His voice crackles with static. “I can’t tell you.”
I lean into the receiver. “Look. If this is about what happened at my locker the other day, I’m sorry. You’re overreacting, though. You don’t have to leave town just because we had a fight.”
“Sutton, it’s not because of that.” There’s something almost light to his tone, as if he thinks it’s funny that I assumed he left because of me.
It infuriates me. I turn and face the hikers up the ridge. “Do you know what I’m doing right now? I’m at a search party—for you! People think you died.” My voice cracks slightly, and I will myself not to cry. I thought you died, I want to say, but pride keeps me from it.
Thayer sighs. “I wish I could explain what’s going on, but it’s really hard.”
“Try me,” I insist.
He breathes out. “Just know that I’m safe, okay? But you can’t tell anyone else you talked to me.”
My brain feels like it’s about to explode. “Thayer, didn’t you hear me? Half the town is looking for you! They’re combing the canyon right now! They’re talking about making ‘missing’ posters, putting you on a milk carton! Can I at least tell Madeline?”
“Not yet. I’ll get in touch with her in my own way. She knows I needed to get away, too. For now, please keep this quiet—from everyone. I just need my space right now, okay? I’ll come home when I’m ready.”
“But . . .” I protest, my head spinning. Space? What does he mean—space from me?
“Seriously, Sutton. I mean it,” Thayer warns. “Can you do that?”
I pause. In the silence, I listen as hard as I can to the sounds on his end, trying to see if I can make out a highway, or music, or anything indicating where he might be. A giggle sounds in the background. A girl’s giggle. Then, another voice chimes in. “What’s up, Mary?”
Mary? “Who’s Mary?” I growl, furious. I’m at a search party looking for Thayer’s body, and he’s hanging out with some girl named Mary?
“Just a friend,” Thayer says, his voice hurried. “Look, I’m sorry, Sutton, but I have to go.”
“Wait!” I call. That same giggle sounds again. Then the phone makes a blipping sound, and when I glance down at it, the screen reads call ended. I stare, dumbfounded. He hung up on me!
I bite my lip and stare into space for a few long moments. What. The. Hell?
The hikers continue up the ridge, their silhouettes black against the brilliant blue sky. Mr. Vega is shouting for everyone to walk faster. Madeline is talking earnestly to the ranger, Laurel’s hand resting protectively on her shoulder. Part of me wants to shout to Mads that it’s a huge sham—Thayer is fine. But then I look at Laurel again, and a ribbon of jealousy courses through me. I don’t want her to know my news. I don’t want her to know anything. I’ll tell Mads later.
And then I think of that girl’s giggle. If Thayer wants his space, he can have it. But if he thinks I’m going to sit around, waiting for him to come back—if he comes back—he’s got another think coming.
I shove my phone back in my pocket and return to the hikers on the trail. Just as I hoped, Garrett is still standing by the cooler, practically in the same place I left him, like I pressed pause in our conversation when I answered Thayer’s phone call. When he sees me, his face perks up. It instantly makes me feel better. This is how a guy should treat me. With respect. With admiration.
I pull my hair from its bun and shake it out so it tumbles down my shoulders. “Sorry about that,” I say, offering my most conciliatory smile. It takes a little effort to get the corners of my mouth turned up, but I manage. Then I take a deep breath and hope that Charlotte will understand what I’m about to do. “To answer your question,” I say, slinking closer to Garrett, “I’d love to hang out. How about tomorrow?”
And naturally, Garrett says yes.
3
A LITTLE FRIENDLY CONVERSATION
On Monday night, Garrett and I are at Bella Vista, a restaurant in Tucson nestled at the highest point of a winding, windswept hilltop. The entire dining room is paneled in squeaky-clean, floor-to-ceiling windows so that everyone dining can enjoy the breathtaking views of the fiery sunset behind the Santa Catalina Mountains. Once night falls in earnest, the sky will be studded with glittering stars, making the whole restaurant feel like it’s floating. Around me, the air is heady with garlic and saffron, and the room is alive with bustling waiters in crisp white button-downs, wine and sparkling water splashing against crystal stemware, and the low murmur of conversation.
The waiter sets down a simmering pot of albondigas, veal meatball tapas. Garrett slides the pot toward me. “Ladies first.”