"Two Monte Cristos, please," I say to the woman behind the register when she returns from delivering sandwiches to a table. "And two iced teas." I'm meeting Hugo at my old place, and I've promised to bring lunch.
She rings me up, and my traitorous eyes stray to the stupid pale pink invitation plastered just beyond her head. I must be a masochist. Or, perhaps I'm trying to stay in this angry state so I can keep my guard up, my armor unyielding, in an effort to get through what I came here to do.
"First time in Sammich?" she asks as I hand over two twenties.
I catch theNoon its way out of my mouth and swallow it down. "Sure is," I lie. The truth is, I came here with my mom when I was a kid, and I've been dreaming about a Monte Cristo from Sammich far longer than I care to admit.
"Just passing through?" she asks, pressing my change into my palm. "Or having yourself a long weekend at the spa?"
Something tells me I don't fit the profile of people who typically visit Sagewood. Instead of pointing that out, I say, "I was hired to come here and look into a home that was kept in a family but left behind a long time ago." This is the sanitized version I dreamed up on my long drive from San Diego.
Everyone in this town knows everybody's business, but none more than Margaret, the owner and operator of this place. She is the eyes and ears of this town, and I'm not interested in supplying her with gossip about me.
But Margaret cannot be stopped. She is a 5'2", faux redheaded Jack Russell Terrier on my heels. She leans forward, eyes squinting and shrewd, propping her fleshy forearm on the counter. "You look familiar. Do I know you?"
I shake my head slowly. "I don't believe so." That's not a lie. She doesn'tknowme. At all. If I gave her my real name, she would most definitely remember me, though.
I nod toward the white paper bag the chef has placed in the open window between the kitchen and the rest of the place. "I better get going. My dog is waiting in my truck."
Margaret offers me a friendly smile as she hands the bag my way. "Finally nice enough outside that we can start taking our dogs on car rides."
I dip my chin in thanks and leave the store. Slim Jim stares me down from the passenger seat. My guess is that he's been mean-mugging passersby from his perch, delivering a menacing stink eye. He's doing what I wish I could do, but basic politeness dictates I choose otherwise. Dogs don't give a fuck, and I envy that.
Slim Jim watches me climb in my truck, sniffing voraciously at the bag of food. "That is not for you," I tell him, handing over one of his treats. He takes it and turns his back on me. I tell myself it's so he can stare out the window, but the truth is, he gets his feelings hurt. How I wound up with an emotionally sensitive dog, I'll never know.
Halfway through the short drive to my childhood home, Slim Jim turns my way, leaning over the center console to lick my face once. It's like he's saying,I forgive you. Not that I asked for forgiveness, or needed it. Like the sad sack I am, I accept theaffection, trying not to think about what a deficit I'm in. Plenty of women like the idea of being with a SEAL, but few can handle the demands of a job we are all but married to. Few can handle me, either, and the fact I'm no good at relationships.
Slim Jim is all I have, but honestly, the guy is pretty damn good. I'm lucky to have him.
Scratching behind his ears, I stare out the windshield and fight against the gut-punch feeling left by the wedding invitations that assaulted my eyes.Thrice. "She's marrying him, Slim Jim. My Daisy is marrying one of the worst people I've ever met."
Dread hangsheavy in my stomach as I roll down Lickety-Split Lane. The last time I was on this street was the day I packed up my mother's car, with a little help from her. The vehicle had a new front bumper and hood, and engine parts that sounded complicated, repairs courtesy of Daisy's dad following the car accident.
An accident that had injured Daisy, but not me. Physically, anyhow. Plenty of pain accompanies the knowledge that I was at fault for hurting my best friend.
Some days I wish I could take it all back. Other days, I know some of it had to happen. My feelings about that time in my life are convoluted. Similar to the way I feel about my childhood home. Is that why my mom never sold it? Never attempted to deal with it at all? Alone it sat at the end of the lane, a relic, astory, a slowly crumbling structure. Was she keeping it for me, hoping I'd return to Olive Township? Did she want me to? Why?
I have questions, but no answers. Her will said only that the home belonged to me now. No instructions, no letter of explanation. I was with her before she died, and even then she said not a word.
It's confusing and frustrating, the same way I feel about the bits of excitement bubbling up around the dread in my stomach as I draw closer to my old home.
"There it is," I breathe the words, the old structure coming into view. It's smaller than I remember, but so was I when I lived here.
The paint is peeling, the windows clouded. A bird's nest clings to the chimney.
My chest constricts, but I push past it.
Hugo waits in front of the house. He leans his backside against his fancy ass cherry-red Audi R8, a car he loves with a fervor that should be reserved for a woman. His right foot crosses over his left ankle, and his hands shove into the pockets of his jeans. I can't resist rolling my window down and giving him a little shit.
"Posing for the cover of GQ?" I ask from the open truck window as I roll slowly past.
He responds with a middle finger. "Hello,Peter."
Hugo hates my decision to come back here and use a different name. I call itidentity management. He calls ita flat out lie and you're a shithead for it.
I understand where he's coming from, but he hasn't been where I've been, or done what I've done. He doesn't know I'm protecting Daisy from learning the truth about why I left.
Slim Jim and I come to a stop and pile out. He trots to a tree and lifts a leg.
