Page 15 of Wandering Wild

About an hour after Scarlett and Hux leave, gentle sprinkles start dusting my heated skin. It’s not unpleasant at first, since our hike up the mountain is arduous, so the wet offers a cool relief. But then the rain starts coming down in earnest, and while my outerwear and backpack are waterproof, they still have their limits. I’m soon soaked to the bone and feeling twenty kilos heavier, battling for every upward step.

Hawke finally calls a halt to our waterlogged hike when the downpour becomes so torrential that our visibility is nonexistent, increasing the risk that one of us—likely me—will slip straight off the side of the mountain. I nearly sob with relief when he finds a small cave cut into the rock and declares it’s safe enough for us to camp in for the night.

The first thing we do is change into the spare clothes our backpacks miraculously kept dry. Privacy is limited, but I’m shaking so hard that even if Zander, Hawke, and Bentley didn’t all turn around while I dressed, I wouldn’t have been able to care. I make quick work of it, then busy myself while they do the same, wringing out my clothes and searching for a place to drape them.

The cave is small and dark—darker still because of the rainstorm and the approaching dusk. I worry about how we’re going to see anything once night falls, forgetting that I’m with Rykon Hawke, who has plenty of experience starting fires even when everything is saturated. Indeed, he soon has roaring flames heating up the space around us.

“You’re my f-favorite person in the w-world,” I say through chattering teeth as I collapse in front of the delicious warmth, my hands stretched out in an attempt to coax some feeling back into them.

“Normally I would have had you or Zander light it, but given that you’re turning into an icicle, speed was of the essence,” Hawke says wryly.

It only takes a few minutes before the fire begins to work its way through me, and soon my trembles ease and I’m feeling much more human again. Even so, every part of me hurts after what we’ve endured in the last two days, and I’m exhausted beyond belief. If I were home right now, I’d curl up in my bed and sleep for the next twelve years—but only after enjoying a steaming hot bubble bath.

Zander takes a seat beside me on the ground, his wet hair sticking up all over the place, making him look more anime-like than ever. I don’t have the energy to laugh, but my lips quirk, drawing a curious glance from him. I shake my head, too embarrassed to share my thoughts aloud.

“I collected this on our walk,” Hawke says, revealing a bunch of flowered weeds. “Wood sorrel. It’s not much, but we’re in short supply of any heartier food up here, so dinner is this, berries, and figs.”

I try not to show my delight that we don’t have to eat another native animal, but at Zander’s quiet chuckle, I know I failed.

Hawke just rolls his eyes at me and hands out bunches of sorrel, saying, “It’s a versatile weed—you can eat the flowers, stalks, and leaves, cooked or raw, and all of it will provide good roughage and an excellent source of Vitamin C. It also has a fresh, lemony flavor.” He winks. “It’ll make you feel like you’re eating a hundred-dollar salad at your favorite Michelin-star restaurant.”

Zander lifts his bunch to eye level and stares pointedly at the clumps of dirt still attached to the roots. “I would want my money back.”

I secretly agree with him, but I follow Hawke’s lead and toss the weed into my mouth. It’s not as awful as I expect; in fact, the taste is familiar enough that I say, “When we were kids, Ember and I used to snack on something similar that we picked from gardens on our way to school.” I strain my mind for the name. “We called it soursob, I think. Or maybe sour grass. Or... sour something.”

Hawke waves the stalks in his hand. “All different names for wood sorrel.” To Zander, he asks, “What do you think?”

The actor forces himself to swallow, then pulls a face. “My mouth tastes like a forest.”

I bite my cheek to keep from laughing.

“A rave review,” Hawke says, his dark eyes full of mirth. He then tosses Zander some sandpaper figs. “Those will go down better.”

Unlike last night when we were eating around the fire, Bentley has to keep his camera rolling, being the only source of filming now that the nano drones are gone. After a while, though, he swaps his larger device for his GoPro, attaching it to a head strap to leave his hands free. The moment he does, I relax unconsciously, and Zander also becomes less stiff at my side. It makes no sense, since we’re still being recorded, but not having a lens pointed so obviously in our direction makes things easier, psychologically.

I should have recognized it as a warning, because a few minutes later, once we’ve all finished dinner, Hawke stretches out his legs and renews the probing conversation he began last night. I squirm in sympathy as his eyes home in on Zander, grateful he has no reason to put me in the spotlight with the same kind of interrogation since the world doesn’t care about my life, nor do I have a public image problem that I’m trying to improve.

But then Hawke asks his first question, and any sympathy I feel swiftly begins to dissolve.

“We’ve talked about your childhood, and touched on what happened with your co-star Summer last year, but I’d love to hear more about your last few months,” Hawke says.

The words are innocent enough, but there’s an uncomfortable feeling in the air now. I’m unsure if it’s coming more from Zander—or from me.

“You’ve made some recent headlines labeling you as ‘Hollywood’s Bad Boy,’” Hawke continues, “and you even had a court-mandated stint in rehab after a car accident revealed you’d been driving under the influence of an illicit substance. Up until then, your life was squeaky clean. But now...” He trails off pointedly, before finishing, “Any chance you’re willing to share about what happened?”

I’m stunned Hawke went straight in for the kill with his line of questioning, though I assume Gabe put him up to it, just as I assume Zander has a publicist-approved answer ready. Regardless, I’m as tense as the mountain around us as I wait for his response, struggling to beat back memories that are screaming for my attention.

Zander shifts beside me, and for a long moment, the only sounds I hear are the crackling flames and the rain sheeting down outside. It’s too dark to see beyond the cave now that night has fallen, so there’s only this small, firelit space to hold our focus, until finally, he speaks.

“You mentioned Summer before, and what happened last year, so that was really when the ‘bad boy’ label began for me,” he says, fiddling with a thread on his thermal shirt. Quickly, he adds, “Not that there’s any blame on her—what I meant was, timeline-wise, that’s when the industry began to consider me problematic.”

Hawke nods in gentle encouragement, and I again feel the stirring of sympathy as I recall everything he shared last night. But I stamp it down, bracing for what I know is coming.

Zander doesn’t meet any of our eyes as he goes on, “After Summer spoke her truth and was met with censure, she took some time away from LA, waiting for everything to die down. But she returned for her birthday a few months ago, wanting to have a quiet dinner out with me and—and Maddox—” He stumbles over his best friend’s name for some reason, but then continues, “and a few other close friends. The paparazzi found us, and soon co-stars and acquaintances from her life started appearing to celebrate with her. Dinner turned into a raging party, with drinking and dancing”—his throat bobs as he stares at the fire—“and drugs.”

My heart begins to pound as I picture the night he’s describing, already aware of what comes next, and how much I don’t want to hear about it. But also, how much I need to hear about it, if only to remind me of who he is, and the stupid, selfish, hateful decisions he’s capable of making.

When Zander doesn’t continue, Hawke presses, “So you were partying with your friends, and you took some drugs...”

Zander flinches.

It’s a slight movement, but I catch it, my brow furrowing at its strangeness. But then I realize it must be a reaction to the guilt he’s feeling. He knows what he did was wrong. I just wonder if he knows how much worse it could have been.

“I was—I was called away from the party,” Zander says, and there’s a deliberation to his words now, enough that I narrow my gaze, certain he’s hiding something. Or perhaps he’s trying to remember the script he’s had to memorize to make himself seem less culpable. Anger swirls within me at the thought, burning in its intensity. “It was an emergency, and I didn’t—” He clears his throat. “I didn’t think before getting in my car. All I knew was that I needed to leave, and it couldn’t wait.”

My blood is roaring in my ears now, as loud as the rain pouring down outside.

“I know I was lucky,” Zander says quietly. “When I hit that tree, I could have died. Or—Or?—”

“Or someone else could have,” I rasp out, the words torn from a deep, broken place inside me.

At the pain in my voice, Zander’s eyes shoot from the fire to me, and he searches my face with concern in his gaze. But I can’t stand to look at him right now, so I stare down at my hands, clenching them in my lap, my fingernails digging into my palms.

“I know I was lucky,” he repeats slowly.

I can barely hear him over the shrieking in my mind.

“And I know I was let off lightly. It was—It was stupid, what happened. What I did. It’s the kind of regret I’ll have forever, even if I’m grateful there was no lasting physical damage. For me, or for anyone else.”

He stops talking, and Hawke asks him another question, but I don’t hear what it is.

Regret.

He used the word regret .

He doesn’t have the first clue what true regret is. He can’t possibly.

But I do.

I live with it every day, the searing, relentless agony of wishing I could go back in time and change something— anything —about the night my life imploded.

Regret—I have that in spades.

And Zander...

Maybe he’s telling the truth about how he feels. But that doesn’t excuse what he did.

Because while his actions might not have ended in tragedy, they could have.

God, do I know that.

I close my eyes against the sudden sting of tears. My ears are ringing, my lungs constricting as I fight back everything I’m feeling, but it’s useless. Try as I might, I’m no longer able to ignore what has been building in me, not just over the last few days, but over the last six months. Hearing Zander’s story firsthand, hearing his so-called regret , I feel betrayed in ways he’ll never understand. I made the mistake of letting my walls start to crumble around him, and now...

Now what he did hurts more than ever.

Because of that—because of everything —I can’t stop the words from spewing out of me, the filter I normally keep firmly in place bursting like a balloon.

“You’re right, you were lucky,” I cut Zander off from whatever new answer he’s giving Hawke. My voice is hoarse, my emotions spilling over as I share with biting candor, “My mum wasn’t so fortunate. She was killed by a drunk driver six months ago. Hit and run.” Zander’s eyes widen in horror, but I’m not done, the words continuing to tumble from me without restraint. “They found her killer three blocks away, but only because he smashed his car into a tree after he ran hers off the road and left her choking to death on her own blood. If he’d stayed with her—if he’d just waited and called for help?—”

I snap my mouth shut, blinking fast to keep my tears from falling as I shove my grief deep down, knowing that if I release it fully, it will consume me.

“Charlie...”

I recoil when Zander reaches for me, not wanting his touch. Not wanting him anywhere near me. His face is drained of color, but I don’t think it’s because of Bentley’s camera. I couldn’t care less about our bargain right now, and if Zander does, he doesn’t show it. Instead, I see the realization in his eyes as he suddenly understands why I hate him:

Because six months ago, I lost my beloved mother. And three months later, he was arrested for the same crime that killed her.

He might not have been the driver who hit her, and he might not have injured anyone the night of his accident, but to use his own word, that was pure luck.

My mum wasn’t so lucky.

Neither was I.

Because the night she died, my world fell apart.

And nothing I do will ever change that.

She’s gone—forever.

Zander opens his mouth to say something, but I’m barely holding myself together, my defenses weakened after two days of getting to know him, of actually beginning to like him, coupled with the exhaustion I feel deep in my bones. I can’t take any more tonight, so I rise swiftly to my feet, not looking at anyone as I say, “I’m tired. I’ll—I’ll see you all in the morning.”

And without waiting for any of them to try to stop me, I grab my bag and retreat to the furthest wall of the cave, turning my back and allowing a single tear to roll down my cheek as I pray for the peaceful oblivion of sleep.