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“Hmmm. I didn’t see it,” I lie as I swipe my debit card in the machine. “But I do love publicity. I’ll have to hunt down a copy somewhere and frame it.”
She flinches. That throws her game off.
“It’s nothing to be proud of,” she says under her breath, handing me my pastry, which is mashed inside the paper bag, icing spilling out and onto the counter.
“Don’t worry,” I say to her quietly, wiping the counter off with a napkin and tossing it at her chest. “I’m sure one day someone will care about you enough to write you up in a newspaper. If not for being a bitch, maybe for being a shitty server and barista.”
And then I walk over to the wall to wait for my coffee.
She’s so stunned by what I just said that she stares at me for a few moments before the tourists waiting in front of her start waving impatiently in front of her face.
Then I get my coffee, the barista handing it to me with a sly, cheeky smile, and I’m out of there.
I grin and laugh to myself all the way to the harbor, where I find a bench under a cherry tree and enjoy the view, my heart racing, adrenaline pumping. I can’t believe I just told Amy off. That girl has had it a long time coming, but I really didn’t think I’d be the one to do it.
I have to say, it felt good. She probably expected me to smile forever or hide forever, but I am tired of faking it, being nice, and trying to get people to like me. Fuck them if they don’t.
I happily munch on my squished cinnamon bun, feeling like I’ve won something for once. Maybe my own respect for myself. Maybe I’ve owned the fear.
So I sit there for a bit under the sunshine, the fresh sea breeze in my hair, watching the tourists walk to and fro, smiling and happy to be in such a beautiful place, and I’m hit with the feeling that this beautiful place is my home and I’m not going to let anyone make me feel like I don’t belong here.
When I’m done with the sticky pastry and on a sugar high, I decide I don’t even need lunch after all. I did what I needed to do. So I go peruse one of the local bookstores for any new romances, pick up a copy of an enemies-to-lovers one set on a cruise ship, then get in my car and head back to the house.
I’m unpacking my groceries from the trunk when I hear a throat clear from behind me.
I know it’s Harrison. Trying not to sneak up on me this time.
I still don’t turn around.
He clears his throat again for good measure.
When I finally turn around, I do a double take. He’s carrying a loaded laundry basket in his arms. Dressed back in his usual, including his shades.
“Uh,” I say, “that’s not for me, is it? Because while I like to think I’ve been a good neighbor, doing laundry is below my pay grade.”
“The dryer is broken,” he explains. From the stiff tone of his voice, it sounds like this is the last place he wants to be, which makes me feel a little sad. “I was wondering if I could use yours. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“So they have you getting groceries and doing the laundry. Jack-of-all-trades strikes again.”
“Do you think this makes me doubt my own masculinity?” he asks idly.
No. Not even a little.
He continues. “You wouldn’t expect Agatha to walk all the way over here, across your rough and weedy land, with a heavy basket of laundry in her hands, would you?”
“?‘Rough and weedy’? Those are ferns.”
“Your driveway has potholes that nearly swallow your car every time you drive on it.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. Sure. The laundry is below the deck. Come on, I’ll show you.”
I walk past the car and down the side of the house, which, yes, is rough and weedy. There are some stone steps, but they are rather sporadic, and I could totally see Agatha losing her footing and having an accident here.
Under the deck there’s something like a basement, which has a big freezer where my mom likes to stockpile chicken breasts “just in case,” as well as some gardening equipment, tools, and old paint cans, and of course a washer and dryer. It’s actually not as creepy as it sounds, and we’ve tried to dress it up a little with some paintings and rugs and a heater in the corner to keep things dry and toasty.
But my focus isn’t on the décor. It’s on Harrison, who follows me down the path and into the room.
I don’t know if he feels it or not, but the tension between us is high. I mean, it’s probably in my head, but since it’s been nearly a week since I saw him, and I last saw him under strange circumstances, things feel strained and raw and weird.
