Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
The only lie in what I’ve said? That I’ll tell Hope my life story. That’s a closely held secret I don’t share with anyone, per my AMM Records contract. Apparently, “mystery” is good for press too.
Chapter 3
HOPE
Ben’s place is exactly what I knew it’d be when he pointed in this direction. The Cottage Resort is one of the most popular vacation spots in Maple Creek. It’s also a complete misnomer. There’s nothing at all cottage-y or resort-y about them—no pool, no fancy landscaping, and nothing luxurious.
In fact, the 1970s mobile homes housed park rangers once upon a time, but years ago, the rows of manufactured buildings were reincarnated into their current lives as kitschy tourist traps. But lipstick on a pig aside, it’s still a trailer park.
It seems Ben got suckered into one whose theme is Mushroom Chic, but at least it’s cute, with fresh white paint, sage kitchen cabinets, dark-wood-looking floors, and an abundance of vintage mushroom pottery in every nook and cranny. I even spy mushroom-shaped salt and pepper shakers on the kitchen peninsula—at least, I think they’re mushrooms. If they’re penis shakers, I’m in a completely different type of trouble here.
Despite the kitsch factor and possible penile decor, the cottages rarely go unbooked since we have so many tourists coming in at all times of the year. Maple Creek is just that sort of town, a place where people can get away from it all. In the summer, they come for the beautiful greenery, hiking, and lake fun, though Ben doesn’t seem to be enjoying our scenic seasonal view. In the fall, the maple leaves change color, bringing people in droves, and we have our annual Apple Jamboree. In the winter? Our holiday festival, ice-skating, and minor-league hockey championship are all draws, and our Christmas parade sometimes makes regional news. And in spring, we have the Peachfest Party and wildflower blooms, and our local brewery hosts a beer-a-palooza.
All that to say, summer is high season: high demand and high priced, for any and all lodging, even a decades-old mobile home decorated in fungus.
I look at Ben again. His dark-wash jeans are worn, frayed along the hems and dirty by the pockets. His boots have seen a lot of miles, with creases worn into the leather. And his T-shirt looks straight outta Walmart. The only thing that looks expensive is the ink that winds down his arms in spotty patches, giving the impression that each one’s been done at different times rather than as one complete planned piece. Still, each piece appears very well done, even if I’m no tattoo expert.
So if he’s staying here, there’s more to Ben than meets the eye.
Inside, I scan the living room, not sure what I’m looking for. A sign that says DANGER, given that I’ve followed a stranger back to his place like a too-stupid-to-live idiot who dies in the first five minutes of any horror flick? But all I see is a leather couch facing the television, a chair with a guitar propped against it, and a few stray pillows. When Ben sees me zero in on the guitar, he quickly moves to put it away. Like I care about a little clutter when I’m the conductor on the Hot Mess Express. Choo-choo!
He hands me a phone and I freeze, staring at the screen. Truth is, I’m not sure who to call. I know I said I wanted to call Mom, but she’ll definitely freak; Dad will grunt that I probably know what I’m doing; Shepherd will threaten to kill Roy; and Joy? She’ll have my back no matter what, so she’s the obvious person to call.
“Hello?” she answers uncertainly. “Who’s this?”
“Joy,” I say, sloppy tears instantly falling when I hear her voice.
“Oh my God! Hope! It’s her, guys!” She says it loudly, like she’s telling the people around her, not me. Back to me, she says, “I’m going to murder you with my bare hands. And probably Roy, too, for whatever he did. What the hell is going on? Where are you? Whose phone are you calling from?”
The sobs come harder at her worrying, even with the threat of bodily harm, because I know she’s probably terrified. I don’t do shit like this. I’m rock solid, steady and sure—always. One thing I don’t do? Go off on flights of impulsivity, running from the altar at my own wedding, for fuck’s sake.
Except I did.
And even though I feel like a complete and utter mess, inside and out, I’m not sorry.
“Joy, I couldn’t do it. He . . . Roy . . . I just . . . I don’t know. I need some time,” I tell her, the words stuttered and unsure.
“All right. Time? Yeah, you can do that.” She’s placating me, her voice gentle and soft like she’s scared I’m going to bite her through the phone—or worse, hang up on her. “Take all the time you need. Just tell me where you are and I’ll come get you.”