AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I knew I shouldn’t have said it—or at least, not likethat. I knew what I was insinuating, how he would take it: thathewas everything, to me, and more. But there was something about knowing that the two of us were sharing a memory in that moment, enveloped in a sea of other people who wouldn’t understand, that made me feel more drawn to him than ever before.
It was the knowledge that he had Allison—beautiful, charming, nice, funny Allison—and he still seemed to have an interest inmethatmade me feel both light and airy and simultaneously sick with dread at the exact same time.
In truth, I didn’t want to feel that way about him. Honestly, I didn’t. That job: It was my dream. It wasmine,finally, and I didn’t want to do anything to give that up. So in the weeks that followed, every time I passed his office, my eyes would skip over his door, like a stone tossed over a glassy river. I tried to focus. I tried to pretend it wasn’t him sitting on the other side of it. I tried to forget. But deep down, I knew it was too late. I knew there was nothing I could do to stop it. It was inevitable, Ben and I. We had chemistry. A reaction had started—a spark, ignited—and both of us would soon be pursing our lips and blowing on it gently, giving it life.
Strengthening a kindling into a full-blown fire.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I ignore Kasey’s text and decide to shoot a message off to Waylon instead. After all, if Dozier won’t help me look into my neighbor and that man on his porch, I know Waylon will.
“Busy?”I text, and within seconds, my phone is ringing, his name on the screen.
“Hey,” I answer, my voice unusually bright. “That was quick.”
“Yeah, I was just wondering if I could swing by on my way out of town. Say goodbye.”
“Goodbye?” I ask, panic creeping into my voice.
“It’s Friday,” he says, hesitating. “I had my hotel until the weekend. I need to head home.”
“Oh,” I say, my chest deflating. “Right. But we’re not… we’re notdonehere, right? You haven’t changed your mind—?”
The thought makes me feel suddenly frantic: the idea of, after losing everything that I’ve already lost, now losing this. Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time an attempt at answers left me with nothing, but for some reason, this one feels different, important. The most important thing I have left.
“No, no,” he says quickly. “Of course not. I’ll continue doing mywork from home, get some interviews in over the phone. We’ll be in touch, and I’d like to come back… maybe in a few weeks?”
The line goes quiet, like Waylon is waiting for me to say something.
“I just can’t, you know, stay here indefinitely,” he says at last, sounding embarrassed. “I have some advertiser money, but other than that, I’m self-funded. These hotels aren’t cheap.”
“Stay here.” I interrupt him before I can even realize what I’m doing, what I’m saying. “You can stay with me. In my guestroom.”
The line is quiet for a beat too long.
“That’s really generous,” he says at last. “But I can’t… I can’t do that. I don’t want to impose—”
“It’s not an imposition, really.” My mind is spinning as the words come out; I know this is a bad idea, but still, I can’t stop. It reminds me of that first night with Ben on the water; the lie about the oyster-shucker that I had just blurted out of nowhere because I was tired of being alone. “I have this whole house to myself. It doesn’t make sense for you to spend your own money when I have all this space.”
Waylon is quiet again, and I can almost hear him thinking. Trying to find an excuse, maybe. A kind way to tell me that what I’m suggesting is crazy—we barely even know each other. We’re practically strangers, he and I. I know there’s an air of desperation in my voice, and on some level, I want to open my mouth and reel the offer back in—tell him that he’s right, that we can do everything we need to do over the phone—but on another, deeper, level, I don’t want him to leave.
I don’t want to be alone. Not now. Not again.
“Okay,” he says at last. “Okay, yeah, if you really don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind,” I say, a mixture of relief and dread flooding through me. But still, the thought of another person in my house, another life, makes the weight on my chest release just slightly. “Why don’t you come over and unpack? Make yourself at home.”
We hang up, and I walk into the kitchen, opening the fridge andscanning the inside. Of course, I know what it’s like to share a space with a man, but I’ve lived alone for six months now, and there are things that we’ll need to work out: things like groceries and cooking and refrigerator space and privacy; how long he’s staying, what’s acceptable. What’s not. I make a mental note to clear out some space in the pantry for him when my eyes catch the stack of mail still sitting on the counter.
I notice my parent’s card again, that check still sitting untouched on top. I walk over and pick it up, eying the little bouquet of daisies on the cover. Inside, it’s completely blank.
Fitting,I think, tossing it into the trash. We’ve never quite known what to say to each other, my parents and I. Not for a while, anyway.
I pick up the check next and fold it in half, stuffing in into my purse. I know I’ll deposit it eventually—I’ll have to soon, with no real cash coming in—but until then, I don’t want to look at it. I don’t want to think about it. It feels like blood money to me. Like a payment for this prolonged silence—only I know it isn’t my silence they’re buying.
It’s theirs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
