Page 31 of Tourist Trap

Plus, a world full of grumpy assholes trying to make ends meet would be a pretty miserable place.

She doesn’t reply instantly, and I keep staring at my phone, more responses coming to mind. Most of them I manage to stop from saying, but one makes it through my raised guard.

The world needs more Claires in it.

That one, she responds to too quickly.

Even yours?

I don’t answer for a long time, trying to figure out just what to say, how to respond, if Ishouldrespond. Then I realize I have to get back to the shop, so I type a response without thinking too hard and hit send.

Especially mine.

On my way home from work, I make a stop at the grocery store. Claire isn’t around when I get home, so I set my purchases on the counter before grabbing a pen and the yellow paper on the fridge.

When I leave to take a shower, I leave six different kinds of cereal in brightly-colored boxes on the counter, and theMiles and Claire’s list of things to have funon top.

At the bottom, I added an item.

Have a fun breakfast with Claire.

TWELVE

CLAIRE

It’s dark when my name is whispered in a dream, half waking me.

“Claire,” the voice repeats, but I snuggle deeper into my blanket, turning away.

“Claire,” it says again, louder, and a part of me recognizes then that this is not a dream, especially when a hand touches my shoulder, shaking me gently.

“Go away,” I grumble, turning away from the hand. “Sleepin’.”

A deep chuckle fills the room, and with it, my body stills. Even in this hardly awake state, I recognize that laugh.

“Claire, come on,” the voice says again, this time losing the quiet whisper, and suddenly, sleep is leaving my body. I look over my shoulder, one eye squinting to see Miles Miller hovering over my bed, his smile wide.

I must be dreaming.

There are so many reasons this has to be some kind of dream, but mostly because Miles is smiling at me.

“Miles?”

“Come on,” he says one last time, stepping away from me and tipping his head to the door.

My eyes shift from him, dressed in a pair of loose shorts and a Miller Automotive T-shirt, then to the windows where I actually remembered to close the blinds last night. But there isn’t sun leaking through the cracks, so I move back to him in confusion.

“It’s dark out,” I say, stating the obvious as I sit up in the center of my bed. He smiles so wide I wonder if there might be something wrong with him.

“Not for long.”

“What?”

“Just come on, Claire,” he urges, seeming to lose patience.

I look at him, at his genuinely pleading face, before I sigh, rolling and shifting until my feet touch the ground. That’s when I see the time.

“Five a.m., Miles? Are you fucking with me?”

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