“What?!”
Logan winces, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he says.
“No way!” I process that for a moment. Millions of dollars? “Did you bathe in it like Scrooge McDuck?” I say finally.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Logan says. “Of course I did. What else would I do with a bathtub’s amount of gold?”
I laugh. “How was it?”
“Wouldn’t recommend it. Colder than ice plunging, and I didn’t even get clean.”
We smile at each other. His eyes are so pretty, a dark, almost cobalt blue, framed by light-brown lashes. I used to tell him how jealous I was of them, how it seemed a waste for aguyto have such thick, long lashes. But now I think maybe it’s not such a waste. He wears them so well.
Seth lifts his beer and takes a drink, and I startle. Oh, god, how long was I staring at Logan like a lunatic?
There is a little more color in Logan’s cheeks than before, and he ducks his head and takes a sip of his beer. “Anyway, more importantly, it put Sagebrush on the map.”
“What do you mean?”
“The tourism map.” Logan rubs his hands together excitedly. “At first, only western-obsessed fans came here to walk the same trails Billy Blackstone and his band of gunslinging outlaws did. Then we figured out that treasure hunters are willing to purchase single-day passes from us to hike around Compass Mountain in search of other caves. Some big-shot historian we worked with estimates that we only found abouthalf of the gold that Blackstone purportedly stole during his lifetime, so who knows?
“Soon after, the University of Arizona offered to invest in some of the infrastructure so they could do digs here. It snowballed from there—art galleries and artists flocked here from all over, followed by boutiques and gastropubs. Sagebrush has turned into a popular destination for Phoenix suburbanites and influencers.”
Seth sniggers to himself.
“What?” Logan asks huffily.
“You sound like you’re reciting messaging for one of your interviews for ABC.”
Logan laughs. “Hey, I still got it.” Again, he doesn’t deliver a cutting remark back to his twin, but a self-deprecating answer. It’s…nice.
He turns his intensity back to me. It’s a strangely heady thing. “To summarize, Sagebrush has become a tourist destination. Voilà.” He gestures at the deck and the tourists inside the restaurant.
“That’s insane! So how did you find it? You wake up one day and decide to become an intrepid treasure hunter?”
Logan and Seth exchange looks. “It isn’t intentional,” Logan says finally. “I stumbled across it by…accident. Hiking.”
They both seem very reticent to talk about it. One thing I’ve learned over the past few years is how to read the room and not badger people with questions. “I’m getting quite tired. It’s been a long day for me. Do you mind if we head back?”
“Let me go say goodbye to Teresa,” says Logan.
“He’s being modest, you know,” Seth says once Logan is gone. “His discovery and what he did with it changes everything. People around here call him the Golden Boy of Sagebrush.”
My heart melts a little at that. “He deserves it. He seems like he’s really come into himself.”
I’m so proud of him and what he’s accomplished. I loved him in high school—his love for his family, his intelligence, how he seemed to enjoy my playfulness—but he seems to have flourished since I left, developing drive, passion, and generosity. Our story of young, tempestuous love is over, but a happy ending resulted nonetheless.
“Not interested in moving back, are you?”
“Naw,” I say. “It seems everything worked out for the best while I was gone.” If Logan is the golden boy around Sagebrush, he doesn’t need me to taint his image by association.
We head home. I stand by awkwardly as Logan puts fresh sheets on the bed, his long, fit body stretching over the mattress.
When he finishes, he leans against the doorframe, half-in, half-out. “Anything else you need?”
I look around the room, but his eyes never leave my face. That’s right; Logan used to be so intense with eye contact. When we were younger, I loved the concentrated focus on me, but now it feels like he is looking into my soul, and I have no idea how I feel about what he sees. “I’m good,” I say.
He shifts forward, and for one second, I think he’s leaning in for a kiss. Muscle memory takes over—I’m a Pavlovian dog, trained for that trigger of his slouchy stance and lean. I step forward and tilt my face up toward his.
