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Authors: Bella Forrest
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the same as it’s always been, that at least I had that to look forward to. But no, I don’t even have that, because you show up—claiming you were fucking kidnapped, which is the biggest load of shit, by the way.”
He holds up his hands. “Look, sweetheart—is it because you feel like I’m stealing the spotlight from you or something? Because that’s really not what I’m trying to do at all. Allison said you were—”
I laugh. “Allison knows nothing about me. And I don’t care about this proverbial spotlight , I just want things to go back to how they used to be.” I say the last part of this sentence in a shaky voice, and I’m mortified to feel tears pricking the corners of my eyes.
He looks at me, confused. “Are you okay?”
But I don’t answer. I turn and leave the kitchen, refusing to let him or anyone else see me cry. A sob rises up in my throat that I try valiantly to keep from surfacing but it’s too late, and I’m probably not out of earshot when I burst into tears.
I actually go and cry on my bed for a good five minutes. Finally, I stop, a few residual hiccups left over.
Get a grip, I tell myself. I sit up, my face soggy. This is pathetic. It doesn’t have to ruin my summer, it doesn’t have to do anything. Griffin is here, and most likely, Allison will keep him preoccupied the whole time. End of the fucking problem.
Chapter 9: Griffin
I’ve got to admit that it’s nice not having anything.
I haven’t run through an official inventory yet, but somewhere between here and Koh Phangan is my North Face rucksack with my passport, my iPhone, a wallet containing ID, debit card, cash, the keys to my apartment in Tribeca. Also clothes, a pair of Gucci sunglasses, a bottle of Clive Christian No. 1. Perhaps all that stuff is floating in the Great Pacific garbage patch, or maybe it’s been sold on the black market and some kid in Bangkok is rocking my sunglasses and two thousand dollar bottle of cologne.
But it’s nice, basically being stranded here at this horse ranch in Northern Cali. For the first time in a long time I really feel like I’m taking a break. Like this is something different, a change of pace. I find myself actually looking forward to getting up early. You’d think, then, that I’d wouldn’t do anything that might jeopardize this pastoral existence I’ve somehow stumbled into, but I decide it’s time to call my father. Allison lets me use her phone and I walk down to one of the paddocks and lean against the split-rail fence while I wait for him to answer his phone.
“Carl Alexander,” he says in a clipped tone when he picks up.
“Hey, Dad, how’s it going?”
There’s a pause. “Griffin?”
“Yes, Dad. Who else would be calling you Dad ?” That’s another distinction Cam made for himself early on. I don’t actually have any memories of Cam calling our father “Dad.” It was always “Carl.” Carl, would you let me borrow your Mercedes, or, better yet, buy me one of my own? Carl, you won’t believe how Griffin fucked up again. Carl, would you pass the peas?
“There was some static on the line. I’m out on the golf course. It’s windy. I don’t usually answer my phone when I’m golfing.”
“Yet you did this time.”
“Yet I did. So would you like to tell me what exactly it is I can help you with?”
“Oh . . . you know. Just had a quick question. Did you receive any strange calls from someone? From someone, say, oh, I don’t know, claiming that they had kidnapped me?”
He coughs, once, twice. “Excuse me one minute,” I hear him say in a muffled voice to whoever he’s out golfing with. He gets back on the phone. “I may have received a rather unorthodox call. Clearly, though, you are all right. Am I correct?”
“You always are.” Or at least you think you always are.
“So then I was also correct in assuming that the call was a prank. Yet another pathetic extortion attempt by people who are too
He holds up his hands. “Look, sweetheart—is it because you feel like I’m stealing the spotlight from you or something? Because that’s really not what I’m trying to do at all. Allison said you were—”
I laugh. “Allison knows nothing about me. And I don’t care about this proverbial spotlight , I just want things to go back to how they used to be.” I say the last part of this sentence in a shaky voice, and I’m mortified to feel tears pricking the corners of my eyes.
He looks at me, confused. “Are you okay?”
But I don’t answer. I turn and leave the kitchen, refusing to let him or anyone else see me cry. A sob rises up in my throat that I try valiantly to keep from surfacing but it’s too late, and I’m probably not out of earshot when I burst into tears.
I actually go and cry on my bed for a good five minutes. Finally, I stop, a few residual hiccups left over.
Get a grip, I tell myself. I sit up, my face soggy. This is pathetic. It doesn’t have to ruin my summer, it doesn’t have to do anything. Griffin is here, and most likely, Allison will keep him preoccupied the whole time. End of the fucking problem.
Chapter 9: Griffin
I’ve got to admit that it’s nice not having anything.
I haven’t run through an official inventory yet, but somewhere between here and Koh Phangan is my North Face rucksack with my passport, my iPhone, a wallet containing ID, debit card, cash, the keys to my apartment in Tribeca. Also clothes, a pair of Gucci sunglasses, a bottle of Clive Christian No. 1. Perhaps all that stuff is floating in the Great Pacific garbage patch, or maybe it’s been sold on the black market and some kid in Bangkok is rocking my sunglasses and two thousand dollar bottle of cologne.
But it’s nice, basically being stranded here at this horse ranch in Northern Cali. For the first time in a long time I really feel like I’m taking a break. Like this is something different, a change of pace. I find myself actually looking forward to getting up early. You’d think, then, that I’d wouldn’t do anything that might jeopardize this pastoral existence I’ve somehow stumbled into, but I decide it’s time to call my father. Allison lets me use her phone and I walk down to one of the paddocks and lean against the split-rail fence while I wait for him to answer his phone.
“Carl Alexander,” he says in a clipped tone when he picks up.
“Hey, Dad, how’s it going?”
There’s a pause. “Griffin?”
“Yes, Dad. Who else would be calling you Dad ?” That’s another distinction Cam made for himself early on. I don’t actually have any memories of Cam calling our father “Dad.” It was always “Carl.” Carl, would you let me borrow your Mercedes, or, better yet, buy me one of my own? Carl, you won’t believe how Griffin fucked up again. Carl, would you pass the peas?
“There was some static on the line. I’m out on the golf course. It’s windy. I don’t usually answer my phone when I’m golfing.”
“Yet you did this time.”
“Yet I did. So would you like to tell me what exactly it is I can help you with?”
“Oh . . . you know. Just had a quick question. Did you receive any strange calls from someone? From someone, say, oh, I don’t know, claiming that they had kidnapped me?”
He coughs, once, twice. “Excuse me one minute,” I hear him say in a muffled voice to whoever he’s out golfing with. He gets back on the phone. “I may have received a rather unorthodox call. Clearly, though, you are all right. Am I correct?”
“You always are.” Or at least you think you always are.
“So then I was also correct in assuming that the call was a prank. Yet another pathetic extortion attempt by people who are too
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