Page 42 of Total Jane Wreck

“What are you talking about? I did a great job evading people and getting here fast.”

“No doubt. But you do a great job at everything you try.” He points up, toward a steep, rocky trail. “It’s like, a ten-minute climb. Can your poor feet handle that?”

“Sure. No problem.”

The hike up the cliff steals my breath. Or maybe it’s the way he keeps looking back at me, dark eyes even darker with promise. When we reach the overlook, the stream below catches sunset light like scattered diamonds. Chet’s back finds the elm tree first, and he pulls me down beside him, our thighs touching. “I’m starving,” he says. “Let’s eat.”

“Definitely.” We devour our picnic.

“This is perfect,” he says, “the food, the company, everything. Couldn’t ask for anything more.”

I give him a quizzical look. “Will your family be disappointed that you took off?”

“My mom might be. But I’ll call her in a couple of days and arrange a visit where just she and I will spend some time together.”

“What happened? I mean . . .” I pause, trying to phrase this right “. . . I understand messed-up family dynamics. But did you do something huge to royally piss off Tom and Mason?”

Chet brushes a fleck of dirt from his knee. “More like a series of not-quite-huge things, starting with my very existence.” He lets out a humorless chuckle. “Mason and I are the same age, so when Mom and Tom got married, they transferred me from my East Palo Alto middle school to this swanky private institution in Los Altos Hills. The other kids teased Mason for having a trashy stepbrother. But then I got more academic awards than Mason did, dated more often, and became a track star, while Mason was never athletic. Whenever Tom praised me, Mason would get this look in his eye. And when it was time for college, we both wanted to go to UC Berkeley, but they turned Mason down.” Chet’s mouth clamps shut for a second. “He was sure that was my fault, that if we weren’t from the same family, he’d have been accepted. Anyway,” Chet continues, “Mason went to Cornell, I went to Berkeley, and Tom paid tuition for us both. And right after college, when I decided to start ShopSpot, Tom invested. Mason wanted to be in on the ground floor, so of course, I said yes.” Chet’s eyes blink rapidly, several times, like he’s trying to forget something. “Years later, we had a falling out. Mason bought up my shares. Tom’s still bitter; he thinks I exited too soon.”

But why did you have a falling out? I’m not brave enough to ask that question. “So,” I ask instead, “the noncompete clause you signed, that’s Mason’s doing?”

“Yeah,” Chet answers. “Nice, huh?”

I glance at Chet’s profile. So strong. So enigmatic.

“Hey,” I say, “I was thinking about your idea for the small business platform. What if, instead of treating it like an Amazon- or Etsy-type of marketplace, you made it a directory? Businesses could share all their info, like physical addresses and phone numbers, plus links to their websites, so people could then order from them. Your platform could still have the social media aspect of Facebook or Instagram, but also be like an enhanced web search, making it easy to find products you want, or places located in your area.”

“Not bad.” Chet’s crooked smile stretches across his face, making that single dimple appear. “Thanks. I’ll mull that over.”

“Just an idea.” I shrug. “Anyway, I’m sorry your relationship with Mason has been so rough. You can take comfort, though, knowing that sibling rivalry is alive and well on both the West Coast and in the upper South.”

Chet raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Tell me more, Kentucky Jane.”

My chest heaves with a sigh. “Not much to tell that you don’t already know. Except that thirty years ago, my parents had a son and pinned all their hopes on him. Years later, I came along—a short, feisty afterthought. They made Reed heir to the family business and spent a ton of money on jockey training for me. Until I developed this nasty habit of puking every time a horse was in pain. Unfortunately, my only other interest was becoming a large animal vet technician, and as I mentioned before, it’s near impossible making it through practicums if you’re always about to vomit.” I shrug. “Though maybe if I’d seen Psycho and known about your Norma Bates analogy, things would have been different.”

Chet smirks and peers at me. “How did it start?”

“Me puking?”

He nods.

“I was fifteen,” I tell him, “training for this big deal horse race. And I accidentally whipped myself with my riding crop. It cut straight through my pants, and I got this huge welt.” I hold up both hands, using my thumbs and index fingers to indicate the welt’s size. “I’d always been told that riding crops don’t hurt the horses, but it sure as hell hurt me. Then I read that horses’ skin is just as sensitive as a human’s. So I tried to back out of the race, but my parents said I was being ridiculous. So did my trainer. ‘Suck it up, Jane.’” I mimic their voices. “‘Do whatever it takes to win.’” I take a deep breath, feeling Chet’s eyes on me. Meanwhile, I pick up a twig and fiddle with it. “On the day of the race, I’m using my crop, hitting my horse, and—” I cut myself off, suddenly tearful.

Chet rubs my back. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.”

I shake my head. “No, I want to. I was hurting him, Chet. Everyone said that wasn’t possible, but I just had this bone-deep certainty that I was. And once I knew, that was it. I pulled over, mid-race, and puked on the side of the track. Everyone laughed at me. Someone filmed it, and the clip went viral. I became this ridiculous legend. The whole county called me Jane Wreck.” Lifting my gaze, I meet Chet’s eyes and smile sadly. “Pretty funny, huh?”

“No,” he says, jaw clenching. “In fact, I’ve never felt this way.”

“What way?”

“Like I want to go beat up an entire county of people.” Chet sips from his jar of lemonade, which takes the edge off his words. “What about your brother?” he asks. “Does it ever bother him that he got everything while you got nothing?”

“Nope.” I shake my head. “And now that Reed’s Botox-obsessed wife is leaving him, he’s mainly worried she’ll snatch up everything he’s worth, including horses owned by Adkins and Son Stables. Like Betty.” Closing my eyes, I enjoy the warm air blowing against my brow.

Chet shifts closer, his shoulder brushing mine. He places his large, warm hand over my knee and squeezes. “Is Betty your horse?”

“Emotionally? Yes.” My eyes open, but I stare at the ground. “She and I belong to each other. Financially, no. Right now, Reed technically owns her. But that could change if Melissa . . .”