrying her from one event to the next, sometimes multiple engagements a day.
“This visit. . . . It’s only temporary, right?” Beckett asked, removing a veggie tray the housekeeper had also prepared from the refrigerator and helping himself to a piece of raw broccoli smothered in ranch dressing.
“I honestly can’t say,” Aunt Darla replied, removing her earrings and setting them on the counter.
“If you had to venture a guess?” he asked. I watched him to make sure he wasn’t going to double-dip that piece of broccoli, but Beckett was pretty good at pretending he had class. In truth, he was in his mid-twenties and had only worked on two political campaigns before joining forces with my aunt. He’d graduated from Keaton, which meant he knew people, and he wasn’t afraid to call in favors on my aunt’s behalf—my aunt, who would probably still be doing stump speeches at the American Legion building if not for him. Connections aside, though, Beckett was an asshole—every comment layered with smug undertones, every question laced with some kind of subtext.
In short, Lake and I weren’t fans, and Uncle Graham hated him without apology.
“She’s coming, Beckett. That’s as much information as I can provide right now.”
“I only ask because I need to know if we should set up a photo op. ‘Darling stepdaughter welcomed on campaign trail.’” He spoke the words as if envisioning a headline.
“No. No photo ops. No events. This is a quiet visit,” Aunt Darla insisted.
“Which is fine if it’s a short visit, but if this is in any way extended, we’ll need to put a plan in place,” Beckett said. “If Mitch’s team finds out you have a stepdaughter you’re hiding, they’ll spin it so fast . . .”
Mitch Warren was the incumbent and a very real threat to my aunt’s campaign, especially since she 1) relied more on my Grandpa and her trust fund to finance her bid than she did the public school teacher’s salary from when she taught and 2) was running as an independent.
“No,” Aunt Darla said. “Children are off-limits. If Mitch’s team wants to play dirty, we’ll call him out. No voter with a conscience likes that kind of behavior, anyway.”
“We’ll release a statement, then. A few sentences to let the public know the family is excited to have Graham’s daughter visiting.”
“No statement,” Aunt Darla said. “He would never allow it.”
“With all due respect, Darla, Graham isn’t the one seeking higher office.”
“This is a family matter, Beckett, and I’d appreciate your cooperation.”
“I made a card for Harley,” Jean-Luke, who was already sensitive to friction, tension, or any kind of conflict, announced.
“That’s very thoughtful of you.” Aunt Darla ran her fingers through his dark hair, kissed him on his head. “She’ll love it.”
My own card, offering a polite “Welcome to Aurora,” was more afterthought than anything, so when Jean-Luke decided it needed a collection of stickers featuring Captain America in various stages of facial intensity, shield at the ready, saving the world one burst forward at a time, I let him take over decorating. And the ink of my name was barely dry before he grabbed the card and placed it next to his on the table in the foyer, just beside the photograph of Harley, where she would be certain to see it on her way in.
***
As the hour approached four, the energy of the house intensified. Uncle Graham and Harley still hadn’t arrived, and Aunt Darla moved in circles, back and forth from room to room, making sure the spare bedroom (and everything surrounding it) was perfect. When she wasn’t swiping her finger across every flat surface she passed or straightening the photographs and paintings hanging on the walls, she was on her phone checking the airport website for updates. Gia had been right—the flight was delayed, but with her landing time set at more than forty-five minutes ago, they would be arriving from Hamilton International any second.
Beckett stayed out of the way, parking himself at Aunt Darla’s desk to make phone calls, and Jean-Luke took his device to the formal dining room, though his eyes lingered on the driveway more than the videos that were playing. Meanwhile, I sat at the head of the table, taking the free moment to scroll through my various feeds on social media, checking updates from friends and viewing photos from their exotic vacations. Jocelyn, of course, was in Nassau. I “liked” several of her photos, saving one of her selfies at the beach—bright green ocean and blue skies just behind her—to my own photo file. But there were others. Mac and his family were in Croatia, Em had just returned from France, and Ava was in the Galapagos.
I was the only one of my group actually working through summer for money—not that I needed the paycheck. Everyone else “volunteered” their time. College admissions deadlines were lapsing every day, and everyone was scrambling to get their last photo-op at the soup kitchen before their application packets were due.
My sister had already applied to more than a dozen universities, but our sights were set on Keaton—at least, that’s where we’d been told to set them, so much so that I didn’t apply anywhere but Keaton, even though we weren’t legacy students and didn’t have the close connections admissions sometimes demanded.
Hell, our grandfather never even went to college, though he’d received several honorary degrees and had spoken at a handful of commencement ceremonies. He’d built his fortune in trucking, first as a driver, then as a team leader. After my mom was born he realized he’d never grow rich working for someone else, so he took a risk and struck out on his own. At the end of the year he had five trucks to his name, and business grew exponentially from there. He’d sold the company ten years ago, earning more than market share despite the lagging economy.
He didn’t want to fully retire, though, so when he wasn’t playing golf, he invested in stocks and occasionally backed an up-and-coming tech venture, which more than paid off when one of his interests became the number one gaming app in the country. Today, he finances our entire lifestyle: houses, vacations, our tuition to McGowan Preparatory Academy, with money set aside for college. Whenever someone asked me what I wanted to do when I “grew up,” I always answered: “Be like Grandpa.” I just wasn’t sure how to go about that, yet, which is why taking a gap year seemed like a great alternative to diving headfirst into at least four more years of school, even though my sister and I were slated to hear from Keaton any day.
“She’s here!”
Jean-Luke’s high-pitched squeal carried through the foyer, and Aunt Darla appeared in a moment, tugging on the hem of her shirt and straightening her necklace. Maybe it was odd. She’d been married to Uncle Graham for nearly a decade and had never so much as laid eyes on his oldest daughter in person. For the first time ever, she would be playing the role of “stepmother.” Jean-Luke grabbed our cards from the foyer table and waited beside his mom while I hung back, using one of the dining room columns for support.
Just outside, the doors to Uncle Graham’s truck slammed shut. Aunt Darla moved to open the front door as they climbed the steps, offering a cheerful “Hello!” as he and Harley entered.
Then, Harley Belle Thorpe became the blur that passed us by without a single word, hurrying straight for the stairs, taking them two at a time. My brain processed as quickly as it could: ripped jean shorts fraying at the edges, long-sleeved flannel shirt, thick black boots, chin-length brown hair with purple tips already wanting to curl in the mid-June humidity. Graham offered a stunned Aunt Darla a quick kiss on her cheek, then headed upstairs, a medium-sized suitcase and gym bag in hand. My aunt hesitated but followed them anyway. Ever the good hostess, she would show Harley where everything was: the dresser where she could keep her clothes, the closet where she could store her travel things, where to find the towels. The thermostat. The kitchen. If she needed anything at all, she only had to ask. Everyone was so excited about her visit. . . .
This left me and Jean-Luke in the foyer.
My little cousin’s eyebrows furrowed as he clung to the “Welcome” cards, baffled by what had just transpired. Had his half-sister really just blown through the house without so much as a hello?
“Let her get settled. After she unpacks and showers she might be ready to meet new people,” I offered.
In truth, Harley Belle Thorpe didn’t seem the type of girl interested in meeting or getting to know anyone. Unplanned, unexpected—her trip could’ve been labeled any number of things, but in that moment “dragged here against her will” seemed most appropriate.
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