Page 65 of Lovetown, USA
Her hand finds mine. She laces her fingers through my fingers, using her other hand to flip the corner of the blanket over her legs.
“You cold, baby girl?” I murmur in her ear.
“I’m good.”
I wanna tell her I’ll strip myself naked right here and dress her in my clothes if she needed warmth, but I keep my mouth shut. Instead, I close my eyes and hold her tight, not letting go until the credits start to roll.
When the stadium lights come on, I help Cinderella to her feet, then set about gathering our things while she stretches. I’m folding our blanket when a woman approaches, hesitant.
“Dr. Montgomery?”
“Yes?”
She smiles timidly. “Do you remember me? We met at the blood drive a few months back. I had my father with me. Real tall like you.”
“Ms. Jocelyn.”
She beams at that as I reach out for a hug. I try not to ever forget a face. Behind Jocelyn, Lane watches us curiously.
After we part, she gets serious. “My father is…he’s not doing well. He lost his insurance a while back, and—“
“Bring him to me,” I gently interrupt. “Any day next week. I’ll squeeze him in.”
“But—“
“I got you,” I say. “Next week.”
Her eyes widen with relief. “Thank you so much. I wasn’t asking for that, by the way. I just wanted some advice.”
“It’s okay. I’ll see you next week.”
When she leaves, Lane studies me, her lips set in a tense line.
“That’s why I wanna open my clinic,” I say. “I never wanna see another person’s health deteriorate because they can’t afford care. It’s fucking ridiculous.”
I stop talking before I go on a rant. I’m known to do that, and I don’t want to turn her off. But she just nods thoughtfully. Doesn’t look disturbed at all.
As I look at her, I can’t shake the feeling that I need her. For the clinic and this whole deal with Daphne, yes, but in another way, as well. And I don’t like that. My motives feel twisted in ways that make me uncomfortable.
This might not end well.
21
Lane
I’ve been in thecounty tax assessor’s office for over an hour flipping through dusty spreadsheets, property rolls, and enough property tax records to make my eyes cross.
My coffee’s been cold for a while now, but my instinct is hot. There’s something in these pages, I can feel it.
The clerk behind the counter has yawned so many times I’ve lost count. His yawns and the hum of fluorescent lights above are the only sounds I’ve heard since I’ve been here.
There are sounds in my head, though, and they sound like Trey. I hate to admit it, but I’m feening for that tall man. The other night, after the movie, he took me back to the hotel and dropped me off. He said he had some work to do. I pretended like I understood, but I was pissed. I wanted him.
I still want him.
I angle my head from side to side until my neck cracks, then stretch my back. I need to focus. Research is boring and tedious, and often sedentary. But I press on.
It’s my tenacity that gave me the ability to write the stories I used to tackle. The chemical plant coverup in Carter, Georgia. The investigation I did on underfunded women’s shelters. That one won me the Franklin Award for Investigative Journalism. Then there was my piece on financial mismanagement in a chain of charter schools. That one got me recognized by the governor.
