Page 46 of Wandering Wild

I secretly agree with him, but I follow Hawke’s lead and toss the weed into my mouth. It’s not as awful as I expect; in fact, the taste is familiar enough that I say, “When we were kids, Ember and I used to snack on something similar that we picked from gardens on our way to school.” I strain my mind for the name. “We called it soursob, I think. Or maybe sour grass. Or... sour something.”

Hawke waves the stalks in his hand. “All different names for wood sorrel.” To Zander, he asks, “What do you think?”

The actor forces himself to swallow, then pulls a face. “My mouth tastes like a forest.”

I bite my cheek to keep from laughing.

“A rave review,” Hawke says, his dark eyes full of mirth. He then tosses Zander some sandpaper figs. “Those will go down better.”

Unlike last night when we were eating around the fire, Bentley has to keep his camera rolling, being the only source of filming now that the nano drones are gone. After a while, though, he swaps his larger device for his GoPro, attaching it to a head strap to leave his hands free. The moment he does, I relax unconsciously, and Zander also becomes less stiff at my side. It makes no sense, since we’re still being recorded, but not having a lens pointed so obviously in our direction makes things easier, psychologically.

I should have recognized it as a warning, because a few minutes later, once we’ve all finished dinner, Hawke stretches out his legs and renews the probing conversation he began last night. I squirm in sympathy as his eyes home in on Zander, grateful he has no reason to put me in the spotlight with the same kind of interrogation since the world doesn’t care about my life, nor do I have a public image problem that I’m trying to improve.

But then Hawke asks his first question, and any sympathy I feel swiftly begins to dissolve.

“We’ve talked about your childhood, and touched on what happened with your co-star Summer last year, but I’d love to hear more about your last few months,” Hawke says.

The words are innocent enough, but there’s an uncomfortable feeling in the air now. I’m unsure if it’s coming more from Zander—or from me.

“You’ve made some recent headlines labeling you as ‘Hollywood’s Bad Boy,’” Hawke continues, “and you even had a court-mandated stint in rehab after a car accident revealed you’d been driving under the influence of an illicit substance. Up until then, your life was squeaky clean. But now...” He trails off pointedly, before finishing, “Any chance you’re willing to share about what happened?”

I’m stunned Hawke went straight in for the kill with his line of questioning, though I assume Gabe put him up to it, just as I assume Zander has a publicist-approved answer ready. Regardless, I’m as tense as the mountain around us as I wait for his response, struggling to beat back memories that are screaming for my attention.

Zander shifts beside me, and for a long moment, the only sounds I hear are the crackling flames and the rain sheeting down outside. It’s too dark to see beyond the cave now that night has fallen, so there’s only this small, firelit space to hold our focus, until finally, he speaks.

“You mentioned Summer before, and what happened last year, so that was really when the ‘bad boy’ label began for me,” he says, fiddling with a thread on his thermal shirt. Quickly, he adds, “Not that there’s any blame on her—what I meant was, timeline-wise, that’s when the industry began to consider me problematic.”

Hawke nods in gentle encouragement, and I again feel the stirring of sympathy as I recall everything he shared last night. But I stamp it down, bracing for what I know is coming.

Zander doesn’t meet any of our eyes as he goes on, “After Summer spoke her truth and was met with censure, she took some time away from LA, waiting for everything to die down. But she returned for her birthday a few months ago, wanting to have a quiet dinner out with me and—and Maddox—” He stumbles over his best friend’s name for some reason, but then continues, “and a few other close friends. The paparazzi found us, and soon co-stars and acquaintances from her life started appearing to celebrate with her. Dinner turned into a raging party, with drinking and dancing”—his throat bobs as he stares at the fire—“and drugs.”

My heart begins to pound as I picture the night he’s describing, already aware of what comes next, and how much I don’t want to hear about it. But also, how much Ineedto hear about it, if only to remind me of who he is, and the stupid, selfish,hatefuldecisions he’s capable of making.

When Zander doesn’t continue, Hawke presses, “So you were partying with your friends, and you took some drugs...”

Zander flinches.

It’s a slight movement, but I catch it, my brow furrowing at its strangeness. But then I realize it must be a reaction to the guilt he’s feeling. He knows what he did was wrong. I just wonder if he knows how much worse it could have been.

“I was—I was called away from the party,” Zander says, and there’s a deliberation to his words now, enough that I narrow my gaze, certain he’s hiding something. Or perhaps he’s trying to remember the script he’s had to memorize to make himself seem less culpable. Anger swirls within me at the thought, burning in its intensity. “It was an emergency, and I didn’t—” He clears his throat. “I didn’t think before getting in my car. All I knew was that I needed to leave, and it couldn’t wait.”

My blood is roaring in my ears now, as loud as the rain pouring down outside.

“I know I was lucky,” Zander says quietly. “When I hit that tree, I could have died. Or—Or?—”

“Or someone else could have,” I rasp out, the words torn from a deep, broken place inside me.

At the pain in my voice, Zander’s eyes shoot from the fire to me, and he searches my face with concern in his gaze. But I can’t stand to look at him right now, so I stare down at my hands, clenching them in my lap, my fingernails digging into my palms.

“I know I was lucky,” he repeats slowly.

I can barely hear him over the shrieking in my mind.

“And I know I was let off lightly. It was—It was stupid, what happened. What I did. It’s the kind of regret I’ll have forever, even if I’m grateful there was no lasting physical damage. For me, or for anyone else.”

He stops talking, and Hawke asks him another question, but I don’t hear what it is.

Regret.

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