Late Night Visitor: Yes … if he gets an exclusive on our relationship … I’m sorry.
Dammit. Panic flooded my system again. Part of me wanted to end things with Jack. It was too hard. But that felt about as possible as carving my heart out of my own chest with a blunt object. However, people had been known to hack their own arms off to save themselves.
Me: We should talk. In person.
Late Night Visitor: Dev and I are staying in Savannah for now, won’t be back til late tonight.
I watched as a new bubble emerged on the screen, showing me Jack was writing something else. Then it disappeared and no text came.
My chest squeezed. I wanted to tell him I missed him. I wanted him to say something—anything to help ease this ache, this feeling that we were eons apart from each other emotionally. I wanted to say something funny and sweet, but all inspiration was gone. I was panicking and I knew it. I’d spent an amazing night with Jack, and suddenly the reality of today had made it all seem like an impossible dream. How could we possibly have a future together that I would be able to handle?
Having had to blow off my lunchtime shift once again today, I headed into work for my evening one. I’d told Brenda about the reporter over the phone and apologized profusely. The possibility I wouldn’t be able to work at the Grill much longer without feeling like a curiosity at a county fair weighed heavily. As soon as it was common knowledge I was with Jack, I’d need to reassess, but I needed the money. Now more than ever.
Brenda was there, and a girl named Lisa, who worked most summers, and had been in sporadically over the winter months. She’d had to cover for me the last few days. Normally off-season, one waitress could handle lunch but business had picked as it got closer to the season. The excitement of Jack and Devon hadn’t quite calmed down yet, either. It didn’t help that a couple of the local newspapers had picked up the story.
“Uh, Keri Ann.” Brenda nabbed me as I headed to the kitchen just after nine. It had been a busy evening and was only now starting to clear out. She nodded at the bar where a middle-aged gentleman with a long sleeved black crew tee and black rimmed glasses sat staring at me, his finger running absently up and down the side of a frosty water glass. His dark hair was thinning, his face bland.
“I think that’s the reporter,” Brenda murmured. “He was the one in here the other day asking about Jack.”
A wave of nerves broke violently inside me. There was no point running from this guy. He clearly knew who I was.
“Okay, I’ll be right back.” I took the dirty items I was carrying through to the kitchen. Hector had his back to me and steam was billowing out of the huge industrial dishwasher. I joined him, and we worked quickly together as I helped him put in another load.
I knew Hector felt like he was personally responsible for Jack and me, having had a front row seat since the first night we met. “I need luck tonight, Hector,” I said. “There’s a guy out there waiting to talk to me and make me look like a …” I searched around for an egregious word that he’d understand. “a puta.”
There. The Spanish word for whore should suffice, considering how serious the situation was.
Hector hissed through his teeth and turned to me, crossing himself. “No. Miss Keri Ann.” His wrinkled gaze was serious. “You have angels fly over you. Todo estarà bien.”
Except he said “Un-Hells”, instead of angels, which totally made me smile despite the gravity of my mood.
He smiled back and pulled me in for a hug.
“Ok.” I blew out a breath. “Here I go.”
Standing on the dock at Broad Landing in the grey early morning light, I waited for Jack.
I’d sent him a text after work last night and told him I’d met Tom Price, the reporter. Tom seemed like a nice enough guy at first. I’d introduced myself to him promptly after exiting the kitchen, which seemed to surprise him.
“I guess you were expecting me to run?” I’d asked him.
“Maybe,” Tom Price replied. “They either run or they want the publicity or money for the story. So that tells me a lot about you, though I didn’t expect that.”
I shrugged. “I don’t want that either.”
“Somehow, I believe you. So why are you talking to me?”
“Would you like me not to?”
That seemed to flummox him for a moment. “I think I like you,” he said.
“Enough to keep my name out of the story?”
“Probably not that much,” he admitted, his brown eyes blinking like fish behind the lenses of his glasses. “Besides, it’s my editor who makes the final call, not me.”
“Do you enjoy what you do?” I asked.
He smirked. “Are you always this direct?”
“I try to be. So do you?”
“I don’t think I’ve met anyone quite like you in the course of my job before.”
“I could say the same. But you still didn’t answer my question.”