“Sorry,” he says. “But Montana has a way of mimicking our moods, doesn’t it?”
“Montana is like a bad relationship,” I say as we walk over to my old rickety swing.
“How so?”
“When it’s bad, it’s miserable, but when it’s good—when the sun comes out and makes up with you and the lakes sparkle and mountaintops shine—there’s nothing better and you feel like you can’t live without it.”
He chuckles.
We both sit on the swing’s broad seat and rock back and forth.
“Speaking of relationships,” he says. “You in one?”
The question surprises me. It could just be journalistic fishing, or it could be more. I decide to simply ask, “Is this a personal question or one for the piece?”
“Both.”
Something like giddiness wells up, but I’m too frayed and spent to parse it, not to mention that my guard is as high as a mountain. I can’t imagine it ever coming down. “No,” I say. “Like I said, I dated Wallace for a while, but since we broke up, I haven’t seen anyone.”
“Which I guess should take us back to part two of this, don’t you think?” He checks his watch.
“Yeah,” I say. “In a minute.”
Nerves creep up and my throat thickens when I think about telling him about part two. I brush it away and focus on Jeremy. His muscled thigh, taut against the fabric of his pants, presses against my leg. That brings on a whole other tension.
“What about you?” I ask.
“Me, relationship-wise? Well, given that you’re not a journalist, I take it thisisa personal question?”
“I guess it is.”
“I’ve been seeing someone,” he says, his voice low. “In New York.”
I’m not sure how I feel about his answer. Partly, it pricks me, and I’m angry at myself for that.
I watch him keenly, trying to parse him. If he is the CA, I’m giving him what he wants, and Ishould, in theory, be safe. Also, if he is, I want to catch him and put an end to this thing. But all I can do right now is play along and see if he says or does anything odd. My senses stay on high alert.
“On and off,” he adds. “But yeah, we’re giving it another go.”
I get up from the swing and clap my hands together once. “Time to finish this. The sooner we’re done, the better.”
“Wait,” he says, grabbing my hand.
I jerk away, my hand seizing my gun.
“Whoa.” He holds up his hands. “Whoa.”
“Sorry.” My chest rises and falls. “You can’t grab me, Jeremy.”
“I see that.” The easy brown of his eyes is almost golden in the natural light, but there’s real worry behind the ease. Is it for me? For himself? “I’m sorry,” he adds. “Really.”
“It’s okay.”
“I was just going to say, thank you for trusting me with your story.” His hands are still up in surrender. “I know how unsure you were about me, about this. I want you to know that I don’t take any of this lightly.”
“I didn’t do this on blind faith. I did it because you’re right, that piece you did on Indigenous women ... You were smart to give me that link. You showed me compassion. Well,them.You didn’t exploit their pain. And you explored solutions and called for specific action.”
“Well, I guess I’m a little sly, too.”
