Well Played, стр. 15
Then again, I get a little twitchy during those couple months every year that I’m home in Michigan. Restless. Then I’m packing and unpacking my shit, wondering if I can travel leaner, lighter, during the next round of faires. So maybe I don’t want that down-home kind of life as much as I think.
Am I wrong, Anastasia? There must be a reason that you stayed in a small town like Willow Creek. Tell me what I’m missing about small-town life. Besides you. Which, let’s face it, might be reason enough to convince me.
Well.
My heart pounded at those last couple sentences. I couldn’t believe this. Dex MacLean, who had a new wench at every faire, missed me. He thought I would be a reason to settle in one town. I flipped back to the tagged picture of him from our Faire, which I had downloaded to my laptop. I took my time savoring him. His smile, free and open and just a little naughty. The strong column of his throat and hint of chest disappearing into the loose linen shirt. Strong corded forearms; long, nimble fingers coaxing music from his guitar.
I studied his face with the new knowledge of this email I’d received, and I felt a twinge of guilt. I’d severely misjudged him, thinking he was just a fun piece of man candy for a couple weeks. No, Dex was the complete package: gorgeous as hell, but smart and sensitive at the same time. Why hadn’t he shown me this side of him when we were together?
Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I hadn’t let him in until I’d sent that first message. But he’d certainly let me know that it wasn’t too late.
Good job, Drunk Stacey. Maybe you didn’t screw up so badly after all.
Five
To: Dex MacLean
From: Stacey Lindholm
Date: September 4, 7:37 p.m.
Subject: Re: Re: My Real Name
I didn’t exactly stay in Willow Creek by choice. Some of us choose to settle in small towns; some of us have settling in small towns thrust upon us.
Let me back up.
When I graduated from college with a degree in fashion merchandising, I was so excited. I had a future. A job: my advisor had, by way of a well-worded recommendation letter, paved the way to an entry-level job in New York with one of the bigger department stores. A place to live: okay, it was with three roommates, and I was relatively sure that my future bedroom had originally been a closet, but it was in New York. I was on my way to everything I’d ever wanted. Independence. Excitement. My life was about to begin.
I only had one more carload of stuff to move to New York when Mom had her first heart attack.
I didn’t even get to start the job. I put them off, and for a few weeks they were even nice about it. But when Mom ended up needing surgery—the scary kind, with words like “bypass” and “quadruple”—those weeks stretched into months. I couldn’t imagine trying to start a new life and a new job away from home while worrying about Mom and her recovery. The job offer disintegrated. My New York roommates found someone else to sleep in their closet. I got the message: you’re not going anywhere.
It’s not all bad, but I think one reason it seems so compelling to you is because it’s a novelty. Something you don’t experience. Because if you lived it, if you were born and raised in a nowhere place like Willow Creek, you would think very, very differently.
I’ll admit that it’s kind of nice to be where everyone knows you. But at the same time, everyone knows you. Did you go through that rebellious teenage phase? I’m sure you did, you have that look. Not me. Imagine trying to pull some shenanigans when not only are you risking arrest, you’re risking your mother knowing what’s going on before the cops do. Believe me, overprotective moms are scarier than the prospect of getting arrested.
Also, I’m not sure how I feel about you calling me Anastasia. Literally no one calls me that. Except for teachers on the first day of school, which was a while back.
“What are you working on, honey?”
“Nothing,” I said automatically, and closed my laptop before she could see the screen. I looked up as Mom came into the kitchen and immediately snapped into diagnosis mode. I’d become very observant these last few years when it came to my mother and her health. She’d looked fine earlier when I’d come down to the house to have dinner with my parents—her meatloaf was not to be missed. But now her eyes looked fatigued, and her complexion had a dull cast to it that I didn’t like at all. “You okay? You look tired.”
“Thanks.” Her eyebrows went up. “Just what every woman wants to hear.”
I tsked at her. “You know what I mean, Mom. Did you overdo it today?”
“I’ve had a couple rough nights.” She ducked into the pantry and came out with a bag of microwave popcorn. “Nothing worth worrying about.”
“Rough nights?” My voice was sharper than I’d intended, but she couldn’t just wave off something like that. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I’ve had a little insomnia, that’s all. Cut it out. I’m fine. You’re as bad as your father.” After starting the popcorn, she came over and kissed the top of my head as if I were seven—in her eyes I probably still was. She nodded at the still-closed laptop. “So what are you working on?”
“Nothing. Just . . . just an email.” I felt my cheeks heat with guilt, as though she somehow knew I’d been writing about her. I tried to come up with something, anything, to change the subject. “I’m going to the grocery store tomorrow after work if you need anything.”
“Some more milk would be great, if you’re going to be there anyway.”
“Sure.” Behind me, little pops started coming from the microwave, quickly followed by the smell of