Page 24 of Solitude

Three days of hard work just for it all to come crumbling down around me within mere minutes.

At the end of the day, I cannot allow myself to get wrapped up in the idea that Beckett Hale could see me as anything other than the girl next door. My heart wouldn’t survive that kind of hope.

That’s why I’mfocusedon being totallyunfocusedon Beckett.

But it’s Thursday, and I think the day must be unlucky. Nothing good happens on a Thursday now that I think about it.

It’s the first Thursday of the month though, which means it’s a community clean up day. It’s something Mrs. Betty and Mr. Taylor, our good mayor and Gus’ dad, insisted on once we started getting more tourists littering on the beaches and making a mess traveling through the town.

Mrs. Betty says it’s everyone’s responsibility who resides here to help keep our town looking nice and pristine.

I have participated in Thursday clean-ups for the last two years, and today is no different. Mrs. Betty knows that even if no one else comes to help her, at least I’ll always bethere. Cole usually swings by to help for a little while whether he’s on shift or not, with a couple of reluctant officers in tow.

There’s a pit in my stomach this morning, though. I can’t avoid the world forever, and my stomach is turning violently because I know I’ll see him today. I don’t know how I know, but I do.

And it’ll ruin all of my progress.

I scarf down a bowl of cereal and an apple, grab my travel mug of caramel flavored coffee, and run out of the door toward Main Street to meet Betty at the butt crack of dawn like every other Thursday during the last two years.

It never fails that I oversleep and have to rush to town, so I’m not leaving her sitting on her favorite bench tapping her foot impatiently. I didn’t even have time to wave to Old Man Jenkins as I passed through the cemetery.

Only this morning, my feet practically skid across the sidewalk as I come to a screeching halt in front of her and her group of volunteers; her eyes wide as coffee sloshes over my hand and onto my grey Magnolia Hollow Police Department t-shirt. There’s a hole in the collar from Cole wearing it out before giving it to me.

“Wow…” I whisper, leaning closer to where she’s doing the foot-tapping I try to avoid. “Lots of help this morning, huh, Betts?”

“Winnie!” Mrs. Betty greets me cheerily, as if she didn’t hear me and totally not fuming about the fact I’m six minutes late. She hops to her feet faster than should be possible at her old age and wags one of her bony fingers in myface with a smirk. “You’re always showing up right in the knick of time.”

I blink a few times and drag my eyes away from her curved lips to her dark eyes. Her smile is scaring me. “But I always show up.”

Betty grumbles, grabs her large tote from the ground, and slings it over her shoulder. “Could try being on time for once, but nonetheless, you’re here!”

“I don’t see you ripping Cole a new one for being late.”

“Cole is working, Winifred,” Mrs. Betty admonishes me with a light smack on the back of my head.

I rub the spot and let out a soft, “Ow.”

Mrs. Betty continues like she didn’t just assault me before I’ve even had time to finish my coffee. “Besides, Cole does too much around here. He’s a good boy. That one deserves a break.”

“I’ve been here for every clean-up,” I state, tucking a strand of my blonde hair behind my ear. “Doesn’t that mean I deserve a break?”

“No. Now come on. You’re wasting time by blabbing.”

“Yes ma’am,” I salute her and grin at the way she rolls her eyes.

She starts hobbling towards Mr. Taylor’s truck where she and the Mayor have laid out neon safety vests, gloves, and garbage bags in the bed of his truck for people to grab. There’s a small tub with various half used tubes of sunscreen and a couple of sweat-stained ball caps.

Grabbing a tube of sunscreen, I squirt a dollop in the palm of my hand then begin rubbing it onto my arms andneck. My arms stretch behind my head to rub choppily at the nape of my neck, and I sigh as I give up, continuing to spread the leftover lotion onto my hands and fingers.

“Need some help?” A voice speaks from behind me, and I startle as an arm darts around my hip, grazing my shirt, to grab the bottle of sunscreen I’d dropped to the bed of the truck.

I swallow as I shake my head. “No.”

“You sure?”

“Yup.”

Beck’s answering chuckle forces the dormant butterflies in my belly to take flight, fluttering around as I turn to face him.

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