Her painted brows shoot up. “Really?”
“Yeah, he’s right outside.” I stretch on my stool and point through the front window. “The man out there with the tattoos on his arms. I’m sure he’d love to talk to you. He might pretend he’s not interested because he’s a bit embarrassed about it, but keep going. I think it’ll really help him to hearevery single detail.” I shoot her a wink like we’re in on a little secret.
She thanks me and hurries outside before Dylan can leave. I watch them through the window with sheer delight until Latisha, who owns the shoe store, steps in, asking about fresh eggs.
When I glance at the window again, Mrs. Horne is pointing at me. Dylan shoots me a knowing, half-amused stare through the glass that sends a shiver through me.I’m just not sure it’s the bad kind.
CHAPTERSEVEN
DYLAN
Everyone is staring at me.
And that’s not me being a cocky asshole. The twelve people milling around on the sidewalk, some holding coffees, others clutching purses, are literally gawking right at me as if I’m some sort of exotic fish in an aquarium.
Why can’t they pretend I don’t exist and talk shit behind my back instead? They probably think I’m here to pull a bank job or something ridiculous like that. My savings account in their precious little bank is probably larger than all their accounts combined. And not all that money came from Mom and Dad.
Seriously. What’s with these folks?
I’m actually starting to sweat, and I only packed three shirts in the duffel bag sitting beside me on the sidewalk. I really don’t feel like going back to Mom and Dad’s anytime soon to do laundry. My therapist taught me how to breathe through shit like this, but she didn’t tell me how to breathe when there’s no air.
The first bug-eyed local steps up to me and says, “I was so sorry to hear about your parents. They were good people.” The emphasis on “they” doesn’t go unnoticed. Like she wants me to know that I’m the shitty apple in the bunch.
Newsflash, Karen in the mauve lipstick: I already know.
My brittle smile tightens and so do my hands where they’re stuffed into my pockets. “Theywere.”
She has the good sense to look embarrassed as she scurries off to her Volvo parked across the street.
A man walking a schnauzer gives me a brusque nod. “Your mom and dad will be missed.”
“They sure will.” Now, move on and leave me alone.
The next stranger has the nerve to squeeze my bicep. Do I look like I want to be touched right now? “How are you holding up?” she asks.
That’s the worst fucking question of them all and the one I get the most.
“I’m shit because both of my parents just died. Thanks for asking,” is what I want to say, but I don’t. Instead, I give the standard, “I’m fine,” because, again, I’m not a complete asshole.
This is my fault for thinking it would be a good idea to move into a place on Main Street.
But I’ve already texted my sisters to tell them my plans, and called the locksmith,andtold Jade we’ll be neighbors, so my pride won’t let me back out now.
Speaking of Jade, thanks to her, my mouth still tastes like revolting coffee, and I’ve learned way too much about grandfather clocks. At least the lady with the clock obsession didn’t ask about Mom and Dad. She seemed lonely, so I let her babble, trying hard to appear interested until she and her dog wandered off toward the park.
A van with the word “Locksmith” hand-painted on the side finally pulls up. A man in a backward baseball cap climbs out and steps toward me. “Dylan King?”
“That’s me.”
The people still on the street stand watching like this is more interesting than what’s on TV, whispering to each other behind their hands and dragging out their phones.Run for your lives! Dylan King is moving onto Main Street!
I’ve never missed Austin as much as I do right now.
The locksmith pulls out some tools while I stare down at a text on my phone from my therapist saying she’s going to call in thirty minutes for a session. I already have enough shit to deal with, but maybe talking to her will help sort out my head.
The sound of an opening door makes me so fucking happy that I can’t hide my smile. The man who saved my life slaps a new pair of keys in my palm, followed by a bill I can pay online, and leaves as slowly as he arrived.
I bolt inside the building and kick the door shut before anyone else can bother me. The empty room smells like dust, mildew, and fried food lingering from the old restaurant next door. I really hope it doesn’t stink as bad upstairs.
