Page 17 of Her Wild Coast Promise

The air leaves my lungs in a whoosh. From inside one of my grocery bags comes apop, pop. It’s two of my forty-seven cent eggs, crushed thanks to my death grip. A trickle of sweat slides down my temple.

Before I crack any more of my precious cargo, I spin on my heel and return to my car. I set the groceries tight against the wheel well in the hatchback, then march back to the house. The man yells at me to stop, but I ignore him. Though I’m not exactly sure what I’m doing, being in motion is helping me find a sense of purpose.

Is the house going to be condemned?

What if this is the only time I’ll be able to get my things?

Inside my place, I scrutinize each room, taking a mental inventory. If I work fast, I can pack my essentials into my car in an hour or less. The rest can wait. If I remember correctly, my renter’s insurance has a clause for this type of emergency. If I wasn’t unemployed, I would snag a room at the Freestone Inn and treat Libby and myself to their fancy brunch.

But I’m living on my last paycheck, maybe for months.

I get to work, and an hour later, with my clothes, toiletries, a few linens, a set of newer towels, and my favorite kitchen items in garbage bags stuffed into my car, I take one last glance at the cute place I’ve called home for three years. Wiping a tear from my eye, I turn the ignition and pull from the curb.

It takes me several miles of driving to realize I’m heading for Libby’s house, which makes no sense because she already gave up her place in preparation for her six-month teaching job in Costa Rica and is staying at her cousin’s.

This shouldn’t be cause for panic, yet I’m breathing so hard that my collarbones are tingling.

For a fleeting moment, I consider calling Doug. He would take me in, right?

Like a stray cat.

Ahead half a block at a crosswalk, a young couple checks both ways before stepping onto the street. The man hoists a little girl on his hip and the woman is laughing at something they’re talking about. An Irish Setter on a leather leash trots by her side. The soft sunlight seems to frame the family in golden glitter.

Tears burn my eyelids and I suck in a sob.

It’s as if the couple hear me because they turn my way, frowning.

I manage a wave, then brush the tears from my eyes.

Then I remember Doug’s Box Breathing video, and the tears trickle down my cheeks. Where did I go wrong? I shake out my fingers and exhale slowly. It’s going to be okay. I’m levelheaded, creative, hardworking. I will figure this out.

A honk from somewhere jolts me back to the present. I glare into my rearview mirror, but there’s no one behind me. Then I realize my phone is ringing.

The family melts into the neighborhood, like the whole thing was some kind of mirage. I dig my phone out of my purse and pull to the side of the road.

“Hello?” My voice is tense and low, like I’m groaning in pain.

“Cora?”

I blink at my surroundings: quiet street, tall trees, and distant mountains. “Seth?”

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Uh, no,” I lie, my breath hitching into my throat.

“How’ve you been?” he asks. Though his rich baritone makes my spine tingle, there’s something off about it.

“Pretty good,” I lie again and slump deeper into my seat. “How about you?”

He exhales a dry, panicky-sounding chuckle. “I’m in a bit of a jam, to be honest.”

“Oh.” I blink in surprise. For a man like Seth to admit this, it must be bad. “I’m sorry to hear that. Can I help?”

“That’s why I’m calling.” He draws a tight breath. “Noah said you might be interested in a, um, temporary job position.”

I fight my disappointment, even though Seth isn’t doing anything wrong. For one fleeting, joyful second, I thought maybe he’d called to ask me out. To tell me he’s been thinking about me and would I be interested in riding off into the sunset together.

Given my current state, I doubt I’d be able to resist.

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