Page 46 of Stick Break
What the hell? Wait, does he know who I really am? Is he trying to cover for me? He scrubs a hand down his face. No. He’s just babbling. But something is definitely going on with him.
“Yes, that must be it,” Mrs. Callahan says. “Rip here says you play guitar.”
“I do.” When exactly did the two talk about my musical resume?
“My great granddaughter is coming for a visit.” Warmth crosses her face as she beams. It’s easy to tell she loves her family, which brings hurt to my soul. I love mine too. I just don’t love the way they don’t believe me, or believe in me. “She’s seven, and has been asking for lessons.”
“Oh, that’s great. I bet she’ll love playing.” Wait, is she asking me to give lessons? I’m not sure but I quickly add, “I’m not certified to teach.”
She waves her hand. “Being able to play is all the certification one needs. She’s here for the next month.”
Jeez, pushy much.
“I’m only here until the end of next week,” I say, trying to sound casual and not like I’m already planning a fake relocation to Fiji.
“We’re planning to lay low for the week,” Rip jumps in with that same too-smooth, too-practiced tone. “We just want quiet time and privacy.”
She leans in, as if we’re co-conspirators and whispers, “Lots of people who vacation here are trying to lay low. Did you know Mr. Ford once stayed in that cottage?” She points down the beach.
I’m not sure which Ford she’s referring too, but I do get the sense that she’s telling us our identities and privacy will be protected her, and that gives me a measure of comfort. Although, if she knew I was Indie Rhodes, involved in the scandal, she’d be shooing me away from the beachside resort.
But seriously, maybe it would be nice to get out and socialize. Not that I’m not enjoying being locked up in the cabin with Rip. That’s been an unexpected highlight of this escape.
When she doesn’t look like she’s about to give up, Rip says, “But we’ve got a wedding to plan.”
I whip my head toward him so fast I nearly sprain something. I’m sorry, what now?
Wedding. He just said wedding.
The lie rolls off his tongue like he’s been rehearsing in the mirror all morning. Honestly, maybe he has.
“Oh, I can’t wait to hear all about it,” Mrs. Callahan beams, already ten steps ahead of this whole charade.
“Ah… sure,” I manage, which is the universal code for I have no idea what’s happening but I guess I live here now.
“Community dinner tonight,” she declares. Rip and I both open our mouths, probably to scream, but she steamrolls right past it. “It’s potluck. Bring a casserole and your guitar. Be there at five.” And just like that, she power-walks away like she didn’t just hijack our entire evening.
I stare at Rip, who’s staring back at me with the same expression I imagine people wear after being abducted by aliens.
“What just happened?” I ask.
He blinks, then shakes his head. “I’m not sure. Did we just get drafted into a community casserole cult?”
“Why exactly are we pretending to be engaged?” I ask, arms crossed.
He groans and sets a plastic bag on the table like it personally betrayed him. From the brown paper bag, he pulls out not one, but two boxes of condoms.
His cheeks flame red, and it’s so cute I briefly forget how fake-engaged I am. “And…?”
“She caught me buying them,” he mutters, like it’s a confession to a priest. “I panicked, okay? She made this disapproving face, and started going on about her great granddaughter visiting, and how this is a ‘respectable community’ and I swear to God, Charley—she said sexcapades. A little old lady with a blue hair threw the word sexcapades. At me. Like a weapon.”
“And?”
He shudders dramatically. “I blacked out. Words just started falling out of my mouth. It was either that or die in the pharmacy aisle. She even said something about me sullying up the place.”
“Am I sully?”
Doesn’t want to sully up the place, you know.
