Page 2 of Bullied Pretend Mate
Regards,
Phillip Stone
Sr. Attorney, FLA
I’d had to read the thing twice, blinking hard to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating the message. Firstly, I was shocked that my grandmother had even remembered who I was. Second, I was shocked that she cared. That I was listed on a document somewhere to be contacted after her death.
None of my family members had even reached out to tell me she was sick. If sheweresick, maybe they didn’t know either. I still have no idea how she passed.
Swallowing down the feelings rising up in my throat, I force myself to take a step forward, and another, until I’m standing at the front door, staring through the little glass pane at the top.
Inside looks exactly like I remember—the long hallway leading in, the living room to the left, the kitchen just behind it. The staircase leading to the second story is beside the front door. To the right of that is the large dining room with family portraits.
Fresh flowers are wilting on the entry table.
I jerk back from looking through the window and turn around, walking to my Jeep. I can’t stay here—I just wanted to come and look. See if I could get some amount of closure from seeing this place one last time.
“I can leave whenever I want,” I mutter under my breath, knowing I’m going to need a thousand more therapy sessions to deal with the stress of coming back here.
Hopping back into the Jeep, I grab the seat belt and click it into place, not even letting myself relax in the seat before I throw the truck into reverse and hurry back the way I came.
***
There is a motel in Silverville, but there’s no way in hell I’m staying there. Instead, I’ve booked an Airbnb for a couple of nights.
What’s nice about it is that it’s gorgeous, a little two-story house tucked right between the old firehouse—now turned stationary store—and the bakery. Right across from where I’m staying is the Silverville market, where they’re currently having the farmers market, and a large green space with a little stage. Two guys stand up there with guitars, and I realize they’re setting up to play some music.
It’s nice. Outsiders might think Silverville is the perfect little town, a beautiful place to grow up.
I even saw a newspaper this morning that said the town has enjoyed its longest stretch without fires since the original incident.
When I think of the word—incident—it makes me shiver. It’s the word I’ve used in my head for years to encompass everything that happened that night, everything that happened in the following days.
The five of us are out on that ridge together. Valerie running. Aurela is getting off without even so much as a slap on the wrist. Phina and I are here, taking the brunt of the punishment.
And Tara vanishes, as though she never existed at all.
A few days before I left Silverville for good, I’d wandered around the charred, wrecked ground, looking for her bones. I’d learn later that the fire had been hot enough to turn her bones to nothing but ash. A fine, shifting silver dust that would come to coat the entire town, fluttering down through the sky like edible glitter dropped into a cocktail.
Like we were living in a snow globe.
It only added to the feeling of being trapped, and I couldn’t get out of here fast enough.
I grab my suitcase and haul it up out of the back of my Jeep, darting my gaze left and right before hurrying to the Airbnb door, punching in the code I got from the owner, and dragging my bag up the stairs.
The place is just as cute inside, and I decide to set my mind to work. Taking out the ring light, I set it up, check angles, and retake photos. It helps me forget about what I’m doing, where I am.
Until dinnertime rolls around, and I realize I’m starving. I can smell roasted tomatoes, garlic, and basil floating in from the restaurant next door.
Once a cheap pizza-by-the-slice kind of place, they’ve seemed to up their game now, offering sit-down service and pasta, a whole assortment of Italian treats. I want nothing more than to grab my bag and a book and walk down there, to settle in and treat myself to an eggplant parmesan.
But there’s only one problem—the musicians in the park have drawn a crowd. Sunday night has brought with it families and groups of teenagers, along with women walking in their sundresses, taking advantage of the unseasonably warm spring night.
“I am not going to hide,” I whisper, shaking my head, standing up, and shaking out my entire body. This place has made me feel ashamed for far too long, especially about something that wasn’t my fault.
It wasn’t any of our faults.
I stop to look in the mirror, touching up my lipstick and fluffing up my hair before I grab my purse—with a paperback inside—and head over to the little restaurant.
