Page 21 of The Trouble with Players

I considered what he said about expecting me to be gone for the summer. Maybe I had surprised them. Maybe I had appeared to them a little crazy. But come on. Who wants to ever walk in on that?

“Why’d you come back early, anyway?” he asked.

“It was a mistake.”

“Because I’m here or for other reasons?”

I yawned. “Both.”

Mr. Talking’s Overrated finally reached his quota—or he didn’t like my answer—because he said nothing else.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Persistent knocking echoed from the front door. I moved from the kitchen down the first-floor hallway to the door and pulled it open. A woman and a small girl stood hand in hand staring at me. Neither smiled. Neither looked familiar. “Can I help you?” I asked.

“We’re looking for Marty Richmond,” the woman said.

“Can I tell him who’s here?” I asked.

“Tell him Misty from San Diego.”

A pit formed in my stomach. “No last name?”

“He’ll know,” she assured me.

“Peyton?” a deep voice from somewhere far away called.

“Why will he know?” I asked her.

Misty’s eyes cut to the little girl beside her.

“Peyton?” the deep voice repeated, trying to get me out of that hallway.

“Why will he know?” I asked, the desperation in my voice impossible to disguise.

“Peyton, wake up,” Crew said, shaking me.

My eyes popped open. Sweat beaded to my hairline and tears glazed my eyes as the auburn hues of dawn filled my room.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

I nodded, though I knew I was far from it.

“It was just a dream,” he assured me.

His assurance that it was only a dream couldn’t erase the memory of that day. Nothing could. Because the truth was, it wasn’t just a dream. It was how it all played out last summer. But Misty wasn’t the woman who’d shown up. One night it was Candy from Minnesota. Other times it was Angel from Colorado. Sometimes Vikki from Boston. Or even Santana from New York. My subconscious was telling me there were more women. But the little girl was always the same. Those haunting blue eyes belonged to my father. “I…” I choked on the word. “It was nothing.”

“It didn’t sound that way.”

I closed my eyes; I didn’t want him to see me that way.

“Do you remember what it was about?” he pried.

“No,” I lied, quickly rolling off the bed and onto my feet. “I’ve gotta go,” I said as I took off for the door.

“Wait!” he called.

But, I was already gone, feeling uncomfortable and vulnerable and nauseous. I didn’t want him consoling me. I was tougher than that.

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