Page 18 of Gold Rush

“What are you talking about? You’re suggesting we pretend to date?”

“No,” he replies.

I relax, then cringe. I misheard or misunderstood or⁠—

“I’m suggesting we pretend to be engaged.” Flynn looks … serious.

I start laughing.

6

Iam an idiot. A ridiculous, reckless idiot.

That’s been my refrain for the entirety of the drive to Vermont. Four and a half hours into the trip, approaching the state border, it hasn’t lost its relevance.

What the fuck was I thinking, suggesting to Rory that we fake an engagement? I left that awful dinner with my parents, resolved to figure out some other way to appease my father, pride be damned. Then I showed up at the Kensingtons’ to find Rory, of all people, there and thought it was some sign from the universe that the lie I’d told Julian wasn’t insane. Especially when it occurred to me that the arrangement would benefit Rory too. If she and I announced an engagement, no one would be talking about Carson’s cheating anymore.

But it was insane. Idiotic.

Of course she’d study me with shocked concern, like I’d lost my mind, once she managed to stop laughing.

Of course she’d make an excuse to head to bed earlier than an elderly person, leaving me alone downstairs to stew about how I’d managed to make a bad situation even worse.

I woke up early, with a headache, ordered another rideshare to drive me back to the country club to retrieve my car, and was on the road to Vermont before seven. At least I know my parents are preoccupied on Nantucket. I had no idea Rory would be in the Hamptons this weekend, and if her path had crossed with Julian’s after last night …

I have two days to find a solution for this disaster.

“Party Rock Anthem” starts playing, and I quickly skip to the next song on the random playlist I selected before I started driving. I stopped believing in signs after last night. I’m not sure what the message behind Penn’s favorite song playing on my way to tell his parents I have to delay my plans—again—is, but it’s not improving my glum mood.

A random number calls, interrupting “Sweet Caroline.” I quickly decline. Some girl wrote my number in Proof’s women’s room after we “broke up”—which I argued required both parties agreeing to a relationship—and I’m not sure her plan had its intended effect. The digits must have been painted over during the recent renovations because I haven’t received any tit pics lately. The call was probably spam. They leave a voicemail though, so I tap the Play button out of curiosity.

The message begins with a giggle, then a whispered, “Do it!” before I hear a different voice at normal volume.

“Hey, Flynn. It’s Greer. Greer Wayland. I heard you couldn’t make it this weekend, so I just wanted to make sure you knew it was an open invitation. There’s a pool … and I just bought a bunch of new bikinis. Also, this is literally the only weekend my parents are planning to spend here. If your boring lawyer schedule opens up, let me know. Congrats on graduating! Bye!”

There’s a pause, and then the music resumes.

I turn Neil Diamond down and the air-conditioning up, releasing a long exhale.

Greer is Dan Wayland’s only child. She just graduated from Stanford, which undoubtedly factored into the timing of my father’s ultimatum. So did the upcoming visit to the Waylands’ summer home, I’m realizing. One of my parents must have given Greer my number after they arrived in Nantucket.

Meaning … they didn’t believe I was dating Rory. Rory doesn’t have the connection to my parents that Greer does; she does have more money and more social clout. Two things Julian would prioritize over his daughter-in-law being his best friend’s child. Yet he isn’t even giving me a chance to admit the lie to him. And now he’s involved Greer. She had a crush on me when she was in high school, I think, but I figured that would be long gone by now.

I press the accelerator harder, not letting up until the speedometer drifts fifteen over the speed limit. It’s already a shitty day. Might as well get a speeding ticket.

The prospect of getting pulled over reminds me of the police arriving last night. A reluctant smile replaces the scowl I was sporting as I recall the expression on Rory’s face when she heard the sirens approaching.

My phone starts ringing again. Kit this time. I let it go to voicemail, but he doesn’t leave one. Likely checking in after last night since I was vague with details when I texted to ask if I could spend the night at his parents’. He correctly surmised that meant the celebratory dinner with my parents hadn’t gone well. Kit is one of the few people who knows how dysfunctional our relationship is, but even he doesn’t know all the ugly details. He can’t relate. His parents are awesome. Proof that having money doesn’t automatically make you a terrible parent.

Two hours later, I enter Ludlow. The small town has a tiny downtown section that Penn’s parents live only a few blocks from. Their winding driveway, lined with oaks and maples, couldn’t be more different from the bustle of New York or the perfectly landscaped Hamptons. The driveway is dirt, packed and dry, thanks to a recent lack of rain. The clouds of dust the tires kicked up are still visible when I park in front of the house and step out of the car. My muscles are stiff, and my mouth is dry. I stretch, watching a blasé bunny munch on a dandelion near the A-frame’s front porch. It hops away when the front door opens.

I’m expecting Ferdinand—a brown Lab—to greet me first, but Nora Ashbury approaches alone. Her smile is warm as she greets and hugs me, smelling of baked bread and herbs and sunshine. She sticks her hands in the pockets of her striped apron when Byron appears, brushing sawdust off his worn T-shirt before he hugs me as well. Like his wife, he smells like the outdoors, along with linseed oil from his furniture business.

“Where’s Ferdie?” I ask, glancing around for the dog again.

The Ashburys’ smiles falter, answering before they can.

“The vet thinks it was a stroke,” Byron elaborates. “It was quick. He didn’t suffer. But we sure do miss him around here.”