Page 7 of His Small Town Girl

“No, I’ve got you all figured out, small-town girl.” Will answers and he passes his laptop back, so I can see. He has a document open, and my name headlined it. Under my name, there is only one word: typical. My ego bristles at the brush off. I’m more than a one-word type of girl. Plus, if he was going to sum me up in just one word, it should have been a word like indescribable or wonderful or talented. A word that actually applied to me would be nice, but even two words that didn’t apply to me would be better than that one.

Surely, he is just joking, but he doesn’t ask me any questions before we pull into the hotel parking lot. And when we go to dinner, I don’t get an interrogation either. By the time I settle into my bed in the hotel room, I’m thoroughly confused. I know the book he wants to write is about my dad and this journey to forgiveness, but I’m a part of that, too. There is no way he has my personality pinned from a couple of quick conversations and interview clips.

Whatever, I’m not sure why I really care. We are going to meet the first Susan Smith (now Susan Dean) tomorrow, which is what this is all about, not stupidly attractive writers with personalities that are both intriguing and annoying. It certainly isn’t about how I can’t seem to get his smirk out of my mind and how I wish he would have taken the time to get to know me.

Chapter 6

The next morning, I spend way too much time in front of the vanity. I try to tell myself it is to make a good impression on Susan Smith, but I know it has a lot more to do with the writer down the hall. What can I say? I’m the type of girl that feels more comfortable behind the shield of perfectly applied winged eyeliner.

After a shower, I blow dry my hair until it falls around my waist in its natural blonde waves. Then I apply some mascara, a bit of blush, and a hint of highlighter until my tan skin glows and my blue eyes pop. By the time I’m finished, Dad has already left the room to get the car from the parking lot. After I slip into a pretty, but comfortable mini dress, I grab my bag and step out of the room.

“Well, if it isn’t the girl next door.” Will drawls as he steps out of his room at the same moment as me. His eyes twinkle at his joke, but I just roll my eyes in response and head to the elevator. Why can’t the New Yorker just say something nice like “good morning”?

“C’mon, I think that deserved a response, small-town girl.” Will catches up with me and waits for the elevator beside me. Today the white band tee shirt he wears shows off his sculpted chests and arms. I guess even writers hit the gyms these days. Ugh, he would be easier to ignore if he looked more like a scrawny, stereotypical writer and wore glasses. Though as I think of him wearing glasses, I know he would be one of those men that made poor vision seem ridiculously sexy.

“Oh Will, how’s a small-town girl like little old me supposed to keep up with all your intellectual city talk?” I ask, my voice sugar sweet, playing into his characterization of me.

“I said you were typical, not a Disney princess.” Will laughs and gives me a look like he finds me infinitely amusing, but I don’t want him to find me amusing. I want him to find me aggravatingly attractive, the way I find him.

“Well, sorry if I wasn’t sure who I was supposed to be based on your one-word character assessment of me.” I mutter as I step into the elevator as it arrives.

“Oh, but typical conveys so much more than one word.” Will answers, hitting the button for the ground floor.

“Then why don’t you tell me how typical encompasses my person?” I give him an expectant look and hope I’m able to convince him I put no stock in what he thinks of me.

“Okay. You look like the lyrics to a country music song. Your personality is straight out of a hallmark film. You probably were a cheerleader and dated the quarterback or some other exhausted high school trope. I bet you went to the same university your mom did and pledged the same sorority. You most likely are studying to be a schoolteacher or some other do-gooder job. You will venture out of your nowhere town for a couple of years, but when you decide to start a family, you will crawl back to small town America because it is who you are: typical.” Will says his tone is clipped and I get the sense that this description is about more than me.

“And you are so different in your designer jeans and your ivy league haircut? Like you aren’t just another trust fund baby in New York City, only able to be a writer because of mommy and daddy’s connections. You think because you come from a big city that you understand the world, that you understand people. Well, I’m gonna be your reality check because right now your thinking is rather typical.” I fire back as the elevator touches down on the ground floor.

“You’ve got fire.” Will says with a small chuckle as the elevator doors open.

“All the hallmark film heroines do.” I leave him chuckling at me in the elevator as I stride into the hotel lobby.

Lucky for me that shuts him up long enough for us to check out of our rooms without incident. Dad has the car waiting out front, so there really isn’t time for awkward silence. We throw our bags in the trunk and climb into the car.

I settle into the backseat again while Will fiddles with the GPS from the passenger seat. We are a two-hour drive from Susan’s house, so I read a book on my phone as we drive, ignoring Will as he continues to talk with my dad about his life. Though I keep picturing the love interest in my book as Will now, which is annoying.

When we pull into a swanky neighborhood of mini-mansions, I’m glad I spent all that time this morning on my appearance. It may have gone over Will’s head l, but I bet our host would appreciate it. A little anxiety pools in my stomach as we pull to a stop in front of a fancy Spanish-style house.

“You ready for this, Dad?” I ask because I’m not sure I am.

“Yeah, there is a chance this isn’t even her.” Dad answers, but he wipes his palms on his jeans, so I know he is nervous.

We head up to the front door as a group. Will knocks on the door while me and my father stand there as still as statues. Seconds later, the clacking of heels on tile sounds before the door swings open. A refined, middle-aged woman stands in the door with a politely confused smile on her face. I wonder if this is the Susan, but when I see my father’s figure sag next to me, I already know this is not his Susan Smith.

“How may I help you?” She asks as we all stand there silently looking at her. Rightfully, she looks a little suspicious of the three strangers on her porch.

“Hello Mrs. Dean. We were hoping we could speak to you for a moment.” Will says, and I know with the charming smile he sent her, she won’t say no.

“Well, what would you like to speak about?” She asks, still looking at us as if we might rob her house.

“I don’t know if you are familiar with Mr. George’s story, but he left a woman named Susan Smith at the altar 30 years ago. We were hoping you might be her.” Will explains.

“Oh, I’ve heard about this on the news! But I’m not her. I had quite a laugh at all our similarities, though. Quite a few of my friends thought I might have been his Susan Smith as well.” She says with a chuckle.

“Nice to meet you still. Mind if I still ask you some questions? I’m writing a book on Mr. George’s story and would like to do a profile on all the Susan’s we meet.”

“I would love to. Please come inside.” She opens the door wider and welcomes us into her immaculate home.

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