Page 15 of Audiophile

“Yes. I’m passing through.” I pass over my license and credit card, emotionally exhausted. I need a nap and a plan. “If you have one with a kitchenette that would be great. I’m tired of fast food.”

“Sure thing, Reed Alexander,” she reads as she types my name into the system. “I’ll set you up in a corner suite as a complimentary upgrade. My name is Tina, if you need anything during your stay.”

“Thank you.” From all the signs around town, tourism in this area is bustling during both summer and snowy weather, but the sleet coming down outside isn’t inviting for outdoor activities. No wonder the parking lot was bare. Tina helpfully points out nearby restaurants, sightseeing places, and things to do nearby before she hands me my room key.

“Any good Italian food around?” I ask, aiming for nonchalance. If Swift River is anything like Coralville, gossip travels on a breeze. If the receptionist is anything like Ray, she’ll offer up Petra’s social security number before dinner. It’s disturbing what people will give away.

“Bella Vitais the best! It’s only four signals, left on Mulberry, right on Seventh. Mrs. Diamante’s stuffed shells are amazing.”

Petra Diamante.Petra’s name is different, quirky, and oddly charming—like her short, bright laugh. Before she shut down, anyway. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Tina.”

I haul my bags and recording equipment up to the room. My stomach churns over my decision to stay the night. I’m fighting months of instinct that is telling me to run, and for what? I dump everything on the table and sink down onto the striped, cream sofa—dying to call Holly, refusing to call Amanda. Holly wouldn’t answer and Amanda would think I’m insane.

“Why are you putting yourself through this?”Amanda would tell me.“You made a mistake and you owned up to it. Case closed. Come home, where I can be here for you.”

I press my hand to the black ink on my forearm, covering a wound that may never heal. My only visible scar from a night that ruined my life. But I refuse to let Kinley infect me. I refuse to move back to Iowa. To let my paranoia ruin all my interactions, or assume anyone I meet will fuck me over in a monumental way.

I want to do more than exist. I want tolive. I just needed Petra’s words to wake me up. To remind me.

Maybe I can return the favor.

Chapter seven

Petra

I spend all afternoonon autopilot. I should be angry with Reed, or embarrassed that he read something incredibly personal. But I’m…empty.

There are short moments when I remember Reed’s voice in my ear, or his fingers on my jaw, and they make the gray of the grocery store less gloomy and more panic-inducing. The memories make my skin tingle. It’s unsettling after being numb for years.

The end of my shift doesn’t come quickly enough. I clock out, tucking my book deep into my bag to protect it from the rain. I’m distracted—searching for my keys as I walk out the doors—and run smack into a warm, hard body.

“Shit!” I exclaim as I dip toward the sidewalk. A steadying arm wraps around my waist, and my face brushes against soft petals as I peel myself away. “Oh no, your flowers—”

“They’re actually yours.” When I glance up, it’s into warm, amber eyes. He’s not Thor, but my stomach still clenches at the sight of him. Reed isn’t much taller than me, but his confidence makes him appear that way, and his square face is undeniably handsome up close. It’s like loving a book character and seeing a film adaptation that’s entirely different, yet somehow even hotter.

“You’re here again? How many groceries do you need?” I ask. He half-smiles until his dimple appears. He steadies me, and when his hand slips from my waist, heat flashes through me. I hope it’s not displayed all over my face that I wrote a fantasy of him pressing me against the cold wall of the loading docklast night.

He straightens up and clears his throat before offering me the bouquet. “An apology. Or a reminder that someone cares. Or both of those, plus an additional apology for overstepping further this afternoon.”

His skin has a green tinge to it, as though he’s going to be sick over it. Maybe I should be angry about what he did, but Reed only knows me through my own words. This town treats gossiping as a career and avoiding mention of my depression as a hobby. He’s not taking part in either of those, and it’s refreshing.

The bouquet is gorgeous, and there’s no lasting damage from where my face smashed into it. Blossoms of hydrangea and ranunculus in subtle creams, vivid oranges, yellows, and pinks, remind me of summer sunsets over LA beaches. I take a deep breath, and the soft scent of hydrangeas mixes with the rain. I love them, but I pass them back. “You already apologized. I don’t know why you keep coming back, but I’ve got too much baggage to jump into bed with you because of a bouquet—obviously. It’s nothing against you.”

He smiles, but it’s sad, and refuses to take back the flowers. “I have an entire house full of baggage. I’m not trying to sleep with you, Petra, but my baggage is lighter when I talk to you. You make me forget all about it.”

I snort, but he’s worming his way into my good graces. The tingling sensation is back, reviving dead parts of me. “If you’d told me that this afternoon, rather than scar Mrs. Fitzgerald by discussing my vagina—”

He smiles, and this time it’s more real. “You did that all on your own.”

“Then I might’ve been more receptive to flowers.”

He nods as he stuffs his hands in his coat pockets. “What about now? Too late?”

I size him up. Guaranteed, he’s trying to get in my pants, but I can’t deny that’s flattering. Especially when the ranunculus in my arms bring color to my gray world. “How long are you in town?”

He shrugs a shoulder in a failed attempt at nonchalance. “I wasn’t planning on coming back when I drove through the other day.”

There it is. “I’m going to make this crystal clear. If you’re trying to hook up with me, I’m not doing that.”

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