I check for a name tag so I can plead with him on a first name basis. But he’s not wearing one. Dammit. What was his name? I’m not used to having to remember those sorts of details. Not anymore. Did it start with an M? R?
“I’ll take any size. Double or triple, I’ll pay the extra, I don’t mind.”
“We don’t have any rooms available, I’m afraid.”
“Really, this is just…” I fling my hands up. “The sign out front says Vacancy. That’s false advertising if there isn’t a room.”
“You’ll have to take that up with the owner,” he replies with a bland smile. His eyes, though, burn bright with mockery.
I have a sinking, suspicious feeling that he is the owner. But, of course, I can’t call him on it. Because I don’t remember — I blocked out every detail of this damn town as fast as possible. So I just have to grimace and heave a sigh. “Thanks anyway,” I mumble as I turn tail, defeated.
“Best of luck,” he replies in a bubbly, friendly way that makes it sound exactly like go fuck yourself.
“You too,” I call back, bright and bubbly. Hope he takes the same meaning from my words, too.
I checked all the online rental sites — no response to the three Airbnb requests I sent out, but if this hotel counter guy is anything to judge by, all three of those owners will have the same answer for me.
The next closest hotel is a two-hour drive out of town. Way too far for me to make every day this week if I want to make serious headway on the house.
There’s nothing left for it. I climb back into my rental car and turn back toward the farm.
3
Grant Werther
She doesn’t remember me.
For a moment, I thought. When I first caught her staring, pretended not to notice and kept chopping. I thought the neurons might be firing, catching her up. But the moment she spoke, I knew. There was no recognition in her tone, no hint of happiness.
It’s only been sixteen years, Sasha. The least you could do is remember me.
But what did I expect? A sudden role-reversal from the town’s infamous prodigal daughter?
I should have known.
I did know, deep down. From the moment I first found the agreement in Pop’s old documents. I started work on this place right away because I knew she’d be no help — if she even bothered to show her face here. Now, weeks after I started in on this spot, already going through the basement and the worst of the foundations, Her Highness finally decides so show her face. And the first thing she does is try to kick me off the farm?
Adding insult to injury.
I shove it to the back of my mind. Doesn’t matter. I finish this job, then I get half the money for this place. It’ll be more than enough to finish the add-ons I want to make at Pop’s farm. More than enough to keep his legacy going, even though it’ll be one of the last family-owned farms left in this town.
Sasha Bluebell does not matter, I remind myself. Not one bit.
It doesn’t matter that she grew up even more stunning than she used to be at eleven, chasing me around this backyard with legs as long as a doe’s. It doesn’t matter that despite her fancy expensive designer clothes, she’s still got those curves I remember her showing hints of as a teenager, right before she left. Those sexy hips and full breasts, separated by a waist I would kill to wrap my hands around. Her lips; those look exactly the same. Those bowstring lips I used to close my eyes and picture every night from age ten on. And her eyes have gone a darker, deeper green. The kind of backyard, nature green you could lose yourself in for hours. I did, once. We used to lie in this very backyard at dusk and count bats. Then wait until moonrise and count stars instead. Only I’d count more than just stars. I’d count how many seconds I could get away with watching her before she turned her head and caught me. Before she’d scowl and swat my arm and tell me to stop being so weird.
Before our hands would brush, tangle, just for a second, and then she’d leap away again, change the subject.
I never knew if she thought the same things I did. I assumed so, I figured there was no way she couldn’t feel it too, the tension thrumming in the air between us, making the sweltering hot country summer nights even hotter with unspoken desire.
But I guess I was wrong. If she doesn’t even remember my name now, then, well…
I scowl and finish chopping the last round of wood I’ll need for the next few nights. I could commute from Pop’s, but it’s a long drive to make each way daily, especially when I want to be up and at it first thing here. I cleaned up the single bedroom and have been camping out in it since last week when I realized I’d need to ramp up my speed on this fixer-upper if I wanted to get her on the market before winter hits and does any more damage. It’s not that the house herself is doing bad — she’s got good bones underneath it all. But that’s not normally what potential buyers look at. It’s all first impressions with them, window dressing. So I need to do that up as nice as possible if I want to earn enough to keep Pop’s farm going.