six | emberly
SIXEmberly
Yes, there are restaurants, just like Will claimed.
Are the majority of them open for business on Monday?
No, they are not.
I’ve been driving around for almost an hour, mentally scratching names off the list, before I see a sign pointing to the Off-Road Grill.
The name is deceiving. The Drive-Four-Miles-Make-Two-Hairpin-Turns-While-Dodging-Multiple-Potholes-Then-Keep-Driving-Until-You-Run-Out-of-Gravel Grill would have been more accurate.
The parking lot is filled with pickup trucks and muddy ATVs, but the heavenly aroma of deep-fried food wafting through the open windows lures me inside.
A dozen heads—all of them male—turn in my direction when I walk through the door.
A wraithlike brunette rinsing out glasses behind the bar glowers at them and motions me closer.
“Welcome to the Grill.” She has to raise her voice above the country music blaring from the vintage juke box in the corner. “Dine in or take-out?”
I look around. The only available table is located right between the restroom and the dartboard.
“Takeout?”
“Good choice.” She hands me a piece of paper encased in a plastic sheath that, on closer inspection, turns out to be a menu. Half the items come smothered in cheese, the rest are variations of a burger. Not a salad to be found. The closest I can get to something green are the deep-fried pickles.
“What do you recommend?” I ask the waitress when she returns.
“The Monday night special is popular.”
She doesn’t tell me what it is and at this point, I don’t really care. I’m starving.
“Great. I’ll try it.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m driving back to Pinehart. Even with the top down, the heady scent of homemade onion rings and some magical creation called a brat burger is making my mouth water.
I pull up next to the building—careful not to park in front of the tractor—and head for the lopsided picnic table underneath a canopy of birch trees. The sun has already started to set, but it’s too nice to eat inside.
I open the bag and pull out my dinner, which is gift-wrapped in crinkly brown paper. The majority of my diet consists of fish and steamed vegetables, but I might have to google recipes for brat burgers.
Why has this culinary masterpiece not migrated to Florida yet?
I’m about to take a second bite when a rustling sound in the woods sows goosebumps up and down my arms.
“Hello?”
The noise stops.
Laughter sifts through the screened porch of the closest cabin and through a gap between the trees, I can see a fishing boat chugging toward shore. But suddenly, I feel very alone. Alone and watched.
Do bears like onion rings?
I set mine down and reach for my phone. No. I’m not going to call Will. It’s probably a squirrel …
Now I hear panting.
Okay, not a squirrel.
I stuff everything back into the bag (because, priorities) except for one sacrificial onion ring. That gets tossed as far as I can throw it before I sprint toward the stairs.
The rustling, panting creature that crashes out of the underbrush is smart.
It doesn’t bother with the lone onion ring.
Why would it, when there’s an entire bag of them clutched in the hands of a woman trying to make it to safety wearing the totally inappropriate footwear she’d packed for her vacation?
I glance over my shoulder. I know. I know. Even people who don’t watch horror flicks will tell you this is the moment an expendable character trips and falls down and becomes the serial killer’s next victim, but I can’t help it.
The sun had disappeared while I was indulging in fried food aromatherapy (which should totally be a thing) and in the darkness, I see an enormous, shaggy body. Two glowing eyes. A row of shiny teeth …
I drop the bag at the bottom of the stairs and pray it takes the bait. Or in this case, The Off-Road Grill’s Monday night special.
The pounding of my heart is muffled by the sound of paper being shredded.
It seems to take forever to reach the landing, but I stumble into the apartment and slam the door so hard the ceiling fan begins to sway.
Then I call Will.