Grant’s eyes flash at my presence. I can tell he didn’t expect to have an audience for this exchange. I give him a sympathetic nod, an olive branch, but he retreats to his cabin, slamming the door.
Inside my mother’s cabin, the energy is just as toxic.
“You wouldn’t believe it,” Susan roars into the phone. “That girl drags us all the way to the middle of nowhere, shoves us in this tenement housing for the week, and then proceeds to torture us for an entire afternoon.” She acknowledges my presence by holding up a finger, as I lean against the kitchen counter. “Yes. I need your help. Any connections you have out here I’ll take them. Doesn’t matter the cost.”
My mother moves her conversation upstairs, as George steps back into the cabin. Since we have almost nothing in common, our relationship consists mostly of long stretches of silence.
We both stand there, waiting for Susan to finish up.
“So,” George says, pouring himself a glass of wine, “you’re going to take Elite public when you take over? Finally bring that company to the next level?”
I’m not sure if he’s asking because he wants to be first on the jump or if he’s planning on offering actual financial advice, but I mimic the same answer my father has been shelling out for years.
“We aren’t considering it at this time.”
Although opening Elite to the public market would increase our profit margins, my father has never wanted the core values of the company to get lost in corporate greed. From the beginning he has always paid a living wage, offered health and dental packages, and given each employee a two-week travel opportunity on top of their vacation days.
“If you change your mind, you know where to find me,” George says, pouring the remaining wine down the sink.
“Let’s go,” my mother says, carrying a Louis Vuitton duffel down the stairs. “I can’t be in this place another minute. Hudson, can you bring the rest of my luggage?”
“Are you coming back tomorrow?” I ask, grabbing two heavy suitcases and wondering if they are forgoing the wedding entirely.
“I have a meeting with a wedding planner in an hour,” my mother says, checking her watch. The fact that it’s already nine o’clock makes me wonder how much money they’re shelling out for this last-minute addition. “Please tell your brother to answer his phone when I call in the morning. We have some things to discuss.”
I give her a reassuring nod as I follow her out. After loading her cases into the trunk, I watch them drive away and I swear I can hear celebratory applause coming from the cabins as their taillights disappear into the darkness.
17 Mira
By the time I make it out onto the lawn, the party posse have fallen into a Shakespearean-level ruckus. I see Angie and Jocelyn roasting marshmallows and Meredith squealing while Derrick chases her playfully across the lawn. And as much as I’m not in the mood to partake in a party, going back to the room, to Hudson, isn’t an option.
Thankfully I spot Vanessa and Adrian hanging at a picnic table away from the group.
“You feeling better?” Vanessa asks sympathetically. On the bus ride home she tried her best to console me, but I sat in stoic silence, disassociating for the entire ride, unwilling to break down in front of everyone.
“A bit,” I reply, knowing that the mental toll of this week is going to last a lifetime.
Digging through a plastic bag, she hands me a granola bar. “You should eat something.”
I open the wrapper and take a bite. It’s the first real food I’ve had since I left this morning, and I relish the crumbly, dry bar as if it’s a steak. A number of other snacks sit on the table: Pop-Tarts, individual cereal containers, protein bars, and bags of beef jerky.
“Where did all this come from?”
“Grant hit up the convenience store down the road.”
“He didn’t rob it, did he?” I ask, watching as Grant pours an entire bottle of liquor into a dual-slot slushie machine.
“Believe it or not, that was already on the property,” Vanessa explains, offering me a plastic glass of blue liquid. “Want one?”
“Depends. What is it?” I ask, staring down into the cup.
“Sloshies,” she explains. “They’re a Wyoming staple apparently.”
I gasp hoarsely after taking a sip, the alcohol going straight to my head. “They’re aptly named.”
“No kidding,” Adrian says, as Vanessa sucks down the remaining liquid in her glass.
“I wonder if I can convince Finn to get one of these for the bar?”
