“I don’t have a problem,” I say, looking over at her, but of course, I have plenty of problems. Reasons I don't want to say in town. I don't want to walk down my parents’ hallways, seeing family photos, being reminded of reality. I shake my head. “I don't want to fight with you. We didn't fight all week. We go to my parents’ house for one night and look at us. We're arguing. Let's not be these people.”
“Fine,” she says. “Let's not. I don't want to argue with you either. I love you. You're the last person I want to fight with.”
“Fine, then what are we doing?”
“What we're doing, Rye, is we're talking this out. What are you hiding? What aren't you saying? Because I know something is working you up. Why did your parents send you to the middle of nowhere; why were you in a bad mood for a year? What happened to you? Tell me the truth.”
I shake my head. “I don't want to do this, Prairie. I want to protect you. I want to protect everybody.”
She reaches for my arm, forcing me to turn and look at her. “Rye Rough. You listen to me and you listen to me good. I want to know what's really going on with you. Why are you so unhappy? Tell me the truth. Tell me the truth or we're done.”
12
PRAIRIE
I'mquiet as Rye drives us back to his cabin.
I know he's torn up something bad as we walk into his place. He walks straight to the liquor cabinet and pours himself a tumbler of whiskey.
“That bad, huh?” I ask him as he rakes his hand through his hair.
“Worse. You want some?”
I shake my head. “No thanks. What I really want is to understand you, Rye. I love you. But—”
“I know,” he says. “You deserve the truth.”
“Well, it seems like your family deserves it as well; they love you.”
“I know, but damn it,” he says, setting the whiskey on the table. He didn't even take a sip. “Prairie, fuck, this last week, you and me here, I want to stay in that moment forever.”
“We can't,” I say, “that's make-believe.”
“Does it have to be?”
“Yes, it's beautiful and it's lovely but it's not real life. This is real life. And we can get through it. Whatever it is.”
Rye, though, has tears in his eyes, and he presses his palms to them, wiping the tears away.
“You're scaring me,” I say. I sit down on one of the chairs in the living room. It's wrapped in plaid fabric. Cozy, comfortable. I tuck my feet under myself and I wait. It's his turn to talk. He needs to explain things. I've waited long enough.
“The thing is,” he tells me as he sits down on the couch opposite me, “you know that picture in the hallway? You wanted to know who that man in the photo was?”
“Your Uncle Luke. Your dad's best friend?”
“Yeah. Well, he worked for my father for the last 20 years. He was my dad's business manager. And I worked closely with him for the last decade since I've been my dad's right-hand man.”
“Okay,” I say, remembering how Rye’s demeanor changed tonight when we were in the hallway and Luke's name was brought up.
“Thing is, I realized Luke had been siphoning money from my father. A lot of it—200 grand.”
“Oh my God,” I say.
“Yeah. And when I figured it out, going through the books, I didn't want to come out and tell my father without talking to Luke first. I'd known Luke a long time. He's like an uncle to me. So I went to talk to him.”
“Okay,” I say, listening, taking it in. “What happened?”
“It was bad. It was the worst night of my fucking life.” Rye begins to pace the living room. “We were at the Burly Bar. One town over. We’d had one beer each. Coors Light, nothing heavy. I think to myself, this is a good time to bring it up. No other family around. No pressure, right? So I say hey, I’ve been going through the books. Immediately Luke’s demeanor changes. He gets agitated, defensive, angry. I say hey, we don’t have to do this here. We can go talk about this with my father. Of course Luke doesn’t want to talk to my dad about it. Because he’s been stealing money from my father for a decade.”