Time to get a new car. And do this the right way.
And four hours later, that’s exactly what I’ve accomplished.
Almost.
I’m aware that parking a brand new vehicle at a public park a quarter mile from the back entrance to Emma’s house, then hiking through pine trees and underbrush to spy and wait for her to get home, is probably not therightright way.
But it’s righter than leaving again.
Or sending an email.
Especially after the way I left her in Fiji.
I get to her backyard, and my breath leaves me.
She has chickens.
She has chickens.
An entire decent-size penned-in coop of little cluckers next to a two-person swing that’s hung from a little wooden pergola in a clearing near the coop at the back of the yard. With flowers. It’s like a flower garden around a chicken coop.
Her house is cute too.
Two stories, but not large. Brown shingles. Open windows that suggest no air conditioning. There’s a screen door beside a small concrete patio with a hot tub on it.
This isn’t the house she told me about in Fiji. Her dream house. Her friend’s grandparents’ house. Herex’sgrandparents’ house.
This house is too small. The yard is too small. And I don’t think it has any views.
Even if it’s not her childhood dream home, it’s not checking the boxes of what she wanted.
It’s private though.
There are enough trees and boulders and just general mountain forest growth that I can’t see her neighbors.
And I wonder if that’s my fault.
The chickens cluck. A few birds chirp. I stay hidden, waiting.
Like a stalker.
Probably not wise, butI need to see her.
It takes forever, but finally, two cars pull into her drive shortly after nine. Dusk is settling, and I’m realizing I’m mildly fucked if she won’t talk to me. In addition to the deer and elk that have wandered past the caged-in chicken coop in her cozy backyard—I’m still having reactions in my heart area to knowing she actually got her chickens—I’ve seen at least three foxes.
Know what else that means?
That means it’s mountain lion o’clock out here now.
And if that’s not dangerous enough, the tall guy who leapt between me and Theo Monroe when I thought Emma’s brother was going to murder me is circling her house with a flashlight.
“See anything?” the much shorter, redheaded pregnant bridesmaid asks as she dashes along next to him, her legs moving twice as fast as his to keep up.
Something’s in the water.
The bride was pregnant. The bridesmaid is pregnant. Begonia’s pregnant.
Do not breathe wrong around Emma, I order myself.
