Page 15 of Beg, Borrow, or Steal

FROM: Jack Bennett

TO: Emily Walker

DATE: Tue, May 28 2:10 PM

SUBJECT: E.T. phone home?

I offered for her to keep most of it—a clean slate sounded pretty nice.

Chapter Five

Jack

I’m not sure why I thought it would be a good idea to live in the house I’m going to renovate while it’s happening. It seemed like a no-brainer: I’m a bachelor. No kids. I can easily rough it in an old house for a few weeks during the summer amid some construction.

Except for one problem: I forgot that I’m high maintenance. As in, I like to be comfortable and surrounded by things that make that outcome possible. I’m not twenty anymore—and it shows. I didn’t feel like putting up a fight with Zoe to get half of our things in the breakup, so I just took the stuff she didn’t want anymore and had it shipped in a pod to the new house, where it will live in the front yard until construction is complete.

So for now, I’m only moving a few basics into my rotten, crusty house and keeping everything to my bedroom while they renovate the living room, bathroom, and kitchen. (The bathroom will still be usable while under construction—it just won’t be pretty.) Once they begin work on my room, I’ll move my stuff into the living room and sleep there for a while. Shouldn’t be difficult since literallyall I have right now is a desk and averytemporary twin-sized bed that I ordered online with next-day shipping. My clothes will remain in a suitcase.

I might as well be camping for how much I’m roughing it.

Darrell—my contractor—is stopping by later today so I can sign the contract, and then construction is set to start next Monday. I’ll have a functioning kitchen and walls that are not rotting around me in no time.

But today, I’m at the local market shopping for groceries that can be prepared without a kitchen. So far I’ve got crunchy peanut butter and bread. I take my grocery haul to the front of the store and silently unload all of my items onto the countertop. When I finally look up, I’m startled to find two people staring at me. An older woman, maybe in her early seventies, is behind the counter wearing a black dress with her gray hair tied back in a severe bun with skin so translucent I can see her blue veins. She’s watching me with an indistinguishable expression. And the other is a white middle-aged man with cargo shorts, rosy red cheeks, polo shirt, tall socks, and sneakers standing on this side of the checkout counter, leaned back against it, and surveying me openly.

“Hello,” I say hesitantly, because I am incredibly good at reading people’s moods—you can’t have a narcissistic father without becoming an expert in the art—but these people are giving out mixed signals. Almost looking like they want to talk to me but are equally concerned I might be about to rob the place. Have they seen the crunchy peanut butter? How threatening can a person be with a jar of peanut butter?

“Hi there.” The man’s eyes bob all over me, and then a small sad frown puckers between his brows. “I’m Phil—owner of the hardware store across the street. And this here is Harriet. She owns this market.”

“Nice to meet you both.” I’m still not sure what the weird vibes are about, but if there’s anything I’m excellent at, it’s winning someone over.

I smile and extend my hand to Phil because he looks like the kind of guy who would appreciate a nice firm handshake. My suspicions are confirmed when our hands meet and his eyes light up. “I’m Jack. I just moved into town, and I teach at the elementary school.”

“Oh, we know all about you, Jackson Bennett. Thirty-two years old, grew up in Evansville but just purchased Old Pete’s house. You’ve taught in the second grade alongside our Emily for the last three years, you drive a fancy-schmancy Land Rover, and your dad is the mystery writer Fredrick Bennett,” says Phil with startling accuracy.

Harriet is quick to add, “Don’t forget recently jilted by your bride. It’s really too bad.”

I try not to chafe at the (almost) thorough accounting of my life. Especially having my dad’s name dropped so casually into conversation. I knew word traveled fast around this town, but damn. I wouldn’t be surprised if they somehow also know I’m Ranger. And is it just me or did Harriet definitely smile when she saidit’s really too bad?

Normally, this is where I’d say something polite and flattering (read: distracting) and then I’d get out of here before they have a chance to ask me anything personal. I’ve always felt uncomfortable being known. It’s why writing under a pseudonym has worked so well for me. But part of my great awakening in Nebraska was realizing that I’ve kept myself hidden too much. It’s a harrowing feeling to look around and realize you don’t have a single friend to turn to in a hard time. That’s when I thought of Rome again.

I was happiest teaching here in this town and had envied the tight-knit community they all seemed to have. Originally I stayed living in Evansville when Bart asked me to come teach at the schoolbecause that was where I’d always been and it seemed easier to commute than pick up my life and move it. Also, if I’m being honest it was so I could look out for my mom—be nearby if she needed me.

Diana, my mom, didn’t come from a financially stable home, and so when she and my dad got married at a young age, she felt like he’d rescued her. She’s never been an adult without him, and I think that’s made her feel dependent on him. Which in turn lets him get away with talking down to her, expecting her to be there for his every need, and shutting her out when he doesn’t like something she’s said. Basically treating her like dirt.

I learned early on that I can’t fight with my dad or expect him to learn from his mistakes. He’s not a gracious person. I have, however, learned how to manage him. From time to time my mom, who is sweet to her core, calls or texts me to come defuse his mood. I liked to be nearby when situations like that would arise.

And then I met Zoe, who in no way wanted to move to this small a town, so the idea completely fell to the back burner until I found myself at a crossroads. But now that I’m here, I want to reallybehere. I want to make an effort to be part of the community. (I’ll still go when my mom needs me, though. I’m used to the hour commute at this point.)

The other reason I’m not rushing to leave this conversation, though, is because there’s one part in particular in Phil’s speech that snagged my curiosity even more than the rest.

“Thank you for your sympathy,” I tell Harriet with a playful smile, letting her know I picked up on her distinct lack of it. “Is Emily related to you all?” I look to them both.

“No,” Phil says simply, arms folded and looking disinclined to expound.

“Oh. It’s just…you saidourEmily.”

Unmistakable affection enters his eyes. “Emily was born and raised in this town. Her and each of her siblings. To those of us whohave been here since their birth, those Walker kids areours.Just not by blood.”

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