“Well, you made it my business by making her cry. I’m not going to let you hurt one of my best friends—”
“It’s too late for that, Ethan!” Ford yelled, spinning around to face Ethan head-on. A few of the other campers turned, then Ford quieted his voice. “I fucked things up, okay? I fucked it up and there’s no taking it back. No fixing things. So I don’t need you standing here telling me what I should do, because none of it will make a lick of a difference.”
Ethan gave Ford a sad smile, then said, “Come on, let’s take a walk,” patting Ford on the shoulder and heading away from the showers.
Ford growled to himself. Why wouldn’t Ethan let it go?
A shower opened, and for a moment Ford debated letting Ethan go off on a solo sojourn so he could get ready and wash away the evening. Wash away the vision of Corrie crying alone in the darkness. But with a heavy sigh, he gave in, following Ethan away from the rest of the camp. They walked over to the fire pit area, deserted and empty, where Ethan took a seat on the ground, resting his back against a log. Tension filled the air. Ethan was waiting—waiting for Ford to spill it. Explain what he’d done so then Ethan could chew him out. What was the point in trying to hide it any longer though?
Ford plopped onto the ground beside Ethan and stared at the sky for a moment before unloading everything—his dad’s debt, his mother’s treatments, the payout from the dig, the blackmailing, and his deception. He didn’t leave anything out. Not his failed relationship with Addy. Or his unsuccessful attempt at tenure. Not even Corrie’s late-night loan. And with every bit of information, every flaw, he sank deeper into his shame. Did he have any good qualities?
“That it?” Ethan asked, almost jokingly, when Ford finally finished.
“Yep.” Ford mangled a stick in his hands, twisting it around and around until a piece snapped off. “Though I’m sure I’ve done some other terrible things that I’m forgetting. Or, more likely, that I’ve blocked out. Like I said . . . I fucked it up. I’m a selfish piece of shit. I honestly don’t even know how you can stand being next to me right now.”
“Eh, you’re not so bad. And you may have made some bad decisions—I mean really bad,” he said, causing Ford to wince. “But you’re anything but selfish. Selfish would mean you took this job to get rich. Or you let that dickwad ruin the rest of us. Or you didn’t tell Corrie the truth. You could have easily gotten away with her not knowing. And that would have been the ultimate douchebag move. But you didn’t do those things. And the fact that you’re letting her go . . . that’s the least selfish thing you could do. Because she’s amazing and you’ll never find another woman like her.”
Ford sighed, resting his head back on the downed tree trunk behind them and staring at the green-and-blue-speckled canopy above. “Please tell me something I don’t already know.”
“All right. Did you know I’ve only ever seen Corrie cry two times in the twelve years I’ve known her and both times were because of you?”
He lifted his head and raised his brow. Two times? “Is this supposed to make me feel better?”
“No, it’s supposed to make you realize that despite everything, she probably still wants to be with you.”
“When was the first time?”
“Back in school. After the whole Addison thing.”
“Wait . . . she told you about that?” Ethan nodded. “Why didn’t you ever say anything to me about it?”
“Honestly? Because I had a crush on her. I mean, can you blame me?”
Ethan had had a crush on Corrie? Ford’s mind swirled in a thousand different directions.
“It was always obvious that the two of you had some little thing going on, but then the whole Addison situation happened. She cried about it, tried to act like it was about the fellowship, but I knew deep down it was because of you, and for a brief moment I thought maybe I had a chance. Maybe I could show her that I was a great guy. But the way she looked at you? She’d never looked at me that way. I’m her buddy. Her compadre.
“Don’t worry . . . I’m over her now,” he continued, waving his hands like it was no big deal. “But the minute Corrie saw you at the airport, there was that flicker in her eye. That heartbreak still lingering even after all these years. She’s even got it right now,” Ethan said, motioning his head toward the rest of camp.
Ford looked over, finding Corrie watching them from a distance, then quickly averting her gaze.
“I don’t deserve her,” Ford said, throwing the broken stick into the empty stone fire circle as he forced the ache in his heart to forget that look Corrie had been giving him.
“Oh, screw that. Ford, people make mistakes. Sometimes big ones. But it’s what you do after that that matters. Nothing is unforgivable.”
“Yeah, but—”
The roar of several Jeeps rolling into camp cut him off. They didn’t bother parking by the other vehicles. No, these guys torpedoed straight toward the mess tent, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them.
“What the . . .” Ford said, lifting himself off the ground.
A few men jumped out of the Jeep and started questioning those in the camp, but Ford and Ethan were too far away to understand what they were saying among all the commotion. Ford didn’t recognize any of the people. But the vehicles had a seal on the sides of the door: DEPARTAMENTO DE ARQUEOLOG?A.
The regulatory agency for any archaeological digs taking place in Mexico. Something wasn’t right.
Ford and Ethan rushed over to the others, pushing through the crowd.
“Who’s in charge here?” one of the men asked.
“I am,” Ford said, finally making his way to the crowd.
“And your name?”
“Dr. Ford Matthews,” he said, reaching his hand out. But the man didn’t take it.
“Well, Dr. Matthews, you’re undertaking an illegal archaeological dig on these lands. We’re shutting you down.”
The crowd erupted with questions and concerns. Illegal? There was nothing illegal about what they were doing.
“Excuse me, and who are you?” Ford asked.
“My name is Jaime Castillo, director of the National Department of Archaeology.”
“Well, Mr. Castillo, I can assure you that we’ve got the permits to dig here.”
“Ford,” Corrie said, squeezing through the crowd. “What’s going on?” Her voice was worried.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of this,” Ford said. Although the pit in his stomach said otherwise.
“Let me see your permit,” Castillo said.
“I’ll be right back.”
Ford marched over to his tent, his mind racing a million miles a minute. This needed to be set straight. Once he showed them the permit, everything would be fine. Grab the permit, go back, and then—
“What the hell?” Ford muttered to himself as he walked into his tent. Papers tossed. Bedding on the floor. Drawers open. Had those assholes already made it to his quarters to search? And what the hell were they even looking for?