“I thoughtSaintwas his nickname. You can’t have two nicknames.”
“He can do whatever he wants.”
“You’re feisty today,” she says, snatching the yogurt from my hand. She grabs the spoon from me, too, and then proceeds to take a bite.
I scrunch my nose. “Eww.”
“Trust me. I’ve had much worse,” she says, and takes a second bite. “What are you going to cook for the man?”
I momentarily forgot. “Shit. I don’t know. I need to go to the grocery store.”
“I have a chicken recipe he’ll love. It’s a real doozy, Petra. Adoozy. You hear that? A fuckingdoozy.”
I laugh. “Send it to me.”
I think I might miss Mari after I leave too.
I pass a gas station on the drive to the grocery store. A small worn-down place with faded signs and a single pump. The kind of place you wouldn’t think twice about passing on the road, but today it catches myattention. I’ve been wanting a local newspaper. Something to ground me in this strange, isolated town. I should probably fill up on gas before my drive back to Sacramento in a few days too.
I pull in to the gas station and park, step out of the car, and feel the sting of the return of raindrops hitting my skin. I run into the store before getting gas, the bell above the door jingling as I step into the dimly lit interior. The smell of stale coffee hits me as I take a few steps toward the counter, scanning the shelves for any sign of a local paper. I wonder if they even sell newspapers here. This town is so small, I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t.
I’ve been wanting to read about the incident that occurred the night Saint showed up at my cabin. The night that changed everything. The memory of it still lingers, like a scene from a movie that I keep replaying in my mind. I thought about adding it to my book, weaving it into the narrative to give it a sense of realness that only true experiences can provide.
I tend to change a lot of scenes during the rewrite phase, and I’m tempted to rework the scene where Cam and Reya meet. I’d like it to more accurately reflect what actually happened between me and Saint. Maybe it would add depth, something more visceral, something the readers could connect with on a deeper level.
At this point, I’m almost positive Saint will finish the book, considering he read half the rough draft. It gives me even more reason to insert real stuff that’s happened between us into the pages.
I’ve never written something knowing the person who inspired it would read it. But then again, I’ve never written something inspired by an actual person before.
I finally find a rack with the newspapers near the register. There’s only one choice of newspaper on the stand, other thanUsa Today, and it looks like, from the dates listed at the top of it, they only put out one paper every month. Makes sense with this town being so small.
I flip through it, scanning the headlines, but I can’t find anything about the police chase that ended in a suicide.
I check the dates on the paper again and recalculate the date I first showed up here. This paper came out a few days after I showed up, so it should be here, but I don’t find it while flipping through it again a second time. Maybe they didn’t write about it at all, in order to keep up the facade of this town being a safe space for the few tourists.
The thought leaves me unsettled. Surely something like that would make the news in a town this small. Or maybe I skimmed over it, too distracted to focus. I flip through the pages again, my eyes scanning for any mention of the incident.
I glance over the rack again, wondering if the newest edition has come out yet.
I take the newspaper to the counter and hand it to the clerk. He’s a bald man who looks to be in his fifties, his face weathered from years of standing here. He barely glances up as I place the paper on the counter, his eyes still fixed on the register as he punches in the price.
“Is this the most recent one?”
“Yep.”
“Do you have any copies of last month’s paper?” I ask him.
“Nope.”
A man of few words. “What day does the new paper come out?” I ask, hoping maybe there will be more information in the next edition.
He shrugs, his expression bored, as if the question is too mundane to warrant much thought. “Lennie delivers them, so there’s no telling. He might bring them Saturday night or he may wait until Monday.” He says that like I should know who Lennie is, like Lennie is some kind of legend who transcends this town. “Why? You gonna be in the paper or something?” His eyes finally flick up to meet mine, a glint of curiosity in them now.
“No. Just looking for more information on the police chase from a few weeks ago.” I try to keep my voice casual, but there’s an edge to it, a hint of anxiety I can’t quite hide.
The man punches some more buttons on the cash register, his fingers moving slowly over the keys. “That’ll be one dollar and twenty-five cents,” he says, not looking up. Then, as if it’s an afterthought, he adds, “What police chase?”
I hand him five quarters, dropping them into his outstretched palm. “I can’t remember the guy’s name. It was a police chase that ended in a suicide on one of the roads a couple of miles away.” My voice is quieter now, the words feeling strange in my mouth.
