That’s Jenny and Jerry. They’ve never acted that way toward me.
We keep walking, and two girls at the coffee shop stop talking when we pass. One of them has her phone out and tilts it slightly in our direction. The other whispers to her.
“Am I having a stroke, or are people acting weird today?” Gran says to me.
“People are always on edge after a storm,” I tell her, but I know it’s not that.
Most are paying attention to the man walking beside me.
A guy I’ve seen at Cocktails & Chaos a few times does a double take at us. “Sorry to bother you. Are you Dyson Banks?”
His posture straightens, and that’s when he realizes his little secret isn’t sealed shut anymore.
“I am,” he says.
The man extends his hand, and Dyson shakes it.
“I heard you were on the island, but I thought it was a rumor.”
“It’s really me. Hope your property held up okay.”
“We did all right. You take care now.”
The man walks away. Dyson turns back to us. Gran is looking at him with an expression I can’t read. I’m looking at him with one I’m sure he can.
“Who is Dyson?” my grandmother asks.
“We can’t have this conversation here,” I whisper, glancing around, knowing our every move is being watched. “We need to go.”
The walk to the B&B is a blur. Every group of people we pass is followed by looks and whispers.
By the time we get back to the B&B, I’m annoyed.
When we’re close to Grandma’s place, she turns to Dyson. “Ready to explain?”
He smiles. “Oh, right. So, I’m Dyson Carter Banks. CEO of Banks Finance.”
“Okay?” she asks. “Is that it? Are you married?”
“Not yet,” he tells her.
I walk away from this conversation because I can’t handle it. Gran took it like it was no big deal, like he was chatting about the weather. Meanwhile, I’m drowning in betrayal.
Inside, I grab the notebook off the desk and start writing down everything that needs to be done right now. My hand moves fast because if I stop writing, I’ll start thinking about the way Gran said, “Is that it?” like Dyson Carter Banks didn’t lie to everyone.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe the name and the money don’t change who he is at the kitchen table. But they change who he is everywhere else. Today is proof of that.
Dyson walks through the front door. “She took it really well.”
“Yeah,” I say sarcastically. “It’s almost like it isn’t a big deal.”
“Maybe it isn’t.”
I set the pen down. “Do you think it is?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms. Then the bastard has the audacity to smirk.
“I’m really starting to like this sassy, angry version of you.”
