He muttered a curse. Then, “It was my mom.”
She turned toward him. “What?”
“That’s who you overhead me talking to.”
Brynn came up on her elbows.
He maintained an arrogant stance, as though spoiling for a fight. “Anything else you want to ask?”
“Where does she live?”
“Outside Austin. On a lakefront lot. Dad has a bass boat and goes fishing almost every day. He’s a cliché. Bores you blind with stories about the big ones that got away.”
“How was their Thanksgiving?”
“Good. Except for my newest nephew. He’s teething.”
“How old is he?”
“I don’t know, Brynn. I’ve ne
ver seen him.”
“Why not?”
He didn’t say anything, just gnawed the inside of his cheek. He went to the window and peeped out again, but she thought that was an excuse to turn away from her.
“Why don’t you go home?” she asked.
“I never know what my schedule is going to be.”
“Does your mother fall for that excuse?”
He came back around, his eyes angry, so she knew she’d struck a chord. However, rather than demur, she pressed. “What causes you to twitch in your sleep, Rye?”
“Twitch?”
“Yesterday morning in the cabin, while we napped, several times you woke me up, jerking, talking unintelligibly.”
“Sorry. You should have nudged me.”
“What disturbs your sleep? And why can’t you land? That is, land and stay for any length of time.”
“I’d rather be in the air.”
“So you’ve said. You love flying. It’s an obsession. It’s ingrained.” She paused and looked at him meaningfully. “It’s also your escape. From what?”
He checked his wristwatch, then placed his hands on his hips. “Are we done yet?”
“Jake told me you were a legend.”
“Vlad the Impaler was a legend. Ted Bundy.”
Refusing to buy into the act of indifference he was staging, she persisted. “Jake’s a liar? You didn’t fly into the worst of the shit?”
“Stories get exaggerated. They take on a life of their own.”
“True. But they have some substance.”