Bend in the Road Page 3

  “Not your best idea,” Ted says. “What’s your plan, then?”

  What’s my plan? My stomach lets out a low, rumbling growl. The tabloid situation is familiar but I’m in new territory here, shopping for my own food. My plan, at least right now, is to make my way through this dump of a grocery store and figure out what the hell I’m going to eat for the next few days.

  “Frozen pizzas, I guess,” I tell Ted. “I can probably manage a box of mac and cheese.”

  Ted’s phone rings and my stomach drops. He barely glances at the name on the display before he answers. “Yep, I got him,” he says in greeting. Then he hands me the phone. “I’m just gonna . . . I’ll meet you outside. Uncle Chris wants to talk to you.”

  Chapter Four

  JUNIPER

  The greenhouse was an excuse, and Mom knows it. I needed to be alone. Seeing Gabe made me feel unsettled, like something has shifted, having him here. He might look like Chris, but they seem so different. Yes, Chris is a world-famous rock star, but to me he’s always been a regular guy, my dad’s best friend. He doesn’t act like he’s better than the rest of us. His son should take a lesson from it.

  I putz around, watering, checking on the tea plant that’s beginning to flower, harvesting some arugula and basil. The greenhouse was Dad’s baby, his special project. Shortly after my parents moved here, he worked with the University of Minnesota extension service on the sustainable design and then ran studies for them. He and I spent a lot of time together here, and I’ll never feel like it was enough. He taught me the basics, but I still have so much to learn. For a long time after he died, I couldn’t set foot inside without crying, so I avoided it.

  The spring before Leona died, she convinced me it was time to try again. “You’ve got your dad’s green thumb,” she said. “Don’t let that talent go to waste, Juniper. He’d be disappointed. Get in there and cry it out and start growing things again, because life is short, and you’ve got to live in the sunshine.” She was reminding me of the farm’s rules for living, rules that had been painted onto the wall in the round barn by her father-in-law. Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air, a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson. She was already sick, and the prognosis wasn’t good.

  So I went to the greenhouse, cried it out, and planted a few simple things: basil, chives, mint. I worked through my grief here. Well, here and with a therapist in Fred Lake, who I saw regularly for a couple of years after Dad died.

  Frank Sr. helps maintain the building now. Most of the space is for growing—herbs, salad greens, a few flowering plants for teas—and the rest is my work space for drying plants and experimenting with teas. I even put in a small desk area for when inspiration strikes, the small shelf above the simple structure filled with notebooks of recipes and ideas, old copies of Mother Earth News and Old Farmer’s Almanac, and a seed catalog I found in a wooden crate, marked up with Dad’s notes.

  I work for an hour or so, then walk across the lawn to the house to start lunch. Lunch for three, apparently. In the kitchen, I unplug my phone from the charging station at Mom’s desk and open messages.

  Amelia: Am I hearing rumors Gabe’s in town? And I don’t have a text from you?

  Amelia: Have you seen him yet? Is he as hot in real life?

  She’s sent me a photo of Gabe onstage, shirtless, singing into the microphone, eyes closed, dark curls gleaming in the spotlight. Honestly. She’s ridiculous.

  I type a reply: I’ve seen him. He’s rude. Also he was wearing what I suspect was his gpa’s coat, which smelled like mothballs. Super hot.

  I open the thread from Ted, one of my oldest friends, Amelia’s longtime crush, and, as it happens, Gabe Hudson’s cousin.

  Ted: Whatcha doin? I’m hanging out with my notorious cousin. Ma says I’m supposed to invite you and Laurel to supper tonight. Lee Lee too. You can meet him then.

  Ted’s mom is the nicest woman on the planet, so it’s no surprise that she wants us to join them for supper. To Janie—to all the Hudsons, actually—we’re family. I switch back to my conversation with Amelia: Ted invited us to supper. Us as in YOU, too, LEE LEE.

  That should take her mind off the shirtless rock star staying in the farmhouse. For as long as Amelia and I have been friends—since the beginning of middle school, when she and her mom and little sister, Kat, moved to Harper’s Mill after her parents divorced—she’s had a crush on Ted. Someday, she says, she’ll get up the nerve to tell him. “Today is someday,” I’ve told her a hundred times.

  I reply to Ted: I met your notorious cousin this morning. He seemed hangry.

  Ted: rofl

  A notification pops up with another text from Amelia:

  Amelia: I’m in luv I’m in luv & I don’t care who knows it!

  YESSSSSS to supper. Can u pick me up? Mom needs car.

  Me: Today is someday. TELL HIM.

  Amelia: In my dreams.

  Amelia: Will GABE be there? Is the rumor abt him true?

  Me: Which one?

  Amelia: He’s in MN for rehab ????

  Gabe looked tired, yes, and like he could make short work of a burger and a milkshake, but he did not look like a drug addict. At least not like the drug addicts I’ve been exposed to, mostly fictional. And Chris. I only saw him strung out or high a couple of times. He looked sick, his face a pale gray and the skin under his eyes a smudgy purple. He spoke too loudly and lost his balance. Mom reamed him out for coming over to the house. I asked Dad what was wrong with Chris, and he didn’t sugarcoat it. I spent a long afternoon reading online articles about addiction after that conversation and swore I’d never touch the stuff. Mostly, though, Chris wasn’t around when things were really bad.

  Me: Probably not, if he’s here?

  I don’t tell her how I made a complete fool of myself in front of him, how quiet and withdrawn he seemed.

  Amelia: Why aren’t you more excited about this? If I had a hot rock star living down the road from me, I’d totally make a play for him.

  Me: Oh, like you’ve totally made a play for T? That’s some pretty big talk.

  Amelia: That’s different.

  Me: How so?

  Amelia: Because it would mean something with T.

  Me: But it wouldn’t with Gabe? Are you objectifying him?

  Amelia: Hell yes I’m objectifying him. Also y not? PS It’s been like a year since Ty.

  I sigh. Not going there. I open up a different conversation to message Chris: Everything OK?

  Not that I’m expecting an answer right away. He is a rock star, after all. But I wonder if he knows that Gabe’s here and not in LA. I don’t even know that Chris is in LA. He hasn’t been to the farm since June. He could be anywhere, although I know Dig Me Under’s not on tour right now.

  I take a container of potato soup out of the freezer and heat it on the stove while I set out bread and leftover roasted turkey for sandwiches. Mom comes in, washes her hands, and sets the table for three. Gabe doesn’t show, but we both pretend to ignore the empty place setting.

  After lunch, I walk down the hall to my bedroom, close the door behind me, and flip open my laptop. I’ve got homework, but I convince myself that a few minutes of detective work won’t set me back too much. I type Gabe Hudson musician in the search bar, and the screen fills with headlines within seconds.

  Broken record: Is Gabe Hudson following famous dad’s footsteps to rehab?

  Marley Green and Gabe Hudson crash (and burn) random beach wedding

  Green and Hudson on the rocks again

  Gabe Hudson’s sophomore effort: Embrace the Suck lives up to its name and then some

  Rocket Launcher bassist Parker Green checks daughter Marley into rehab for a third time, Gabe Hudson not far behind? Exclusive videos from wild night.

  I click on the last link and read about Marley Green, KidCo Channel superstar, recording artist, and Gabe’s on-again, off-again girlfriend. The first paragraphs describe the “wild night” at some wedding they crashed, and then the article
delves into their relationship:

  Marley has once again been dating Gabe Hudson, son of Dig Me Under lead singer Chris Hudson and himself a recording artist. Hollywood’s latest teen “It Couple,” Marley and Gabe were born six days apart and have broken up and reunited several times since they officially began dating eighteen months ago. Although Marley has claimed that Gabe’s drug use has been the young couple’s biggest challenge, reminiscent of the issues Gabe’s parents have faced in their volatile twenty-year relationship, sources close to both deny these allegations.

  However, exclusive photos and video footage obtained by Celebrity Insider suggest otherwise. Less than twenty-four hours after the incident Friday night, photographs show Gabe Hudson at the Minneapolis–St. Paul airport, fueling rumors that he checked himself into Hazelden Betty Ford, the addiction treatment center where both his parents, Chris Hudson and Elise Benson-Beckett, one of Hollywood’s highest-paid actresses, have sought help.

  After a short time apart last spring, Marley and Gabe reconciled in June. A recent Instagram post showed the two embracing at an unknown nightclub, Gabe kissing Marley’s cheek. In the caption, Marley wrote, “I met my soulmate when I was six days old. Not many people can say that. This is it for me. He’s the one. I can’t wait for forever with you, Gabe.” The post has since been deleted.

  My stomach flip-flops as I hit play on the first of two embedded videos, taken by a wedding guest. It’s shaky at first, with lots of background noise, the bride and groom in the background with their mouths open in shock as they realize what’s happening. Gabe tries to reason with a red-faced Marley, who screams at him to stop touching her, to get the hell away from her, you goddamn loser. Ouch. So much for soul-mates. Another shaky section shows a bouncer lifting Marley over his shoulder, and whoever’s filming follows them out to the street. Marley’s still screaming, now with tears blackened from mascara. The bouncer tosses her in the back seat of a car. I half expect him to brush his hands together, done with that dirty task. The recording ends.

  The second video is shorter, not even twenty seconds, steady and zoomed in on Gabe, who is now crouched against the gunmetal-gray vehicle, his face in his hands, shaking, his chest rising and falling heavily. There’s a conversation happening between whoever’s filming and someone else. The first voice, more in the background, says, “What the hell is happening?” and the closer voice responds, “Dude’s gotta be on something. He’s hardcore into the same shit his dad did.”

  This recording ends abruptly.

  So this must be what sent Gabe running to Minnesota. Is it true? Was he on something? Or was this something else?

  I go back to the search results to read the article about the new album, riddled with insults meant to be clever but that, honestly, are just plain mean.

  I can’t imagine what living in the spotlight, so exposed, must be like for him. And while I’ll never forget my trip to the Grammys with Chris and the thrill I felt when he wrote a song for me, I would never want to live that life.

  I close the laptop, shutting out the tabloids and the speculation, grateful for quiet days on the farm.

  Chapter Five

  GABE

  “So.” That’s Chris’s loaded opening line. “Want to tell me what the hell you’re doing in Minnesota?”

  When I don’t answer, he continues. “Let’s start with this, then. Are you OK?”

  “Don’t you think you should have opened with that?”

  “Haven’t you had enough theatrics this week? Well? Are you OK?”

  Define OK, I think. I roll the cart back and forth in front of a cardboard display of Halloween Oreos with orange filling. I grab two packages and set them in the cart. “Right as rain.”

  He blows out a breath like he’s fighting for patience. “Why Minnesota? Why not your mom’s?”

  “New York seemed like—I don’t know—too much, maybe? I don’t want to deal with Elise’s disappointment. Plus, she’s filming in Australia.”

  “She’s not disappointed in you,” Chris says.

  “She is. She wants everything to be perfect, and if it can’t be perfect, then it should at least look perfect on the surface. You know that more than anyone.”

  “Well, I can’t argue with that,” he says.

  Since the divorce, Elise has transformed. Like Chris, she eventually got clean and then took clean next level. No cigarettes, no caffeine, no sugar. She went on a seven-day silent retreat, she sees a naturopath, she meditates for hours at a time when she’s not filming her new series of yoga videos. She wrote a vegan cookbook filled with snippets about resetting her body with real food and releasing the toxins from her life—including Chris and me, it would seem.

  “Look. Let’s take a step back,” Chris continues. “We don’t have to overanalyze your whole thought process with the album if you don’t want to, but I think you owe me a little something at least. Something to explain why you thought cutting that deal behind my back, working with a second-rate wannabe producer, and releasing a crap album was a good idea.”

  “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?” I mutter.

  “I am telling you how I really feel. We produced a fucking awesome album together when you were sixteen years old. ‘Burden’ is a killer tune. You’ve got a shit ton of talent, more than me, if I’m being honest about it. But even with that success, you couldn’t wait for me. What the hell were you thinking?”

  “How long did you expect me to wait? Chances were better for Oasis to get back together and tour before you got around to it.”

  “Three months,” he says. “You couldn’t wait three fucking months.”

  “You said three months six months ago.”

  “Poor you,” he says. “Embrace the Suck. Whose brilliant idea was that? Talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

  “Oh, clever,” I say. “Haven’t heard that one yet. You know, I’m not sure this is a conversation I want to be having in the bread aisle at SuperValu.”

  “Don’t buy bread at SuperValu. Go to Hartman’s Bakery downtown.”

  “Now we’re discussing bread?” So like him to change the subject when things get a little uncomfortable.

  “No. Now we’re going to discuss the video and Marley and why the hell you’re in Minnesota,” he says. “Let people say what they will about the album. If it’s a shit sandwich, it’s a shit sandwich. Move on. But what you can’t ignore are the rumors about the drug use. You can’t pretend people aren’t talking about it, especially with that stunt Marley pulled the other night and that video of you freaking out. You know I gotta ask, Gabe. We live under the same roof, but I’ve barely seen you the last few months. Is any of it true? Are you using?”

  Growing up, I watched both my parents struggle with addiction. Elise hurt her back filming the Devil’s Tower scene in Child of Reckoning and got hooked on pain pills. Most of her life, she’s struggled with an eating disorder, and the pills didn’t help. Chris has done it all—booze, coke, heroin, whatever you put in front of him. He finally got clean for good after Gran died. So that’s one thing I’m crystal fucking clear about. I don’t touch the shit, any of it, not even alcohol, and I had to put up with Marley and her friends in my face about it for years, even before we were together.

  “Nope.” That’s all I’m going to give him. “Where are you?” I ask, even though I know the answer. He’s not in Minnesota.

  “LA. I’m going to try to get there in the next couple of weeks. I’ve got a lot of shit going on right now.”

  “I’m not sure how long I’ll be here, anyway,” I say.

  “Look, Gabe,” he says slowly, “I’ve got something to tell you. I’d rather tell you in person, but I don’t think it can wait. No sense in waiting until your birthday, either, especially since you’re there and if you have questions, you can talk to the attorney.”

  My stomach drops at the word. I switch the phone to my other ear, clench it tighter. “Did you say attorney?” I try to keep my voice steady. “Why do I need a
n attorney?”

  “Hang on a sec,” he says. “Hey, Wheeler, what are you doing? Careful with that. Gabe, I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Shit. An attorney. Did he find out about the money? Maybe I should have read that text from Rocky. I pull the phone away from my ear and swipe to find the message.

  Rocky: This is Rocky checking in. I heard about what went down and want to make sure you’re still on top of it.

  Everybody knows a guy like Rocky who begins every text by telling you who he is in case he’s not in your contacts. I type a quick response, one word: Yeah.

  Getting the money was easier than I thought it would be. Chris’s accountant, Rocky—now my accountant, too—has worked for Chris since around the time of Dig Me Under’s first album. Rocky’s cool, even if he’s never moved past the long stringy hair, flannel shirt, Chuck Taylors look. He’s loyal to Chris and, by extension, me. But the guy lives for the weekends, when he can get out of the office and jam with his buddies and reminisce about the Seattle days and that time he was an extra in Singles, so if you want anything, catch him on Fridays around three o’clock.

  “You know this isn’t exactly legal, right?” he asked me the day I surprised him at his downtown LA office. “At best, it’s not, y’know, ethical.”

  “Rock,” I said with as much sincerity as I could drop into one syllable, “you know I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I didn’t truly need it.”

  He sighed, long and heavy and put out. “I’ve seen your financials, Gabe. Obviously. It’s bad, but it’s not like you’re in dire straits. Not yet. Are you in trouble?”

  I paused, not sure how much to tell him. “Not me.”

  He nodded. “Aha. Say no more. Look, I’ve known you since the day you came out scowling and howling at everybody in the room. I’ll do this for you one time. One. That’s it.”

  “I swear, I’ll put the money back. It should only be a few days.”