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It was why his pool game sounded so familiar—it was a line in “Saturday Night Falls.” Kids playing Brontosaurus in the pool / hear the laughter slowly grow. It wasn’t just déjà vu—I knew about it because his dad had sung a song about it.
I closed my eyes as all the things I’d said to Russell flashed through my head, like a montage whose theme was humiliation. I thought about the way I’d gushed to him about Wylie Sanders—how great he was, how much his music meant to me. How important it was to me and my dad. The personal memories I’d shared, not realizing he’d probably been secretly laughing at me the whole time. I cringed as I thought about the way I’d proudly put on my dad’s sweatshirt, understanding now why Russell had wanted me to take it off.
And all at once, I remembered what I’d said about his dad’s personal life. How it was a train wreck—how Wylie Sanders had so many different kids with so many different women. I hadn’t said anything that was untrue—but I’d said these things to his son. I could feel the creeping humiliation of being caught out, like in eighth grade when I’d been complaining in the bathroom to Didi about my lab partner—only to have her emerge from the stall, having heard everything.
I saw that Russell was mouthing something to me. We’d both been given headsets when we got on the helicopter and had been instructed to press the button on the side if we wanted to say anything, and be heard—it was too loud to understand anyone otherwise.
I shook my head at him, glad that I had this barrier, at least until we landed. If I didn’t press the button, he wouldn’t be able to talk to me. Wouldn’t be able to try and lie to me again, and I wouldn’t be tempted to believe it. I stared out the window, rubbing my arms—it was really cold in the helicopter. My sweatshirt was in my bag, but there was no way I was putting that on now. I hadn’t even wanted to be on this helicopter, and I’d told Russell that. But when it came down to it, I didn’t have much of a choice.
As he’d promised, once Russell talked to his dad—to Wylie Sanders—things started to move quickly. Suddenly, some lawyer was calling the hotel, followed shortly by some PR woman calling on the other line to see what could be done about this. Would the Silver Standard like a signed photo? A case of Sanders Vineyards champagne, or maybe some samples from the new tequila line? A shout-out on Instagram?
It started to become clear that we weren’t going to be hauled off to the police station—at least, not at the moment. And only a few minutes earlier, that would have made me incredibly happy. And while I was still relieved not to be going to jail, it felt like everything was tainted now.
When I’d gotten the all-clear to leave—Lily had insisted that Russell and I write down our contact information and had photocopied our licenses, something I didn’t love but didn’t see a way around—I’d grabbed my bag, headed straight for the automatic hotel doors, and walked out into the night.
It was getting colder, my hair was still very wet, and I felt myself shiver as I looked around, trying to trace my steps back, find the most direct path to the bus station. I was teetering on the verge of some combination of hyperventilating or crying—potentially both simultaneously.
I just wanted to go home.
I wanted to curl up in my bed and pull the covers over me and let this all become a bad dream. I wanted to be back in a place where things made sense, where my life was quiet and boring again. Where I wasn’t in the middle of nowhere in Nevada, trying to grapple with feelings that kept hitting me in waves, like I was caught in the ocean, unable to swim past the breakers.
“Wait,” Russell had called, running out of the hotel after me, his voice raw. “Darcy!”
“What.” I wheeled around on him, my voice catching in my throat. “What can you possibly—”
“My dad’s lawyers.” He held out his phone to me. “They need to talk to you.”
“Oh.” I took the phone from him—noting that it was almost completely charged—and had a brief conversation with a paralegal named Sarah, who seemed remarkably awake and focused, given that it was getting late on a Sunday night. She told me that someone named C.J. would need just a smidge of my time when we got to the compound. Then she’d hung up and I’d handed Russell his phone back.
“C.J.,” I said, folding my arms over my chest, “apparently needs to circle up with us when we get to the compound.”
“Uh—yeah,” Russell said. He ran his hands through his hair. It was drying funny, sticking up in places, and only twenty minutes ago I would have found it beyond endearing. “They want to talk to us, make sure everyone is clear on details in case the Silver Standard decides to press charges.”
I nodded, even though just hearing press charges was enough to make me feel wobbly. Instead, I focused on the other part of my conversation with Sarah. “What’s the compound?”
Russell sighed and looked at the ground. We were standing outside the front doors of the Silver Standard, the same place where, not that long ago, he’d kissed me as easily as anything. And now, everything was broken into pieces all around us.
“It’s my dad’s place in Vegas. He got it when he started his residency there. It’s outside of town—half an hour from the Strip.”
“And they expect me to go there?”
“My dad—” Russell started, then shook his head. “He’s sending a helicopter for us.” His voice was small.
The automatic doors opened, and stayed that way for a hopeful beat, before sliding closed again. When this happened a second time, I realized we must be in front of the sensor and walked to the side.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Russell took a step back, looking like I’d slapped him. “Darcy—”
“You lied to me!” I didn’t know I was going to yell this until I was already doing it. “You told me your phone was dead—that your name was Russell Henrion—” I stopped suddenly, realizing what I’d just heard. “Did you say helicopter?”
So even though I hadn’t wanted to be there, I also didn’t want to have charges pressed against me for trespassing. I figured I would go talk to C.J., charge my phone, and then head to the bus station in Las Vegas. I still had my ticket and might even be able to get back to LA sooner now. And if not, I’d just wait there until I could get the first bus home. I had been planning on waiting all night at the bus station in Jesse, after all. So it’s not like it made much difference. I knew it wasn’t a great plan, but it was all I had, and I was clinging to it tight.
When the helicopter arrived, it touched down near the abandoned gas station—perhaps not surprisingly, the Jesse, Nevada, bus station was not outfitted with a helipad. I’d gone back in to get my things—they were still right where I’d left them under the bench. As I’d looked around, it felt like years, not just hours, had passed since I’d been there. Too much had changed for everything in it to look exactly the same, for the vending machine light to still be flickering on and off.
The couple who’d been watching the movie were asleep, curled up together under an unzipped sleeping bag. Sunburned Bald Man was still sleeping, and as I looked at him, I realized that he’d had the right idea all along. I should have followed his lead, just conked out on one of the benches and waited out my time until morning. I shouldn’t have ventured beyond my comfort zone. I should have just stayed put.
But you had fun, Katy whispered.
