"What did they do?" I ask.
"What everyone does. Pointed. Filmed. Called me Princess Pigpen. Made oinking noises. And this guy tried to chat me up, wouldn't leave me alone." She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand.
"I'm sorry," I say. "That's not okay. This is a small town and people should know better. I'll talk to them." The motel signappears in the headlights — DUSTY ROSE MOTEL, the letters glowing a faded pink.
"You don't have to do that."
"I do. You're doing your time. You're showing up. You're doing the work. People don't get to make that harder for you just because they think it's funny."
She turns and looks at me and her face is a mess — the mascara, the blotchy skin, the red eyes. "You look nice," she says. "Have you been to a party?"
"A date," I say.
"Oh… A good date?"
I park the truck and turn off the engine. "Second date. But I don't think it's going anywhere. No chemistry. It happens." I shrug. "Slim pickings around here so I tend to give people a real chance. But you either feel something or you don't."
"Was he at least good-looking?"
"She," I say.
Sloane blinks and I watch the information travel across her face — surprise first, then recalibration.
"Oh," she says. "I didn't — I wouldn't have guessed."
"Most people don't." I lean back against the seat. "Which makes it even harder to meet someone, if you know what I mean. The dating pool out here for a straight woman is a puddle. For a gay woman it's a damp patch on the sidewalk."
Sloane sniffs. "I can only imagine."
"She's nice," I say. "A dentist. Good job. Pretty. But for the second date in a row, she spent half the time asking about you."
"About me?"
"Yeah. Apparently the only thing interesting about me is my association with you."
Sloane stares at me. "You're kidding."
"I'm not."
"I'm sorry. That's awful."
"It's not your fault." I pause. "Well. The Princess Pigpen thing is your fault. But the bad date isn't." I nod toward the motel. "How is it in there? I've driven past it a thousand times but I've never actually been inside."
Sloane lets out a long sigh. "The fridge is incredibly noisy and the shower has two settings — lukewarm and cold. The carpet is sticky. The pillow is so flat I've started folding it in half. And there's a water stain on the ceiling shaped like Florida."
"Right," I say. "I get the idea."
She picks up her purse. "But I'll cope. Could be worse." She opens the door and steps out, then ducks her head back in. "Thanks for the lift, Maggie. I appreciate it."
She closes the door and walks across the parking lot toward her room, her sneakers scuffing on the concrete.
I sit in the truck for a moment. She looks defeated and I'm actually feeling sorry for her. I'll have to defend Sloane Archer to people I've known my entire life. A week ago I wanted her to suffer. And now I'm about to tell off the regulars at The Watering Hole for making her cry. I'm not sure how that happened.
Part of me wonders if she'll last the full two months. A night like this on top of everything else would be enough to make most people call their lawyer and beg to be reassigned somewhere else. Somewhere without photographers and oinking and men. I realize, with some irritation, that I hope she stays. Not because I like her but because she's finally starting to get faster with the pitchfork.
15
SLOANE
