“Then today it seemed like you were sort of trying to have my back by not saying who I was,” he said, carrying on as if I hadn’t spoken.
“There was no ‘sort of’ about it, I totally had your back. You’re welcome,” I said. “Though you should enjoy it while you can. Word will get around about you eventually.”
The furrows upon his handsome brow were beyond count.
“You might have been better off trying to hide in a big city, with a face as famous as yours . . .”
He licked his lips, like he was about to say something, only nothing came out. A perplexed expression crossed his face. Finally he confessed, “People have been leaving food at my door all day.”
“You didn’t answer when they knocked?” I asked, amused.
He shrugged.
“Did you actually hide behind a couch or—”
“No. Of course not. I just didn’t answer.”
“You can relax. It’s not a coordinated attack. They’re just welcoming you to town. And yeah, maybe they’re a little curious about you. But there’s nothing particularly nefarious going on.” I smiled. “Though if you opened the door, one of them would have recognized you. Famous people aren’t the norm around here. You likely won’t stay anonymous for long. Unless you’re willing to become a shut-in for the rest of your life, like Miss Havisham.”
“Who?”
“She’s a character in a book,” I explained. “Look on the bright side: with all that food you won’t have to live on peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and ramen noodles. That’s a plus, right?”
He wasn’t convinced.
“Don’t they welcome people to the neighborhood in Beverly Hills?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “Never lived there.”
Then his gaze wandered down me and paused on my chest, before darting away. No bra. A veritable booby trap. But he was the one who knocked on my door. I would feel no shame. I refused to. Though I did immediately cross my arms over my chest—for nipple-related reasons.
He cleared his throat. “I came here to get some peace.”
“When you finish the food, you can give the dishes to me and I’ll return them to their owners. That should buy you a little more time.”
“Thanks.” He paused. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Do you need to know my name?”
“Is everything always this hard with you?”
I pondered the question. “No. Not everything. But you put me on the defensive. I think it’s that line between your brows when you look at me. It’s so judgy.”
He snorted. “But you like my band.”
“I like a lot of bands.”
He almost smiled. It was close.
Approximately a million questions sat on the tip of my tongue. But I didn’t ask even one. “My name is Ani.”
“Ani.” He nodded. “Nice to meet you.”
“Welcome to Wildwood, Garrett.”
Without another word, he turned and headed for home. There was something wary about the set of his shoulders as he disappeared off into the darkness. Made me wonder if he actually enjoyed being on his own, in that big old house. But, the truth is, you could surround yourself with people and still be alone.
Work began the next day on a fence around his yard. A tall stone one with a decorative iron gate and inserts. There were even spikes on the top. It went up faster than I thought possible. Next came the van with a security company logo on the side. The rock star made himself a veritable stronghold on the edge of our small town.
“Oh, that is such bullshit.”
“You sit down now, Maria, or I’ll be taking a point off your team.” Heather banged her gavel against the table. “The paper says Stevie Nicks.”
“Everyone knows the first woman ever inducted into the hall of fame was Aretha Franklin.” Maria took a pull on her beer. “This is ridiculous. Stevie was the first woman to be inducted twice. Get your facts straight.”
“She’s right, Heather,” said Harry, who sat at the bar. When he wasn’t inebriated and performing at midnight on Main Street, his musical knowledge was legendary. “Aretha Franklin was first.”
Heather just rubbed her temple.
Trivia nights at the bar often got heated. The week before, a passionate debate involving much finger pointing broke out over which year construction started on the Empire State Building. It was 1930, by the way.
The local population was an interesting mix. It consisted of free-loving hippies, serious-faced flannel-wearing types, and assorted others. And despite protestations from some regarding world peace, a competitive streak ran through the town a mile wide. That’s why the county sheriff banned any betting on pool games. Too many fistfights. Bingo was also right out. The last time it had been played, there’d been a veritable bloodbath.
I sat at a table with my good friends, who just so happened to be my trivia night group. We called ourselves The Matriarchy Monsters and we often won trivia night.
The bar was what you’d expect. Lots of wood and the occasional dead animal head. But the food was good and the drinks reasonably priced. It was comfortable. It was ours.