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I lick my dry lips, too hot in my dark pants and soft gray blouse, my feet killing me even in my conservative low heels as I make one more round, the same I made yesterday and the day before.
The round of desperation.
I visit the grocery store, the ice cream shop, the small hardware shop, the bank, the dentist and the two diners. I ask at the second-hand store, the gas station, and the old pizza place where Mom works. Then I enter the new coffee shop with its shiny brand new white tables and steel chairs and ask once more.
Nope. Nada.
My dream of escape dwindles on the horizon. A mirage. It was never real, never going to happen.
Unless… unless I pack my bags and leave town, penniless and desperate. Go to the big city and take my chances there.
Leave Mom, and Gigi, and Merc behind.
Not forever, I tell myself as a vise tightens around my heart. Just for a while, until I find a job and save some money. And then I’ll go to college and return with a good salary to take care of them all.
This has been my dream ever since I can remember.
And what kind of job would an educated person find here?
That’s the question I’ve been avoiding.
That, and the thought of the years between now and then, and of how badly leaving my family behind will hurt. We’re so close. My dad leaving only served to bring us closer, and going away will be like sawing off a limb.
Shaking my head, trying to dislodge the thought like every time it surfaces, I stop in front of the drugstore.
“Whatcha doing here, Zipper Lips?” The witty one is Anthony “Stone” Campbell, who’s lounging outside the coffee shop across the street, his lips pulled into a sneer.
He may have grown up from the skinny, stinky kid in my class into a tall, less stinky guy, but he never lost his obnoxiousness. Looks like you can’t outgrow mean, or stupid.
Ignoring him with the ease of long practice, I step inside the drugstore, not even sure I want to ask yet again about a job. I already know there isn’t an opening.
Maybe I’ll just buy some painkillers. My head hurts from the heat I’ve been trudging through all day.
Or some sunscreen. It feels as if my nose will be peeling come tomorrow. I touch it gingerly and wince.
Inside the store it’s blessedly air-conditioned, and I let the cool air blow on my flushed cheeks as the door closes behind me.
My hair is a frazzled mess, and I pat it down in a desperate effort to look presentable as I approach the counter. I easily find some ibuprofen, but then realize there are three people ahead of me, and I check out the small make-up display to distract myself while waiting.
Gigi always says I should wear more make-up. She says my eyes are pretty and that I should outline them more.
Gigi is crazy.
I put down the lipstick I was checking out—the hue is called
Flamingo, which makes me grin—and catch a guy’s gaze on me. He’s standing second in the small line, and he’s handsome in a classic, clear-cut way with his wavy brown hair and green eyes, the five-o’clock shadow on his cheeks, the wiry frame filling out his navy-blue shirt nicely.
A cold shiver runs over my skin when his gaze lifts to my face, and his mouth tilts in a smile.
I look away, flustered.
By the time I gather my wits enough to look back at him, the line has moved, and a broad-shouldered guy is walking by me, his shaggy black hair and beard registering after the longest second in history.
Matthew Hansen. What are the odds?
Then again, it is a small town. Nothing fateful here. Just everyday life happening.
He doesn’t seem to think so, judging by the way his brows draw together when he notices me. He stops.
