Page 15 of Over the Edge

There are a few other messages as well as a few sets of numbers that I assume are the bets.

Garrett has a whole life I had no clue about, one full of people and places he’s never mentioned. The knowledge rocks through me, pushing me off balance.

“Why don’t you talk about this place?” I ask.

“It never came up,” he explains firmly as he starts to walk away from me and my question.

I match his stride and damn maybe I should have kept up with yoga if speed walking has me this winded. “And you conveniently made everyone you know believe you were from Tennessee. So, I don’t see how I’d think to ask. Do you hate this place or something?”

“I don’t hate Hartsfall. It’s all this.” He waves his hand around and as if to punctuate his point, the bell in the clocktower rings out over the square marking another engagement somewhere within the town limits. The wince that contorts his features is lightning quick, but I catch it.

“You hate love. How original,” I say.

“Though I don’t particularly seek out romance, I don’t hate love. But this isn’t love.” I can practically see him building up the walls to block me out as he talks. “This is a fantasy. Every issue you come here with? You’ll walk right out with it too, but with this delusional idea that it’s been fixed by a quick vacation. Relationships sure as hell aren’t built on a foundation of tourist traps.”

“Wow, tell me how you really feel. I bet you hate mall Santas too.”

“I do. The entire practice is creepy,” he agrees, regaining his usual impassive composure.

“Maybe you have a point about the mall Santas. But selling the fantasy of four guys singing love songs to predominantly female audiences, that’s okay in your book? Isn’t that the same thing?”

Millions of people have listened to him perform songs promising that there’s someone for everyone out there, that everyone will have their happy ending. I know fantasy is a part of entertainment, but it really pisses me off that he’s essentially writing off all the people that helped him earn millions.

“Of course it isn’t,” he says. “A proposal, that kind of shit is supposed to matter. Singing to thousands of people on stage isn’t exactly undying commitment.”

I catch myself running my thumb over my left ring finger then shove my hand deep into my pocket. I can’t think too hard about it. If I think about it, it means it was real when I do my best to pretend it isn't.

“Who are you to determine if this place matters to them or not?” I demand, my voice coming out sharper than I intend, but I’m losing my will to care. He doesn’t want to be here? Great. Let me give him a good reason to want to leave besides his superiority complex.

“Why are you worked up about this?” he asks. “It’s not like you expect me to be some sort of undying romantic. You know I’m not.”

That’s true enough. From what I’ve seen over the years, the public’s perception of him as an unattainable bachelor is spot on. He’s no playboy, like Wes, but he’s only ever spotted with this male model or that senator’s daughter a handful of times until he seems to lose interest.

“These people, in love or not, are here to have a good time. You have no right to judge them. Learn how to keep that chip you have on your shoulder to yourself,” I start. People like him get off on sucking the joy out of small things that bring others happiness. Sure, maybe I like to post pictures every time I get an overpriced Aperol Spritz with dinner, but it makes me happy, dammit. “And from how I see it right now, if I walk away from this tour, you’re the only one who has something to lose.”

Garrett’s jaw works as he considers. “I’ll put more effort into the rest of the tour.”

“You’re not getting off that easy. You still owe me for the move.”

“If I put on my best impression of an underpaid college tour guide can we let it go.”

“As if you could ever have that much pep,” I counter.

“Okay, a very calm, semi-disinterested college tour guide,” he corrects.

“That’s a step up from what you’re doing now.” Out of the corner of my eye I spot a woman wriggling into an oversized sweater from one of the strategically placed tourist gift shops. “Let me add one more thing to those terms, then yes.”

As we leave the gift shop, I hand Garrett my phone so he can take a picture of us in our new matching T-shirts that sayYou never stop falling in Hartsfall. I made sure to look over all the options to find the one that will be the best retribution. The vibrant pink on pink combo was obviously the best choice.

I step in front of Garrett while he takes a moment to adjust the settings on the phone then tests the angle of the camera with his outstretched arm. After the first picture, he checks then takes a few more. It's almost cute how much effort he’s putting into something that makes him look constipated.

“I don’t get the point of this,” he says as he gives me back my phone, which is now loaded with pictures that might be considered blackmail worthy.

I give him a purposefully suggestive once over. “I have a thing for men in novelty tourist shirts. This is a big turn on for me.”

“I’ll make sure to never wear them around you so you don’t get the wrong idea.” He grimaces and looks past me but there’s the slightest tinge of pink that reaches the tips of his ears. “So now that your overt attempt at public humiliation is underway, can we finish the tour?”

“Yes, but for my next stipulation. Show me something you can’t find on a travel blog or a tourism page. If you dislike the tourist stuff so much, show me something you actually like.” Who knows when I’ll have another chance to learn more about Garrett, so I’m going to take this opportunity while I can.

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