“You’re always fine.” He runs his hand over the hair on his face and sighs, his shoulders leaning onto the back of the plastic chair.
He’s not buying it. He can feel my anxiety.
He’s right. That whole fake-it-till-you-make-it thing? I own it.
What other choice do I have?
“How long are you in town?” he asks, scooting his chair a little bit closer.
Should I lie to him? Why don’t I want to?
“For two days. Maybe less. I booked a room at the W.”
“Oh, fancy.” He smiles.
“It’s so loud . . .”
He nods and thanks the server as she sets his tea in front of him. Her eyes take him in and she tucks her hair behind her ear with a big, beautiful smile that makes my stomach burn. I want to disappear.
He doesn’t look away from my eyes.
“And so unlike you,” he says.
“Huh?” I’ve already forgotten what we were even talking about.
“The hotel.” He takes a drink of his tea and I try to catch my breath.
Being around him is still so dangerous for me. Sometimes warning signs and butterflies are one and the same.
CHAPTER ONE
Two years earlier
I had hit the job jackpot. Not financially, but in all the ways that mattered. I didn’t have to open the massage studio until ten, so most mornings I could sleep in. And being able to walk there from my house—bonus! I loved this street: the mattress shop, the ice-cream place, the nail salon, and the old-fashioned candy store. I’d saved up my money and there I was, twenty years old, on that street, living in a tiny house that I’d bought. My own house. Not my dad’s. Mine.
The walk to work was brief—only five minutes and not quite long enough to be interesting. Walking along the alley behind the shops, I mostly tried to stay out of the way of the cars. The alley was wide enough for one pedestrian and one car at a time. Well, a Prius or some kind of small car would be an easy fit; unfortunately, people around here usually went for big trucks, so most of the time I pinned myself up against the bushes lining the alleyway until they passed.
Sometimes I’d create stories in my head about people in the world around me, a little bit of excitement before my shift started. Today’s story featured Bradley, the bearded man who owned the mattress store on the corner. Bradley was a nice guy, and he wore what I came to think of as his nice-guy uniform: a plaid shirt and khakis. He drove a white Ford something or other, and he worked even more than I did. I passed him every morning, already at his shop before I started at ten. Even when I worked a double or a night shift, I’d see that white truck parked in the back of the alley.
Bradley had to be single. If he had a wife or children, surely I’d have seen them at least once in the year since I’d moved to this side of town. But no, it didn’t matter if it was during the day, at night, or on the weekends—Bradley was always alone. He lived in the house next door to mine and he never seemed to have any company. All of his lights were usually off except one lamp in the living room.
The sun was shining, but not a single bird was chirping. No garbage truck was grumbling. Not one person was starting their car. It was eerily silent. Maybe that’s why Bradley’s presence seemed a little more sinister that morning. I looked at him anew and wondered why he combed his white-blond hair down the middle, why he thought it was a good idea to expose such a harsh line of scalp. Really, what I wanted to know was where he was going with that rolled-up rug in the back of his truck. Maybe I’d seen one too many episodes of Criminal Minds, but doesn’t everyone know that’s how you dispose of a body—roll it up in some old carpet and dump it on the edge of town? As my imagination was turning Bradley into a serial killer, he gave me the friendliest wave and a smile, a real one. Or maybe he was just that good at being charming and was actually going to—
I nearly pissed myself when he called out to me.
“Hey, Karina! Water’s out in the whole strip!”
His thin lips turned into a heavy frown as he waved his arms around to show how upset he was. I stopped walking and lifted my hand to cover my eyes from the sun. It was harsh, shining its brightest, even though the air had a little bite to it. Georgia was so damn hot. I thought I’d be used to it after three years, but nope. I longed for the chill of those Texas nights. “I’ve been tryin’ to get the water company out here, but no luck so far.” He shrugged and held up his cell phone as proof.
“Oh, no.” I tried to mimic his tone of frustration over the water, but honestly, I kind of hoped Mali would let us shut down for the day. I had barely slept last night, so I could have used another hour, or twenty, of sleep.
“I’ll keep tryin’ to call them,” he offered.
His fingers reached down and touched his longhorn belt buckle. He looked like he was already sweating, and when he grabbed the massive rug from the bed of his truck, I almost wanted to help him. Almost.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll let Mali know when she gets in.”
CHAPTER TWO
The door was locked, the lights were off—even the hallway light that we usually kept on—and it was hot as hell inside. I cranked the a/c, turned on the oil warmers, and lit the candles in the lobby and in Elodie’s workroom and mine.
My first client wasn’t until ten thirty. Elodie’s wasn’t scheduled until eleven thirty. She was still snoring on the couch when I left the house, which meant she’d rush through the door at forty past eleven and give her client a sweet smile and a quick apology in that cute little French accent of hers and all would be fine.
Elodie was one of the few people in the world I’d do most anything for. That was especially true now that she was pregnant. She’d found out about the baby just two days after her husband’s boots hit the dirt in Afghanistan. That kind of stuff was the norm around here. I saw it with my parents, with Elodie . . . and countless other women I met throughout my life who raised their kids mostly alone. Military wives are a rare breed of women. As much as I had endless respect for them, I never wanted to be one. My version of loneliness seemed easier than waiting for your love to come home—or, worse, not come home at all.
As soon as I started thinking about all the women and men who had lost their spouses, my heart sank and I could feel the cloud coming over my mind. I tried to distract myself but couldn’t help the overwhelming sadness. I needed some music in here. I hated silence. I wasn’t one to linger in silence; my mind wouldn’t allow it. Recently, I convinced Mali to let me play more relevant music over the speakers while we worked. I couldn’t handle another shift of relaxing spa tunes on repeat for hours. The sleepy sounds of waterfalls and waves got on my nerves and made me drowsy, too. I turned on the iPad and within seconds Banks was washing away the memory of all that soft, dreamy babble. I walked to the front desk to switch the computer on. Not two minutes later, Mali came in with a couple of big tote bags hanging from her thin arms.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, as I took the bags from her.
“Um, nothing?” No Hi? No How’s it going, Karina? I laughed and made my way to the back room.
The food in those bags smelled so good. Mali made the best homemade Thai dishes I’d ever tasted, and she always made extra for Elodie and me. She graced us with it at least five days a week. The little avocado—that’s what Elodie called her baby bump—wanted only spicy drunken noodles. It was the basil leaves. She had become obsessed with them since getting pregnant, to the point where she’d pick them out of her noodles and chew on them. Babies made you do the strangest things.