Shit.
“Great, Jill.” I’m back in Blue Gil for less than a week and I’m already making out in a parked truck like a sex-starved teenage slut. Thank goodness, my memories don’t include a knock on the truck’s window from Sheriff Manes or Deputy Morton.
Back in my bedroom, within the depths of my purse, I locate a small bottle of Aleve. Sprinkling a few tablets onto my palm, I select two, place them near the back of my tongue, and swallow. Next, I dump the remaining contents of my purse upon the messed bed. Wallet accounted for. Credit cards and cash in place. No phone.
With a blanket wrapped around me, I begin the search for my phone. My first thought is the kitchen. In the sink are two glasses, the mystery contents no longer present.
Success.
My phone is lying on the counter, attached to the charger.
One look and I realize I slept until nearly eleven and have missed multiple calls and texts.
Before I can check further, I prioritize my needs—first is caffeine. Experience tells me that it will aid in pain relief. I fill the pot with water, add afilter, and then coffee. As I complete the complexity of the task, a noise from the front of the cottage catches my attention.
Hitting the buttons on the coffee pot, I walk quietly toward the front windows. A twist of the rod and the blinds open. In one of the Adirondack chairs is a man with dark blond hair and broad shoulders. Though he’s facing the lake, I’m mostly certain of his identity.
He’s the last person I remember from my incomplete puzzle of last night.
“Well,” I mutter, “I guess this means we’re not avoiding one another.”
A few minutes later, with my hair piled on my head in a messy bun, wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and carrying a large mug of freshly brewed coffee, I bashfully open the door to the porch. Keith’s gaze silently meets mine.
“Hi...My car?” I ask.
“Good morning, Jill” —he checks his watch— “for a little while longer.”
“I see we made it past the Miss Thorne?”
The tips of his lips curl upward. “Way past, I’d say.”
Shit. I don’t know what exactly that means.
He tilts his head.
It’s been a long time since I’ve blacked out. Even the night before with Becky and the wine, I can recount everything that happened. Last night, my goal may have been to leave the world momentarily behind, but being blackout drunk was not my desired endgame. I detest the feeling of not knowing, of wondering what I don’t remember. “My car?” I ask again.
“Still at the Walleye Tavern. I can drive you intotown” —he scans my disheveled clothes— “when you’re ready.”
“I’m sorry, Keith. I have some missing memories. I’m guessing you brought me here.”
He nods. “It was better than letting you drive.”
“Thank you.” I can only imagine my father if I was pulled over for DWI.
I exhale, settle in the other chair, and peer out at the lake. A breeze is forming small waves, some dotted with white, out upon the water’s surface. “I’m embarrassed,” I admit.
“Don’t be. With a few drinks in you, we had the most honest conversation I’ve had with anyone since I arrived in this godforsaken town.”
“What did we talk about?”
“At the Walleye Tavern or here?”
Here?
In my cottage or his?
I’m not sure I want to know.
