Page 32 of Over the Edge

“Yeah, tomorrow,” she says.

I gather my stuff and walk back from Evelyn’s in the dark, using the beam of my flashlight to guide my way. I’m careful not to flash it up toward the windows in case it could wake Alina. Caution is the same reason why I do my best to gingerly easeopen the ancient door as I enter the house so my return isn’t broadcasted from the wood creaking or the hinges squealing.

“I never thought I’d see the day where I’d get to find you sneaking back after seeing a girl,” Alina says from behind me, and I practically jump out of my skin, slamming the door behind me in the process.

“Shit,” I hiss, partly out of shock and partly because my foot rams into the wall sending a bolt of pain up my leg. I finish locking the door and then swivel to face Alina. She’s dressed in a floor length silk robe and has a cup of water in her hand that she slowly draws to her lips. “I’m not sneaking. I’m just being courteous.”

“Being courteous, I didn’t know that’s what they’re calling it nowadays. Make sure to call her when the sun is out. I’ve had the best night of my life with a man and then he didn’t call and I immediately took him off my list.”

“We’re not sleeping together.”

Alina huffs. “A missed opportunity. I set it up so well and you blew it.”

“I’m not talking about this with you. I’m going to bed.”

“Sex could be good for you. A distraction,” Alina continues her pestering. Sure, tonight was the first time in weeks I haven’t been fixated on leaving. But anything more besides a bit of songwriting between Evelyn and me is not even a possibility, no matter how appealing the thought of it is.

“Goodnight, Alina,” I say, doing my best to shut down a conversation that no one wants to have with their nosy seventy-year-old neighbor. I know if I let Alina go on any longer she’ll tell me far too much about her own exploits with scrapbooks used as visual aids.

I head to the guest room and sleep claims me the moment my head hits the pillow.

13

Evelyn

Build a Hemingway Shrine: Monday, 9 a.m. - 12:30 p.m. @ The gazebo

Iarrive ten—well, technically eleven—minutes late to find Garrett waiting for me next to the railing of the stairs that lead up to the gazebo.

It’s a sight that captures him so completely. Instead of looking relaxed, he’s still somehow alert and rigid. I’ve always thought of him as more predator than prey, but he has this alertness that reminds me of a deer ready to bolt at any moment. It doesn’t matter that his attention seems to be on his phone.

“If you’re on vacation you shouldn’t be doing work on your phone,” I tell him in lieu of greeting.

He slips his phone in the back pocket of his tan slacks. With the addition of his green linen button down, the vintage leather watch he always wears, and his glasses, he looks a little like ahandsome archeologist. Not the rugged Indiana Jones type, but a version more bookish than that.

His brows pinch together. “Care to explain what today’s activity entails?”

“I thought it was fairly straightforward,” I say without giving anything away.

“If you mean making a daiquiri at nine a.m. then buying Hemingway’s backlist, you might be out of luck. The bookstore’s classics section doesn’t extend beyond Bronte, Austen, and Shakespeare.”

“Let me guess, romance only?” I smile and turn to see if I can spot it from where we’re standing. Bound to You has the same idyllic whimsy as the rest of the shops with its large window display and blue trim. Cute as it is, it was never actually on today’s itinerary.

“Love stories and romance with a few thrillers and horror because of all the people who come in the fall,” he explains.

“That’s okay. I have a backup plan,” I say, already walking toward our actual destination.

The latticed metal of the cafe chair presses into the backs of my thighs. Per my request, we’ve been seated in the farthest corner of the outside patio of Butter Half with the other brunch goers.

There’s a range of other patrons from the couples in matching workout gear, who have likely been up for hours, to those in sweats and sunglasses that remind me of what I was like yesterday. I mean, it’s not like I’ve put in much more effort with today’s T-shirt that says,Ask me about my lobotomy, which I chose specifically in reference to the invite I sent him yesterday. Okay after I flung all my clothes on the floor, and it landed nearthe top. I’ve paired it with loose Levi’s I’ve worn so many times that the back pocket has faded with an imprint of my phone.

When our waitress comes by, I order a croissant sandwich and a pitcher of mimosas for the two of us. Garrett gets a loaded omelet. The waitress's eyes linger on him as he looks over the menu. He has that effect on people, and I’m not sure if he fails to notice or deems it beneath him to acknowledge. I guess that could be part of the allure for people. The unattainability of the perpetual bachelor.

“You could have had breakfast by yourself then grabbed me after,” Garrett gripes.

“I thought I told you to leave your pessimism at home?”

“It’s not pessimistic to ask for clarification,” he says.

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