I don’t need lectures on swimming in cold water from an out-of-touch millionaire cowboy. And it’s not like I invited him to come watch me swim in my underthings.
Lord, did I give him an eyeful, though.
Double-ugh.
And the worst part, the part I refuse to think about, is the way my eyes dropped to his body when we were standing that close. Taking in the width of his chest. The way that sweat-damp t-shirt clung to every muscle. The fact that I had to tip my chin up just to meet his eyes and when I did that famous voice of his had gone brusque. Velvet dragged across gravel.
I've listened to that voice on a thousand long drives and late nights. When it's aimed at you from inches away, all severe and domineering like that, it’s a whole different experience.
As I turn into the trailer park that I've called home most of my life, the distance between Wild Rose Ranch and this gravel lot feels longer than thirty miles.
I swore I’d never move back here. The minute high schoolended, I was off to my college dorm, thanks to the full-ride scholarship I got. And then when I graduated, my college roomie Cassidy and I got a place in downtown Marble Falls, and I was doing just fine. But now she’s starting a job in another state, and I can’t float the place by myself, so here I am, living with my mother in a double-wide for the summer before my own teaching job starts.
It’s temporary, I remind myself. Knowing there’s an end date is the only thing keeping me sane.
Momma’s at work, so at least I have peace and quiet as I shower off the lake water and get ready for one of my two jobs this summer.
I started doing some summer tutoring at the community center. It’s air-conditioned, I like spending time with kids, and it’s good practice for the job I’ll be taking teaching English in New York City come September.
I’ll miss Montana like hell. And New York’s going to be a huge change of pace for a country girl, I know that. But it’ll be an adventure too. And this job is my ticket into middle class life. Steady paycheck. Insurance. A retirement plan.
A life that isn’t a tragic repeat of Momma’s.
I dry my hair, put on some lipgloss and mascara so I look a little more polished, and slip on my flowered sundress and cowboy boots.
Probably won’t be wearing cowboy boots too much in the city.
The drive to the community center is short. It’s practically my home away from home. I sling my purse over my shoulder and head inside.
Jane, the director of the literacy program there, greets me with a big smile. “Sadie! I was just talking about you.”
I always feel vaguely alarmed when people tell me that. Not that I really do anything to warrant gossip. I’m more “nerdy librarian” than “party girl,” temper aside. But sometimes my sharp tongue gets me into trouble.
“Oh?” I say, aiming for neutrality.
“We have a friend here who would like to brush up on his reading skills,” she tells me, steering me to the back table.
There’s a boy sitting there, hunched into himself like an adorable little shrimp as he doodles on a piece of paper. He’s wearing glasses that magnify the big green eyes staring solemnly up at me.
“Hey,” I say. “I’m Sadie. What’s your name?”
There’s a pause, like he’s not sure whether he wants to tell me or not. At last, he says, “My grandpa calls me JoJo.”
I take a seat beside him and look at his drawing. “What kind of food does this alien like to eat?”
There’s a flash of surprise across his face at the question. He considers it seriously for a moment.
“Spaghetti,” he says at last.
“With or without meatballs?”
“With.” His eyes crinkle mischievously as he adds, “Humanmeatballs.”
I give an exaggerated gasp. “But humans are so… salty.”
That gets him giggling. “Alienslikesalty.”
I glance up at Jane, who gives me a wink before she leaves.
