Page 18 of Somewhere You Belong

Penn raises an eyebrow, a spark of amusement in his eyes as he steps back and shuts my trunk. “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yes. Bring your toolbelt, or whatever else it is you need, please.”

That comment makes him smile. “I’ll be ready.”

“Thank you again…forallof your help.”

“Oh, I haven’t done anything yet, Willow.”

“Yes, but I can already tell that you’ll be able to help me get out of here quicker than I would on my own.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “Why are you in such a hurry to leave?”

“Because there’s nothing for me here,” I mutter, and then catch myself. Walking around to the driver’s side of my car, I effectively end the conversation and prepare to drive off as Penn watches me from the sidewalk.

But the way he studies me has me feeling even more uneasy. All I need is for him to help me fix the house and then I can move on. I’m not looking for friends or for anyone’s opinion. All I want is to get back to my life. To what I know.

When I arrive at the house, I park in the back on the gravel driveway and begin unloading the bags from my trunk, placing them all on the kitchen counter. Once everything’s inside, I start to unpack the sponges, buckets, and bottles of bleach and Lysol that I know will be put to good use.

But as I empty the last bag, a magnet falls to the counter.

I pick up the ceramic anchor, the deep brown paint to mimic wood on the symbol standing out against the dark blue and white lettering in the name of the little town. It’s so trivial, useless and unnecessary to a person like me, but nonetheless, I find myself walking over to the fridge and placing the magnet in the top righthand corner. I stand back, studying the trinket that makes the house feel more like a home.

But this isn’t home.

Could it be though, Willow?

Shaking off the convoluted thought and the feelings accompanying it, I realize I forgot my purse in my car, so I head back out to fetch it. With only a few steps out of the door, I hear a noise so foreign to me it has me pausing in my footsteps. But then it stops, so I wearily continue down the path to my car.

“What the hell?” I twist my head toward the sound just as it rings out again, but this time there’s no missing the source of the noise. “Oh my God!”

“HONK!”

A goose emerges from the bushes by my car, light gray all over except for its black neck and white spots around its eyes. It stands there, turning its head so that it can see me before opening its black bill and honking at me again. Fear kicks in, and before I can think otherwise, I turn back around, forgetting my purse entirely.

As fast as my legs will carry me, I sprint back toward the house as the goose continues to honk at me, closing the distance between us faster than I expected.

“Son of a bitch!” I twist to see the bird waddling after me, honking such jarring and drawn-out calls that I almost run into the side of the house. I sidestep to avoid the collision and race up the steps that put me on the wraparound porch leading to the front door.

Another honk rings out, and then I notice that the goose has a friend that’s joined in on the chase, forcing me to hustle even faster as my hand lands on the doorknob. But as I twist the knob, the door won’t budge.

“Come on!” I shout at no one but myself, throwing my body weight against the door, having no luck. My eyes dart over to the side of the house just as the two geese come around the corner, honking at me still. “Oh my God! Get away! Go! Shoo!” I kick my foot in their direction as I continue to wrestle with the door.

I take back my earlier assumption about the Inn.

Thisis how I’m going to die.

I can see the article headline now:Death by Geese. Willow Marshall, multimillion-dollar advertising mogul, died tragically by goose attack. All they could identify her by were her teeth. Those birds tore her to pieces.

Sweat drips down the side of my face as I push against the door with every ounce of strength I can muster. I make the mistake of looking back and see the geese beginning to climb the steps, determination in their beady little eyes.

They’re contemplating my murder, I just know it.

I can’t go out like this.

Finally, after one final shove of my shoulder against the door, it creaks open and I dart inside, slamming it shut behind me and locking it—safe at last from the feathered assassins.

“Shit.” I lean against the door with my back to it, closing my eyes while I fight to get my breathing under control. “Get a new doorknob and some WD-40,” I mutter out loud, reminding myself to add it to the to-do list while I stand there, waiting for my heart rate to return to normal.

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