Page 77 of The Wrong Monster

I glance at Isla, and a strange uneasiness settles in my chest. I’ve already managed to put distance between myself and Emma. Months without speaking to my own sister because of the choices she’s made, because of what she married into.

Now I’m doing the same thing with Isla, who at times has felt like more of a sister to me than Emma.

It’s not intentional, but now I’m wondering if it’s coincidental. I’m not exactly known for having close friendships. Isla is pretty much it.

I’m here, walking through the woods with her, while half of my mind is still back at the lake house with Vasily. And I know she’s ticked off, even if she has no idea what’s really happening under the surface. It’s the same way we don’t know what’s going on beneath that churning water. When she shoots me a glance between the space of small boulders and pines, I know she’s still trying to figure it out.

I’ve spent years insisting that representing someone doesn’t mean trusting him with your life, or letting him into your family. Yet I’m isolating myself from the people who actually love me and moving closer to one; a man who happens to be a criminal.

A man I’ve been helping.

A man I’ve been sleeping with.

Jesus.

“So,” I say, forcing my attention back to Isla and stepping closer to hide the gap between us. “How are things with Mike outside of the wedding?”

She laughs. It’s a bitter sound, and from the way she crosses her arms, it’s obvious she doesn’t trust the sudden interest I’m taking in her relationship. As if I wouldn’t trade that man for a discarded hot dog on a sidewalk.

“Great.”

I wince. “That good?”

She shakes her head, staring at the waterfall, having to raise her voice a bit to be heard over it.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

There’s enough finality in her voice that I know better than to push.

“Okay.”

She turns abruptly, starting back down the trail.

“Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Lunch.”

I hurry to catch up. “We just got here.”

“And now we’ve seen the waterfall.” She gives me a pointed look over her shoulder. “You have to get back to ‘work,’ remember?”

The sarcasm makes me trip over a root; the thermos banging painfully against my thigh. I bite back a curse and try to catch up.

“Isla!”

“I really just want to get into town and eat, Matty.” She sighs. “I’m starting to get hangry.”

I clench my teeth, trying to keep an argument in, because I know how I can be. Pushy, opinionated, berating people into conversations that just make the situation worse. The last thing I want to do is put even more distance between me and Isla.

* * *

The food truck park is busy, the air filled with the smell of grilled meat, fried onions, and something sweet drifting from a pink and cream truck. Isla orders a sweet potato burger, apparently being a vegetarian means finding creative ways to make vegetables pretend they’re meat. “It even looks like it’s bleeding,” the cashier says cheerily. I raise my eyebrows and order a Reuben; my go-to NYC deli order that I suddenly miss.

We take our food and sit at a picnic table beneath a canopy of trees. For a few minutes, neither of us says much. The fries are perfect, double-fried and crispy, but I find myself scowling down at the paper tray as I jam each one into a pile of ketchup.

Then Isla sighs.