Page 8 of Wildest Dreams

“I’m fine, I promise. But I’m about to tell you something that you absolutely cannot tell anyone.”

“Please tell me you finally killed F-er,” she says with a too-big smile.

“No, I did not kill Tucker.”

“Burned his house down?”

“No.”

“Keyed his truck?”

“Patsy,” I say, my tone curt.

She sighs. “Fine. A girl can dream.”

“Of violence?”

“Only to those who deserve it.”

We reach the table farthest from other people and sit down.

“You’re not going to believe what happened this morning.”

“Oh my god. Please tell me this is about the mystery man renting your house!”

I open my mouth, then pause. The words stick in my mouth as she raises her eyebrows in anticipation. It’s like I don’t even believe what happened a mere hour ago.

She grabs my hand. “Out with it! The suspense is killing me!”

“Okay. So, I met the person renting my house.”

Her face lit up. “Is it someone famous?”

“Oh yeah. This must be a huge movie.”

“Who is it?”

“You cannot tell a soul. Not even your mother.”

“I promise, I promise!”

I look around to make sure we’re still alone. “It’s Pierre Chatham.”

I swear she stops breathing for a solid thirty seconds.

“Pierre f-ing Chatham,” she whispers.

“Yes.”

“THE Pierre f-ing Chatham.” This time she’s a bit louder, so I gesture for her to lower her volume.

“Yes.”

Then she squeals the loudest, highest pitch a human can make, eliciting stares from people walking nearby and a kid in the adjacent outfield.

“Ssssshhh! I told you to keep it quiet. You seriously cannot tell anyone. I can’t have people showing up at the house and stalking him.”

“I knew I should’ve put a camera in that house.”

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