Page 60 of Wandering Wild

It’s how I’ve felt for the last six months, ever since that policeman showed up on our doorstep.

I open my mouth, then close it again, unable to summon any words.

But Zander doesn’t need me to. “I meant what I said on the waterfall. I would never knowingly endanger someone else’s life, not after what I lost.” He lowers his shirt again, unable to hold my gaze as he admits, “But saying that, what happened the night of my DUI was still my fault. I was—I was reckless. I was stupid. Even if I didn’t realize just how much.”

“I don’t understand,” I say hoarsely.

“I knew there was something wrong with me.” Zander’s brow is furrowed in memory. “I didn’t know what—I was dizzy and disoriented and nauseous, but I also wasn’t thinking clearly, so there’s no way I could have guessed I’d been roofied. That was—” He shakes his head. “I still can’t believe it, to be honest. But even though I only drank soda that night, I knew I wasn’t feeling right, and that should have been enough to stop me from getting in my car.”

The self-loathing in his tone indicates this is something he’s been struggling with for a while. Normally, I would be agreeing with him—heshouldn’thave driven off if he was feeling that unwell, despite not knowing the cause—but I also remember what else he said earlier.

“What happened with Maddox? You said he was going to—going to—” I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence.

Zander shudders against me, his voice hollow as he answers, “He left the party early—said he had a headache and didn’t feel like being around people. I offered to leave with him, but he laughed and told me he didn’t need a babysitter, while also reminding me that Summer could use the backup after being away from the city for so long.” His gaze turns distant. “There was nothing strange about how he was acting. I’ve gone back over that night so many times in the last three months, and there was nothing to indicate he was eventhinkingof?—”

He cuts himself off, slamming his eyes shut.

I don’t press him, giving him the time he needs to gather himself.

Finally, he opens his eyes again, staring into the fire as he says, in a voice full of pain, “Even leading up to it, there was nothing. He’s my best friend, and I had no idea what was going on in his head. Istillhave no idea. I just wish—I wish I understood. I wish he’dtoldme. I wish I’d known what to look for.”

Now I’m the one rubbing my hand up and down his arm, offering any comfort I can.

A tremulous breath leaves him, and he continues, “I got a text from him while I was at the party, a few hours after he left. I’ll never forget what it said. Just six words: ‘Love you, man. Don’t miss me.’” Zander’s face is haunted. “I figured he must have taken some pain meds for his headache and they’d scrambled his words around, or they were making him sentimental or whatever. But then came one more text: ‘Take care of Wookiee for me.’ That’s when I knew something was really wrong.”

Seeing my confusion, Zander explains, “Wookiee is his dog. He rescued him as a puppy and loves him more than most people. He also hates being away from him, and since he didn’t have any trips planned at the time, his text set off alarm bells, making me read his first one in a new light and realize—realize?—”

He stops talking, and this time I do press, “So you left the party?”

A terse, ashamed nod. “All I knew was that I had to get to him. I couldn’t think beyond my panic.”

I lick my lips. “And—And did you? Get to him?”

“Yes and no,” Zander answers. “I crashed right near his house. It was the dead of night, and the sound of crunching metal—” He winces in memory. “Whatever Maddox was intending to do, hearing that stopped him in time. And then pulling me from the wreckage seemed to give him a wake-up call.”

I latch onto one word: “Seemed?”

“I haven’t seen or spoken to him since it happened.” Zander’s expression shows how much that upsets him. “I’ve called him a thousand times, even gone around to his house, both before and after my time in rehab, but he refuses to talk to me. He’s my best friend and I?—”

Zander’s voice breaks, and my heart breaks with it.

With another tremulous breath, he steadies himself enough to say, “I feel like I failed him. He was always smiling and laughing and I had no idea it was covering what he was really feeling. And now that I know, he won’t let me be there for him.” Zander rubs a hand down his face. “He hasn’t stopped talking to Summer, at least. So I know from her that he’s been getting professional help, and he’s doing better. But he still won’t speak to me. Summer says he’s ashamed—that he blames himself for me rushing to him that night and getting the DUI, which then caused problems with my career. But I don’t think that’s the reason. It’s more likely he feels guilty because he’s one of the few people who knows what I just told you about my parents, so he’s also aware that I’d never get behind a wheel while intoxicated—which means he thinks I made that choice deliberately, forhim. He doesn’t know I was clueless about having been drugged, and I don’t have a way to tell him and ease his guilt until he’s finally willing to speak with me again.”

“Can’t Summer tell him?” I ask.

Zander shakes his head. “She doesn’t know I was roofied.”

I blink, surprised. “Why not?”

“Summer already blames herself for my career troubles after I supported her last year,” Zander answers, swatting at an insect drawn to the flames. “If she knew I’d been drugged at her own birthday party, and everything that’s led to—the ‘bad boy’ label, the difficulty getting auditions, potentially losing the role of a lifetime—how much more guilt do you think she’d feel? It’s absolutely not her fault, but Summer has always felt a lot more than most people. Something like this would devastate her, and that’s the last thing she needs while she’s still dealing with all her other industry heartache.”

I understand his point. “Is that why you wouldn’t tell me anything until the cameras were gone?” I don’t need him to confirm, since I already know it’s true. Well, that, plus his sensitivity toward Maddox’s mental health, which I can tell Zander would never want splashed across headlines, even if it could save his own reputation. I gasp as that realization hits me, and I quickly add, “Everything you just said—it’s the reason you took the blame for the DUI even though it wasn’t your fault, isn’t it? You kept quiet about what really happened to protect your friends.”

“Itwasmy fault,” Zander says firmly. “I take full responsibility for getting in that car.”

“That’s a credit to you,” I say, just as firmly, “but it doesn’t mean you’re not a victim in all of this.”

Zander turns toward the fire again. “Nobody likes being called a victim, Charlie.”

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