Page 5 of From the Wreckage
I shake my head, toss a box of cereal into the cart, and head for the register.
The cashier launches into questions before I can brace for them. It starts with a “Hello. How are you?” and immediately descends into a million questions like I’m on a game show. I grab my phone, pretending it’s ringing, even though my contact list is empty.
I mumble to my imaginary caller while she rings me up. When she’s finished, I hand her the cash and escape the second she gives me my change.
Before heading home,I stop at the Lockwood Hardwarestore. The bell over the door chimes as I enter. The place smells like sawdust and oil. As I walk through it, aisles are crammed with everything from hammers to fishing lures.
I pick up a few things for repairs around the cabin—nails, sandpaper, lightbulbs, and some tools. And, yeah, I scan every damn aisle like an idiot, hoping for a glimpse of her.
At least the older man running the register stops his questioning after he asks if I’m new in town.
“No,” I say. Technically, it’s true. I live by Silverpine Lake, close to the stretch of shoreline, with one other cabin.
Silence descends over us as he scans my items.
My gaze drifts toward the big front windows without meaning to. A flash of red out the front windows catches my attention. A cherry-red Chevy Silverado rumbles past, the late afternoon sun bouncing off its polished hood. It’s the kind of truck you don’t see much anymore—old enough to have character and cared for enough to have kept it running for more than twenty years.
I can’t see the driver, yet for some reason, I watch until the truck eases down the street and out of sight before my focus returns to what I’m doing.
I shake it off, pay, and grab my stuff, then head for the door.
I loadmy supplies into the truck, then climb inside.
As I turn onto Main Street, my pulse picks up. My eyes flick over the sidewalks, waiting for a swing of dark hair, a flash of tanned legs, and a coffee in hand to appear.
I shake my head. This is ludicrous. I should go home, unload my groceries and supplies from the hardware store, and then work on the porch railing before it collapses.
Instead, I find myself parking my truck in front of The Pine & Page bookshop.
Inside, it smells like coffee and paperbacks. Bookshelves line the walls. Some of them create aisles, while others are pushed against the wall. Mismatched armchairs are scattered near the front windows, with a fireplace sitting across from them.
A couple of people glance up at me before going back to their books. I breathe out a sigh of relief as I head toward the counter and order a black coffee.
I take my time browsing the shelves, my eyes darting around at the patrons coming and going. I pretend I’m not looking for her, but I know I’m lying to myself.
I make it my mission to search every aisle and corner of the store. I even check the tables near the back where people read or study. But she’s nowhere to be found.
I stand in front of a shelf pretending to read the back cover of a mystery novel, wondering what the hell I’m doing.
I don’t know her. I don’t even know her name. For all I know, she’s got a boyfriend. Hell, maybe she’s even married.
Nothing can come of this. You’re too broken for her.
I put the book back, finish my coffee, and leave.
On the drive home, I tell myself I was getting to know the town.
But deep down, I know that’s a lie.
CHAPTER 4
Brielle
It’s Friday,and my Silverpine summer routine is in full swing. Today it’s morning coffee with Dad, running a few errands with him, and helping at the shop if he needs me.
I tag along while he makes some deliveries and picks up parts. The passenger seat of his cherry-red ’98 Chevy Silverado smells faintly like grease and leather, a scent I’ve known most of my life.
We end up atMillie’s Dinerfor lunch. It’s a charming place with its faded red booths and a pie display that could win awards. Dad’s been coming here for years, and sure enough, we’re barely seated before one of his regular customers spots him.
