Sometimes the connection between us is an almost tangible thing, a thread woven from shared experiences that tangles my brother to me. Our lives haven’t been traumatic or marked by loss, and we aren’t twins, but we’re knit together in a way that’s as inexplicable as it is comforting. Maybe it’s because we shared a crib when Jonathan was born. I wasn’t even a year old when he came howling into our tiny universe, and since I was too small to be moved to a toddler bed, Mom tucked us toe to toe. Or maybe it’s because we’ve always preferred each other’s company, a trait that our mother was sure we’d eventually grow out of. We never have. Whatever it is, I can feel it fizzing between us now, a sparking, anxious sense of foreboding that only makes me more uncertain about my outing with Sullivan.
“You coming?” he calls.
What choice do I have? I lift my hand in a little wave at Jonathan and jog over to let myself in Sullivan’s truck.
“Y’all are intense,” he tells me as we leave the acreage behind.
“Who? Me and Jonathan?”
“Your whole family.” Sullivan laughs. “Kinda oddballs, don’t you think?”
I’ve never had anyone tell me that my family is odd—at least, not to my face. I suppose we are, in a way. Mom, the Jericho outsider who plays cello in the alfalfa field when it’s a blooming sea of lavender, and who sometimes forgets to wear shoes when she goes into town. And Dad, almost twenty years her senior and already semi-retired. He looks old enough to be her father, and they get weird looks when they walk hand in hand. Even from people who know better. And then there’s me and Jonathan. Polar opposites in almost every way, but attached at the hip. Still, I’m not about to try and explain myself to Sullivan Tate.
“You should talk,” I say, rising to the challenge. “Wasn’t your brother in jail?”
It’s a low blow, and I know it. Another DUI, third offense. Dalton was driving with a suspended license, and there was no way the family could buy their way out of it. Two months, local jail, and a fine that was never accurately disclosed. I heard upward of twenty thousand dollars, but maybe that was exaggerated. Jericho’s unwritten code would suggest I never, ever bring it up, but I’m not great at following the rules.
Sullivan doesn’t respond to my jab, and I feel a tickle of remorse. Still, I can’t bring myself to apologize to him, so I say: “Tell me about Baxter.”
“Are you kidding?” He gives me a sidelong smirk, the put-down of his brother seemingly forgotten. “It’s taken me years to get you in my truck. I’ll tell you what you want to know, but I’m going to draw this out as long as I can.”
I’m speechless, but Sullivan laughs. “Relax, Baker.”
“But—”
“You might even have fun.”
Is it my imagination, or did Sullivan’s voice catch? I sneak a peek at his profile and realize his jaw is tight, a vein in his neck bright blue against his skin. Is he nervous? Sullivan Tate with his booming laugh and flirty wink and “I can have any girl I want” attitude? I’m unconvinced, but then his eyes dart to mine and I swear he flushes.
“Hot in here,” he says, reaching to turn the air-conditioning up. I just nod.
I could put up a fuss, complain about the fact that he’s basically kidnapped me, but I’m suddenly shy. Sullivan has a vulnerable side, and I don’t know what to do with that.
He flicks on his blinker and I realize we’re heading toward the river. North Fork River cuts through the county, narrow and deep, skirting Jericho on the west and sprouting tributaries that fan like veins through the rich farmland. One of the larger creeks borders the Murphys’ property where it empties into Jericho Lake. The water is slow and muddy, a blur of dirty brown beneath the bridge that leads out of town.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
The silence swells between us, making the cab of the truck seem humid and close even though the air is turned on high. We’re awkward, both of us, glancing at each other and then away until Sullivan pulls down an overgrown lane and cuts the engine. I’m glad to finally be wherever it is we are. I’m not here to find common ground with him.
“Where are we?” We’re hemmed in by trees and brush, branches scraping the windshield and poking bony knuckles at our doors.
“Access road,” Sullivan declares, as if I’m supposed to find this information noteworthy.
“I can see that. But why are we here?”