Bend in the Road Page 2

  Some people call our place the caretaker’s house, even though Mom doesn’t call herself the caretaker, and neither does Chris nor any of his family. Her official title is a mouthful: Hudson Family Farms Property Manager, Stone & Wool Farm. Ask her, and she’ll call herself a farmer and a fiber artist, plain and simple.

  I turn in to the farm from the park trail and start to count the trees along the main road like I always do. Fifty-two norway pines from the county road to the farmhouse. The number never varies, a constant as the seasons change. I walk past our house toward the big barn.

  I don’t get that far. Mom’s on the porch at the farmhouse, talking to someone in an old-fashioned black wool peacoat, the collar turned up. My breath catches. Not just someone. Chris’s son. He’s wearing dark sunglasses, hiding what I know are striking, earthy green eyes like his dad’s. He’s not very tall but stands a good few inches over Mom, on the backs of his heels as though he’s trying to lean away from her. A shaggy mess of curls, black as the coat, tumbles down almost to his broad shoulders. His square jaw, high cheekbones, and long, stately nose give him a serious look. Older than his seventeen years. Classically handsome, if a bit scruffy. And he must be roasting in that heavy coat.

  He’s frowning at whatever Mom’s saying, her hand upturned and moving in emphasis and in rhythm to her words, a gesture I know well as she makes her point. He shakes his head. Somehow, I recognize that look of disappointment and frustration, that worried crease between his eyes, and something low in my stomach flips. Something’s not right.

  Not that I care.

  I don’t know him, not really, but I’d know him anywhere, the son of the town’s favorite—and sometimes wayward—son. Gabe Hudson. The Gabe Hudson, celebrity. A musician, like his dad. His music’s fine—the first album, anyway, which reminds me of Dig Me Under, Chris’s band. A broody, deep, grungy sound, some of it heavy, some of it pensive, some of it loud. I haven’t heard Gabe’s latest album.

  He’s the last person I’d ever expect to see here again. It’s been years since his grandma Leona’s funeral, the only time we’ve ever spoken, and after that day, after he’d proven that all the rumors were true—he was conceited, pretentious, rude—I wouldn’t have been disappointed if he’d never come back.

  Why is he here now? I take a step toward them, and a branch cracks below my feet. Gabe’s head snaps in my direction, and Mom turns, too. “Juniper!” she calls. “Look who it is!”

  He lifts his sunglasses and rests them on top of his curls as I approach, then looks away.

  “Here’s Juniper,” Mom says with a huge smile. “You’ve both grown up so much.”

  He shoves his hands in his pockets and nods curtly but doesn’t say hello.

  “You remember Gabe, don’t you?” Mom prompts.

  “Oh, how could I possibly forget?” I ask, and I’m sure that she doesn’t miss the sharpness in my tone. “And of course I recognize you from, you know, the Internet?”

  I mean for that to sound snarky, too, but it comes out more like I’m a twelve-year-old girl who searches for images of him online and downloads them as her phone wallpaper. Crushing on him like everyone else in middle school. And still crushing on him in high school, thinking that if he ever comes to town, he’ll fall madly in love with a local girl, as if everyone here has a special claim to him.

  That will never be me.

  “From the Internet,” he repeats, shakes his head slowly, and looks down at his shoes, a pair of solid black Vans. “Of course.”

  There’s an uncomfortable beat where no one says a word. Mom looks from Gabe to me and back to Gabe before she says, “We’re so happy that you’ve come home.” She puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes once before releasing it.

  But this isn’t his home. This will never be his home.

  “Whatever you need, let us know,” Mom continues.

  “I need keys,” he says, “to the Twister. Do you know where Chris keeps them?”

  Right to the point.

  I can’t help it. I laugh, a quiet ha that I try to swallow down. If Gabe notices, he doesn’t give it away.

  “Oh, honey, I’ll have to ask him.” She smiles, her eyes kind and soft. “I’m sure you know that.” Of course Mom isn’t simply going to hand over the keys to Chris’s Mustang, a rare, restored, mint condition model from the early seventies. After he bought it a few years ago—after the Grammy win, after Leona died—he had the garage completely refurbished. He’s also got a newer-model Mustang, and a teal Chevy short-box pickup that reminded him of his grandpa’s truck, and a garage full of classic cars in LA, too.

  “Fine,” Gabe says. “I don’t need the car. I’ll get my groceries delivered.”

  I snort. “By whom?”

  Now he turns to me. “A service?”

  “A service,” I repeat, shaking my head. Typical pretentious LA child celebrity.

  “Make a list,” Mom says gently. “Juniper can shop for you this morning while you get settled.”

  “Me?” I blurt. “What am I, his personal assistant?”

  “Juniper,” she says with warning in her tone, “Gabe’s our guest.”

  Well, that’s closer to the truth than welcoming him home.

  “I’ll figure it out,” Gabe says as he takes a step backward toward the front door. He looks directly at me, and I’m struck by those deep green eyes. “I’m not here to make friends,” he says so sadly, so quietly, I almost believe he didn’t say it. He opens the door and disappears behind it, closing it with a quiet snick.

  “Juniper!” Mom hisses. She’s short with long, straw-colored waves of hair—streaked with more gray strands than she’d like—pulled back into her usual ponytail, her tanned face lined with worry and hard work and laughter crinkling at the corners of her eyes. Work hard, love hard. I’ve heard her say it a million times. We don’t take any single day for granted. “I can’t believe how rude you were to him just now.”

  “Me? How about how rude he was?”

  I never told Mom what happened the day of Leona’s funeral. Dad had died the year before, but I still cried for him every day, clinging to the words Mom had said to me the day that we lost him: “I know that the pain is sharp now. It will still be sharp tomorrow. But it won’t always be so sharp, I promise.” I said that to Gabe then, when he was hurting, too, but he said nothing. He turned and walked away without looking at me, without thanking me, without acting in any way how a person should. I wish I hadn’t shared those words with him, words that were so special to me. Words that he tossed aside like trash, which felt like a slight to my father, to his memory.

  “What’s he doing here, anyway?” I ask. “I mean, obviously he’s not here to make friends.”

  “What difference does it make?” She puts her hands on her hips. “That’s not how we treat people.”

  “And how could you offer me up like that without talking to me about it first?” I snap. “Last I checked, grocery delivery service wasn’t listed in my job description.”

  “You don’t have a job description,” Mom counters. “You do as I ask.”

  “Well, there’s your first mistake. You didn’t ask. I’ll be in the greenhouse if you need me for anything. Anything except buying groceries for Gabe Hudson.”

  “This conversation isn’t over,” she calls after me as I walk back up the driveway toward our house. “Far from it. And don’t forget, it’s your turn to make lunch, and I’m inviting Gabe.”

  If there’s anyone as stubborn as me, it’s my mother, and I know she won’t let this one go. But I won’t back down, either.

  Chapter Three

  GABE

  No way am I letting Juniper Blue buy groceries for me or even drive me to a store and wait for me in the parking lot while I shop. Do anything for me. I’m not staying in Harper’s Mill long, and like I told her, I’m not here to make friends.

  I have two memories of Juniper Bell. The first, watching her on TV the night she walked the red carpet with Chris at the Grammy
s, overwhelmed and shell-shocked and starstruck and awkward in her floofy pale pink dress and high-tops. Her last name is Bell, but Juniper Blue is the name that made her famous for all of thirty seconds at the Grammy Awards years ago, when Dig Me Under performed the song Chris had written for her.

  I watched the show live from Elise’s New York City penthouse—she and Chris had split up again but of course would reunite after he brought home the hardware—and then watched clips from it a million more times on YouTube. Every time I watched, I thought, It should have been me, even though I’d gone to countless awards ceremonies with one or the other of my parents, sometimes both. Now I’ve been invited to some on my own, performed my first single, “Burden,” at the Radio KidCo Awards when it was up for Song of the Year. It didn’t win, too heavy for that crowd, but dating the KidCo princess earned me a courtesy nod, I think.

  My second memory of Juniper, a few months later, is hazier, a moment in Gran’s living room after the funeral, the last time I was here. Back then, she was a little scrap of a thing, her curls more a cold white-blonde than warm, golden sunshine. She walked up to me, practically shaking, the only time she’d ever spoken to me. I don’t remember what she said or if I said anything back. I only remember that I was so tired of people telling me they were sorry for my loss. I was tired of Minnesota and the thick, humid air and the ugly brown river that ran through town and Gran’s backyard. I wanted to go home, or the closest thing I had to one.

  It no longer bothers me that “Juniper Blue” launched Dig Me Under’s comeback. I don’t care that Chris wrote a song for her and took her to the Grammys. I don’t care that he probably spent more “quality time” with her in that one weekend than he’s ever spent with me. Juniper’s a girl who happens to live on the farm, that’s all.

  I can admit, though, that Juniper surprised me today. I wasn’t expecting someone so short, for one, or so . . . I don’t know. Sharp. Captivating. She packs a lot of attitude into that Yoda-sized package. Hair in two loose blonde braids past the small of her back. Army green cargo pants rolled at the ankles, a long-sleeved gray T-shirt with the words Hike More, Worry Less in flowery script, battered hiking boots. Cheeks flushed and glowing from the crisp autumn air. Ice-blue eyes that flashed in indignation.

  I’m standing in Gran’s kitchen, scanning the small supply of food Chris keeps on hand. Tuna packets. Cans of tomato soup. Some sort of microwavable rice dish. None of it seems very appealing, but for the first time in days, I’ve got something of an appetite. For the first time in days, I slept through the night, even though the living room sofa wasn’t comfortable. This morning I found a fresh can of Folger’s, and the coffeemaker worked, so I’m calling that a win.

  But I have to eat.

  As much as it kills me, I’m going to have to call in reinforcements. I find my duffel bag where I dropped it in the living room, its contents spilling across the floor. My phone’s in the side pocket. When I power it back up, it buzzes with notifications and texts: Chris. Elise. My manager. Rocky.

  My stomach lurches. I can’t think about Rocky right now. I swipe them all away, pull up a conversation with my cousin Ted, and type: Hey, you probably heard I’m in town. I could use a favor.

  It’s not thirty seconds before I see that he’s texting back. Then: What do you need I can be there in 15.

  He’s over in ten. He pounds up the porch steps, blows through the front door without knocking, and scares the ever-loving piss out of me even more than the probable coyotes last night.

  “Gabey baby,” he barks as he crosses the living room. “Your chariot awaits and all that, Prince Charming. Let’s keep ’er moving. I’ve got shit to do.”

  Who needs Juniper or a grocery service when I’ve got this guy?

  I stand up and grab my grandfather’s wool coat from where I’d tossed it over the back of an overstuffed, floral monstrosity of a recliner. The jacket I brought with me isn’t going to cut it in this cold. The peacoat’s too big, musty from the mothballs in the cedar closet upstairs where I found it along with clothes spanning the last fifty-plus years, but it’ll have to do for now.

  “Nice to see you, too, Theodore,” I say. “How’s things?”

  “Blah-blah-blah. How’s things with you? You finally got rid of the psycho, huh? Now that was entertainment. Much better than her last KidCo series.”

  I shrug. I’m sure our very public, very spectacular breakup made for good TV, but it hurts. “I didn’t know you were such a KidCo fan. Do you like the cartoons or the live-action stuff?”

  Ted ignores me. “Was the sex good?” he asks, grinning. “Nah, don’t answer that. I mean, who wants to hump bones?”

  Ted was born without a filter, the exact opposite of his reticent dad. He’s your classic Midwestern farm boy/high school running back hero who wants to grow up to teach history and coach three sports at his former high school, the same three at which he himself excelled: football, basketball, baseball. He’s one of the nicest guys on the planet, too, always ready to lend a hand, no questions asked, which is like his dad. He’s tall, broad, muscular, with a ruddy complexion, wearing a flannel shirt, dirty jeans, and an Allis-Chalmers trucker cap. My guess is that he’s been helping his dad around the farm today. Shit to do might mean something to do with actual cow shit.

  We don’t see each other or talk much. But we used to hang out together those weeks at the cabin when we were younger, and we text once in a while. Chris flew the family out to LA a few times, and we did all the tourist stuff. The Hollywood Walk of Fame, the beach, Universal Studios, Disneyland. Last year, he asked if I would introduce him to Ariana Grande and told me to fuck off when I said I didn’t know her. He’s a good one.

  I blow out a long breath. “Much as I’m enjoying our little catch-up,” I say, “I could really use some groceries.”

  He bursts out a laugh. “That’s the favor you need? A ride to the grocery store? Why don’t you just drive one of Chris’s cars?”

  “I asked for the Mustang and was denied.”

  Ted laughs. “Chris would shit himself if something happened to the 1970 Ford Mustang Mach 1 Twister Special.” Chris always refers to his baby with its “full name,” which Ted mocks whenever possible. “Oh, cripes, I just remembered about that time you and Marley took the Beamer up the coast and—”

  I put up my hand to stop him from telling the story of how the hardtop had malfunctioned and we had to drive back in a rainstorm. Marley didn’t speak to me for days because naturally someone took photos of us, drenched and frustrated and angry with each other. Chris was worse, though. Made this big deal of taking away the keys, threatened to buy me a used piece of shit. He did, too, an ugly orange first-generation RAV4 that surprisingly passed the emissions test and was impossible to ignore in the Barlow-Winston Academy parking lot.

  “I remember.”

  He laughs again. “OK, why can’t Laurel take you? Or Juniper?”

  “Don’t ask.” I’m not going there. I know that Ted and Juniper are close.

  “Alllll righty then, let’s roll.”

  Ted rambles the whole ride into town. On and on about last night’s football game (they won 17–14, and by the way, it was the first game my dad has ever missed because he had to pick up your sorry ass from the airport), the farm, major league baseball, the Minnesota Vikings.

  In town, he pulls his truck into a space at Bjerke’s Super-Valu and shifts into park. Most of the spaces are empty, which gives me a small amount of relief that the entire population of Harper’s Mill won’t see me shopping for groceries.

  Ted reaches for the door handle but pauses. “Look,” he says. “I’m going to guess that you haven’t exactly been scouring social media for the latest gossip, but you should probably know that your girl Marley threw you under the bus.”

  I shrug and open the door, step out onto the cracked asphalt, and slam the door shut. “You follow something other than sports?”

  “Her parents sent her to Betty Ford again.” We walk across the l
ot into the store. “Some reporter is claiming an exclusive from her that she got the smack from you and you shot up together.”

  I scowl and yank a metal cart from the corral. “It’s bullshit. You know it’s bullshit.”

  If Marley’s in rehab—because she should be in rehab—how is she going to get me the money? Twenty-eight days—or more—and then what? She owes me a shit ton of cash, but if she lied to me about—well, everything—then chances are good that she lied to me about that, too, and she always planned to screw me over. God, I’m such an idiot.

  “Maybe it’s bullshit,” Ted says, “but if you don’t come clean—pun intended—about where you are or what you’re doing, people will assume you’re in rehab, too. Like father, like son, you know? Rumor is that you’re at Hazelden. Somebody got pictures of you at the airport.”

  Of course. Why else would I fly to Minnesota if not for an extended stay at the famous treatment center that saved Chris’s life not once, but twice?

  When I don’t say anything, he continues, “Gabe. I’ve seen the video.”

  I huff out a laugh. “You’re going to have to be more specific. Which video?”

  He sighs. “The one of the bouncer tossing Marley into the back seat of a Bentley and you freaking the fuck out.”

  “Ah. So there is a video.”

  “Yeah. Doesn’t do much for your claim that you weren’t on something.”

  Before I can think about it, I say, “A panic attack does not look like a bad trip.” I don’t think so, anyway. I’ve never watched myself when it happens. Maybe I should take a look at the video.

  “Panic attack, huh? Well, this one looked like a bad trip.”

  “What do I care? Let them think I was tweaking.” I turn the cart down the first aisle and head toward the small, dismal-looking produce section. The back wheel on the left is wonky, so I lean in and force it to follow a straight path. I stop at a display of bananas, spotted brown, all too ripe.