Page 9 of Hunter

In the interest of keeping Tanner out of my business and me out of his, I never told him what went down between me and Bella that weekend. Sure, my family knew that we liked each other. And they knew we were in touch for a few weeks after she left. And they knew she ultimately broke things off.

But only Sawyer knows how close we actually got.

Now Tanner knows, too.

I cross my arms over my chest. “We got together that weekend—the one when you were trying to get McKenna back—and when I drove her back to the airport, we decided to stay in touch and give things a try. And then, without any warning or explanation, she dumped me over text. One minute we were on, the next we were off. I have no idea what happened, what I did, what—”

“Six. Times?”

Leave it to Tanner to get stuck on that detail.

“Yep.”

“I flew her here to comfort McKenna!”

“And she did!”

“But you were fucking her the whole time?”

“Not against her will,” I say, starting to get annoyed.

“Tan,” says Sawyer. “Here’s the deal in a nutshell: Hunt got with Iz. Iz bailed without explanation. Hunt feels scorned.” He shrugs. “I think he has a right to some answers.”

“I don’t feel…scorned,” I protest, remembering my mother reciting the Congreve quote about awomanscorned:Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.I don’t adore its petty implications in mysituation, but swap “woman” for “man,” and I grudgingly admit it’s apt. “More than anything, it’s a solid business opportunity. But, if—while I’m sucking up to Rick Jones—I get a chance to figure out what happened between me and Isabella? It’s a win-win.”

Tanner’s eyes soften as he stares at me. “She really hurt you.”

“She really did,” I say softly, looking down.

“You really liked her.”

“A lot. And she just...bailed.”

“You know, Hunt,” Tanner says, reaching forward to squeeze my shoulder, “we lost mom really suddenly, too. Sometimes I wonder how that affects us—”

“Shut up, Tanner. This isn’t about mom,” I insist, shrugging him away. I don’t admit that his words strike a chord within me, because I don’t want or need a therapy session with my younger brothers right now. “I just want answers. That’s all, okay?”

“Sure,” he says. “Just...don’t be an asshole. Don’t hurt her out of some petty revenge or something like that.”

“Got it.”

“And don’t get me in trouble.”

“You can chill out, Tanner. I’m just going to talk to her. I promise.”

Chapter 2

Isabella

Me and my cousin’s son, Beto, sitting side by side in the front seat of our abuelo’s fully-restored, fully-loaded ’57 Thunderbird convertible with ABBA blasting on the radio and the hot sun warming our backs as we drive through beautiful Canadian scenery on our way to win a million dollars!

That’s how I imagined this road trip would look.

But mortals plan, and God laughs.

So does my abuelo…who cackled in our faces when we asked to borrow the car he loves more than all of us combined. So we loaded a month’s worth of stuff into my piece-of-caca Honda Accord instead and hit the road for Ketchikan.

Nineteen-year-old Beto, I quickly learned, doesn’t like driving(if that’s okay with you, bruh?)and instead, prefers sitting in the back seat where he tries, for hour after excruciating hour, to compose music on his guitar. The biggest problem I can see, aside from the fact that he has no natural aptitude for string instruments, is that he’s not a great lyricist.

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