Even with the golf cart, the ride over to the lake took a good fifteen minutes. The terrain, kept in its natural state, was a bumpy ride at best. Honestly, ATVs were probably the way to go, but the Bishops weren't ATV people. 

As I bumped along the grass with the sunshine warming my skin, my mind wandered. I thought about all the things I needed to do: go grocery shopping, deep clean the trailer, get something nice for Shana's new baby. I wanted to get something for Daniel and Faith too. She really loved to crochet things and I bet she'd enjoy a new pattern book and maybe some yarn. It would keep her company while she was bedridden. And Daniel loved anything that made Faith happy.

Maybe I would be able to pick up more hours during the Stock Show and -

I scowled.

Because I'm always going to want to fuck you.

"Stupid jerk," I mumbled, "Who says stuff like that out loud?"

All the things I could have said, should have said had come bursting into my head as soon as I'd left the barn. By the time I fell asleep at night, I had a good list of comebacks, none of them very original, but any one of them would have been better than huffing and puffing out of there. 

Let me pour you a tall glass of Get-Over-It.

Cry me a river and drown yourself in it.

You would be likable if it wasn't for that hole in your mouth that noises comes out of.

        Or the always ubiquitous: Your mom.

No, not that one. I would never be able to say anything about his mom, not after what I knew about what she had done. My fool heart softened a touch towards Jake at that. A parent's betrayal was a scar a person carried for life. 

Cancel my subscription to your issues.

"Much better," I told myself. Then I put the pedal to the metal. There wasn't much of a change in speed - it was still going to take me a hundred years to get to the lake.

I steered the cart to the left to avoid a dip in the grass and wondered if it was too late to bring it back up with Jake. Maybe I could trap him into saying the words again so I could deliver my zinger and pretend I'd thought it up on the spot. I'd throw in a haughty little laugh too, as if I thought it were the most ridiculous thing in the world that I would even consider having sex with him.

"You're so lame," I told myself, slapping away a horsefly from my calf.

I hummed for a little bit to the tune of a song I couldn't quite remember.

He probably fantasized about it, I thought. That's what guys did, right?

I scratched my nose.

How often did he think about me? How did he imagine me? What did naked-Layla look like in his head and what kind of things she say and do? 

Before I could stop myself, I was wondering what he looked like naked. His arms were really nice, his muscles well defined, but not bunchy like some of the guys at school who lifted all day.

Everything else was left to my imagination. Come to think of it, a lot of the guys at the ranch were shirtless half the time. Sometimes because they got dirty, other times because they were showing off. But I'd never seen Jake without his shirt on.

"He probably has a bunch of ugly tattoos that he regrets," I said.

Either way, I was willing to bet my next paycheck that there was a six-pack involved. Good, old fashioned manual labor did that to a body.

I already knew that his hands were rough. Calloused, but warm with an unexpectedly kind touch. Well, I guess it shouldn't be unexpected, animals adored him, and I've always found that animals were better at sorting out the good people from the bad.

"Not that he's good," I reminded myself.

Abruptly, I wondered if he'd say really dirty things to me like the men did in all the porn that Shana and I had watched "for science"...

And before I knew it, there we were, Jake and Layla, having porn star sex inside my head. 

"Ugh. Get out of my head Jake Waites," I said, mortified.

But of course, he didn't listen.

And so it went, me thinking perverted thoughts about him until finally, finally I arrived at the last hill that crested before the lake.

I saw Peyton and all thoughts of Jake vanished from my head.

***

Peyton was by the lake, standing with his back to me. He wore navy blue shorts and a wrinkled pale blue button down, shirt tails untucked.

That was bad news.

Peyton always tucked his shirts in. He was a creature of habit, he liked to - no, he needed to be put together. It was who he was.  

"What's wrong Peyton?" I murmured to myself.

I parked the cart far enough away for it to remain out of view and watched him, trying to get a better feel for his mood. After a few moments, I decided to sneak up behind him and surprise him. Snap him out of it that way.

Foolish Layla.

Keeping close to the tree line, I tiptoed forward, ducking behind trees and rocks, only to freeze at the sight of her.

She wore a simple sun dress nearly the same color as her hair, which she wore loose around her shoulders. Charlotte stood about five feet from Peyton, face red, gesturing wildly with her hands and she spoke. It was weird. Unnatural even, to see her like that. What I  saw wasn't anger, it was rage. It was uncontrolled, manic, unadulterated rage.

Instinctively, I ducked behind a tree and sat down, my heart racing.  I never would have guessed that she had a temper like that on her. So much for the cold, calculating, criminal-masterminded world-class bitch.

What kind of actress did a person have to be to be able to hide those kinds of emotions? I shivered despite the heat. She really, really creeped me out.   

One thing was as certain as the sun rising in the east though, Charlotte would not respond well to me seeing her like this. At all. More problems with her was the last thing I needed, so I resigned myself to waiting her out. I leaned back against the tree and settled in. I was gnawing on my nails when a thought occurred to me. Surely he didn't confront her about me - did he?

Peyton kept his promises, but he was pretty angry the other night. Feeling vaguely guilty, I scrambled onto my hands and knees, and carefully peered out to watch them.

Charlotte was still screaming. The distance between them and me kept their words private. I couldn't see Peyton's face, but he was standing stock still, his hands in his pockets and his body tense.

Still, I couldn't turn away from the two of them. Half captivated and half disgusted, I watched Charlotte's narrow shoulders crumple as she buried her face in her hands, her shoulders moving up and down.

Was she crying? Charlotte Bishop cried?

Peyton turned his head away from her, looking toward the river. So he didn't see her face, but I did.

It was quick; a blink-and-you-would've-missed-it moment, but I'd caught it.

Her hands had dropped from her face, revealing the familiar blank, cold and lifeless look of her usual expressions. A second later, her brows crumbled over the bridge of her fine nose as she stepped forward, placing herself between Peyton and the river.

She clasped her hands at her chest, her body language supplicant, as if she were begging for forgiveness, as she spoke the words I couldn't hear. 

Then, she reached out and grabbed her brother by the wrists. She pulled his hands out of his pockets and took them in hers.

He didn't resist.

She pressed his hands to her cheeks and there, with her face cradled in his hands, she wept some more. 

Finally, Peyton moved. Opening his arms, he took her in an embrace, tucking her head beneath his chin.

It was just too weird. The whole thing. Something about the two of them at this moment made me feel physically ill.

I turned quietly and returned to the house. 

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