I deleted it.
I know you hate me, but please give me a chance to explain.
I deleted that one too. How did I explain everything in a text message?
The wind howled, shaking the single-pane glass window. As I caught a glimpse of my reflection, I stumbled, lurching into the desk. The vase wobbled, but I dropped my phone and managedto right it before it fell over. “Shit.” I wiped the drops of water from my phone screen.
I wasn't tipsy, I was wasted. And even drunk me knew better than to text a phone number from fifteen years ago.
Flopping onto the bed, I promised myself that I'd give her the flowers tomorrow.
8
BECK
After living in the city,the honking and garbage trucks had become white noise to me. Since I'd returned to Chance Rapids, it was the silence that woke me up. But today, it was accompanied by a splitting headache. Through bleary eyes, I blinked at the foreign object on the antique dresser, and it took a minute for my brain to compute that they were roses.
For Clara. Shit. I fumbled for my phone. What did I text her last night? My heart thumped as I scrolled through my messages. It only stopped racing when I realized that I hadn't sent her any of the messages.
The radiator ticked as I rolled out from beneath the layers of quilts to tiptoe to the bathroom. The floors in the Inn were frigid.
My mouth was dry and my head hurt. How many scotches did I drink last night?
While the shower heated up, I did something I would never do in the city - I bent and drank directly from the tap. The water in Chance Rapids came from a glacier-fed river, and was better than any fancy bottled stuff.
As I showered, the events of last night came back to me in waves, accompanied by nausea.
William King's project was not going to have the overwhelming reception that I'd anticipated. Getting the town's approval was supposed to be the easy part of the project. The new arena was going to be state-of-the-art. How could anyone want to keep the old barn?
Clara's figure skating program. Logan's hockey charity. Both were heavily subsidized by the town and by fundraising. I could sell the state-of-the-art cooling system, modern gym, recovery facilities, and of course, the entire new League that would come to town.
The answer came to me as the shower ran cold. I let the icy water stab my face for a minute before stepping out and wrapping a towel around my waist.
As I got dressed, my phone buzzed with a text message. Then another. And another. There was a missed call from Rob, and one from the Mayor. As I scrolled through the messages, trying to catch up, my phone rang again.
"Good morning, Rob," I answered.
"How come you haven't answered my messages?" he barked.
Clearing my throat, I composed myself. "I'm just taking a look at them now." I put him on speaker as I read the messages. "Oh, shit."
"Yeah, oh shit is right. Clara Dalton is stirring up a big pot of it."
The multiple messages described Clara's social media post, a battle cry to save the arena, and the overwhelming response from the people in the town.
"I'll deal with this."
"You'd better get ahead of this problem, or I will."
"I'm on—"
Rob disconnected the call. His true colours were showing, and they were multiple shades of asshole, but this was business,and he was right. I clicked on the link that Mavis sent to Clara's post.
There were hundreds of replies.
It was official. The hornet's nest had been kicked, by the toe-pick of my figure skating ex-girlfriend, who hated my guts.
I gritted my teeth. This was typical Clara; she let her emotions run the show. This was my project. My livelihood. If this fell through, I could kiss my job with King Corporation goodbye.
