“And this is Babe,” McHuge says as the dog trots up beside him, his voice reassuringly normal. “She’s a serious type, but if you keep trying, she’ll warm up. Take a look at the color on your luggage tags before you head to the pavilion for refreshments, so you know which tent will be your recharging station.Orientation is at the firepit in thirty minutes. Come dressed to paddle. No whitewater, but be prepared for a current and a breeze.”
McHuge and Jasvinder turn toward the pavilion. I’m the only one watching as Brent examines a tag on a stiff new backpack, then tugs Willow away from the van door.
“Let the staff deal with that. I don’t want to be last in line for snacks.”
“Don’t you think we should let the paying customers—”
“Leave it, Willow. Just because we’re not paying doesn’t mean it’s free.”
She lets him pull her toward the path like my mom let my dad pull her into the car that day, and I have to set my feet hard to keep from getting swept into the past.
My brief burst of optimism fades like a firework, leaving the smell of cordite and rage. This will not be all right. This will behard. Every second of this cruel summer will be hard, and the guest I’m dreading most hasn’t even arrived.
For the millionth time, I wish I’d never offered to call anyone. I wish when I’d called that number, Sloane hadn’t called me back. I wish she’d endorsed us from a safe distance, instead of insisting on attending.
My body needs something to do, rightnow. Something to defuse the time bomb ticking in my chest. I’d go for a run, but I can’t sprint away from launch day unless I don’t plan to come back.
I snatch a duffel bag whose tag sports a yellow square. It’s maybe thirty pounds—not heavy enough. Pawing through purple triangles and red circles, I spy a second yellow-tagged bag and heft that one, too. The weight settles my spine, replacing the burn in my heart with a burn in my traps and delts. I’ll carry as many bags as I can before McHuge gets to them, and I’ll feel better. Calmer.
I’m about to head down to the tents when, one by one, the people on the path look toward the crunch of heavy tires overlaid by a smooth, eight-cylinder growl.
A shadow-colored Range Rover pulls up in the parking lot, its rear passenger door perfectly aligned with the short pathway to the clearing. The echo of the driver’s door closing has the hushed, smug whisper of cocktail party conversation in rooms with plush Persian rugs. It’s the kind of fancy whose understatement contains plenty of statement about the kind of people inside.
She’s here.
Chapter Six
Before the driver can make it around the car, the rear door swings open. A pair of long, taut legs wink into existence, clad in multipocketed canvas expedition shorts that hit at the precise point on her midthigh where a pair of six-guns should be strapped. Those cream socks ruched over black leather hiking boots will stay clean for about six minutes out here. Her cropped olive-green jacket sits just off her shoulders, her body-skimming tank top teasing her Hollywood collarbones and news anchor arms. The breeze feels engineered to ruffle her thick platinum bob.
The entire camp stands riveted by the performance. Valid—Sloaneisan actor. Or she was, and she will be again soon, ifNighthawke—her new movie—does well. She plays the titular character, a dystopian future James Bond type. In the trailer, she’s dirty, bloody, and constantly biting some kind of ordnance.
She’s far from dirty now. Sloane Summers is seven years older than me—forty, if her birth date on IMDb is correct—but my sister’s skin is as smooth and glowing as the epidermis of a freshly decanted cyborg.
“Ahhhh, Lara Croft!” Lori blurts, pointing.
“Lori!” Mitch mutters, grabbing her arm.
“But…” Lori mimes operating a video game controller.
I can’t help barking out a nervous laugh.
Sloane’s dawn-sky eyes swing to me, jumping from my identical pale-blue irises to my hair, chin, clothes, shoes. For a long, silent second, her flat mouth makes me think she’s going to get right back in the car and drive away.
But she tips her head back and laughs, throaty and musical, andwow, can she project.
Everyone laughs with her. Even me, albeit through gut-churning emotion. I knew we looked alike, but actually seeing my cheekbones on her face feels like staring at an alternate-universe version of myself.
What ifmymom, like Sloane’s, had had the good sense to leave my dad in time to keep his name off my birth certificate? What if Mom had taken me far away, and we, too, had had lawyers to keep us safe?
A stupidly handsome man, maybe thirtyish, joins Sloane. His light brown skin and wavy black hair shine with the same Hollywood glow she has, and in the most moneyed flex I’ve ever seen, he’s holding a smartphone with no case. Dereck Burgos plays Nighthawke’s doomed lover—a very James Bond touch, killing off the love interest—in the film that’s supposed to launch both of them to silver-screen stardom. According to the websites I definitely do not use to stalk Sloane’s career, they’ve been dating since filming wrapped last summer.
“Hi, everyone, sorry we’re late! I’m Sloane, and this is Dereck. We’re so excited to be here!”
McHuge makes his way through the swarm of curious people. Sloane’s cut her hair sinceCow Pie High, and her face has morphed from its softer, rounder teenaged shape toa sharper cheekbones-forward look, but she’s recognizable enough that some of the guests are squinting, obviously trying to place her.
“Dr. McHugh! I can’t believe it’s you,” she squeals, pulling him into a hug. That’s another favor I owe her—for acting like McHuge is a celebrity in front of the other guests.
Delighted, he squeezes her in return. I see the moment Sloane stops acting and lets her back bow into the pleasure of McHuge’s embrace.