Chapter 19
My dreams stay Kitty-free for the rest of January and February and into the first two weeks of March, replaced with almost-as-vivid med-school stress dreams where my teeth crumble into dust, or I’m back in high school and unable to find any of my classes.
I see Reeve three more times. I meet him halfway at the Tipsy Fox in Mount Forest for hot wings and an even hotter make-out in the parking lot.
Then, a week later, when he has meetings in the area, we both sneak away for a quick lunch at Lou’s, but my strictly monitored lunch break allows for only a single slow kiss in the retirement home’s parking lot and a murmured “You’re gonna need to kiss me longer next time” from Reeve.
We plan another dinner at the Moose, but five minutes into the dessert course, I get a call from work telling me the stomach flu has hit the retirement home and taken out the staff.
I cut our date short, then cancel our next one when that same flu inevitably takes me down the following weekend.
When I’m finally back at work, it’s the week of my interview.
I’m feeling as prepared as I can be, having spent most of Sunday lying in bed, reciting aloud to my empty bedroom the answers to my prep guide questions, hoping I sounded more intelligent and less like I was moments away from heaving up the toast I had for lunch.
The retirement home, however, has spent the last two weeks understaffed.
Although we’ve thankfully been able to cover all the necessities, none of the little things have been done.
I spend every minute of my Monday shift, including those normally reserved for breaks or lunch, watering plants, painting fingernails, and making gin and tonics.
I don’t even see the break room until an hour after my shift officially ends. So when I finally check my phone for the first time all day, I am not entirely shocked to see three missed calls and three text messages from Reeve.
Reeve: Hey! Any chance you’re free tonight? I had a meeting cancel, so my afternoon is free.
Reeve: I’m guessing you’re working. I’m going to take the chance and hope you’re working a regular shift today. I’m on my way. Call me when you get a second.
Reeve: I’m in West Lake and I have a friend I’d love you to meet. I’m going to head over to his place at six. Hopefully, I can see you at some point.
I dial as soon as I finish reading.
He picks up on the second ring. “Hey. Are you at work?”
As I slip on my coat, I press my phone into my shoulder with my cheek. “Just finished my shift. Are you still in town?”
There’s the sound of muffled voices on Reeve’s end of the line. “I’m actually across the street at Lou’s. I’m just about to place an order for takeout. Can I get you something?”
My stomach growls as if answering for me. “Oh my god, I love you. I haven’t eaten all day. A burger and fries, please.”
There’s a pause on Reeve’s end of the line.
It’s just long enough for me to replay what I just said.
“I didn’t mean—”
“You got it—”
We both speak at the same time.
There’s another beat of silence. My mortification flushes my cheeks an even deeper shade of red.
“So I guess—”
“Are you on—”
This time, we laugh.
“So, I’ll meet you over there?”
“Sounds good,” he says. “But we’re going to need to eat in my car. I promised my friend I’d be there by six, and there’s something I want to show you first.”
I push open the stairwell door and step into the hallway, curious as to why he’s being so vague. “Who’s this friend?”
Reeve hesitates. “He’s a lot easier to explain once you see him.”
—
My burger is delicious. I make multiple moaning sounds while I eat and draw amused looks from Reeve as we drive out of West Lake and head toward Port Logan.
I’m in that gleeful kind of mood that comes when something good happens unexpectedly, like the guy you’ve been seeing showing up on a random Monday.
I have a smile on my face when I finally shut my now empty takeout container and let out a satisfied ahhh. It stretches even further when Reeve places his hand on my knee and squeezes.
“So you’re not going to give me any hints on where we’re headed?”
Reeve flicks his blinker. “I don’t really need to, seeing as we’re already here.”
He pulls off the country highway onto a recently paved road, then turns into an empty parking lot and cuts the engine.
There is a small building in front of us.
It’s simple, with white siding and big windows, the land around it a large lot of mud, half dug up, with large construction trucks abandoned for the evening.
There’s a big sign out front: Mansfield Properties.
The burger in my stomach roils. “Is this your…office?”
Reeve undoes his seatbelt and opens his door. “It’s the sales office. I wanted to show it to you, remember? I spoke to my boss about your property. He’s really interested in discussing it further, but I thought you might want to see the plans before I introduce you to him.”
I follow him out of the car, my rational brain reminding me that selling the dance hall is the only way that I’ll be able to pay for school.
However, something settles in my stomach.
It gives context to why they always say pit.
It feels like a stone. An uncomfortable presence, reminding me that Reeve works for Mansfield and this—I—am part of his job.
“We just broke ground on this one a few weeks ago.” Reeve nods at the trucks in the distance, then locks his doors with a high-pitched chirp. “It’s going to be beautiful.”
“Looks like it,” I lie as the pit doubles in size.
Reeve pulls a key from his chain, unlocks the door, then holds it open as he punches in a code to a beeping alarm box. Once the alarm stops, he flicks on the lights and holds out his hand. “Come on in.”
The inside of the office is white, with artists’ renderings of various projects framed along the walls.
I recognize the six-plex from Port Logan and a strip of townhouses down on Cayuga Beach where an old bowling alley once stood.
Then I see, in the middle of the room, encased in Plexiglas, a full 3D rendering of a low-rise condo complex.
The structure is also all-white, with tiny trees in pots out front and even tinier people walking little model dogs and lounging on red-and-white doughnut-shaped floats in the pool at the building’s center.
It is beautiful.
Reeve joins me at the Plexiglas-covered model, getting more animated as he points out where the gym will go, the roof for sunbathing, and the sustainable features he’s working to introduce: solar panels, automatic sunshades that gauge the sun’s angle and reduce the need for air-conditioning, and a water system to recycle rainwater for the plants.
It all blurs in my head because all I can think about is how that giant gleaming building looks like it belongs somewhere glamorous like Miami or Malibu, not West Lake.
“So what do you think?”
I blink, snapping out of my haze to find Reeve leaning in, watching my face for a reaction.
“It looks like a big project.”
He takes this as a compliment, nodding as his hand caresses the Plexiglas. “It was supposed to be managed by one of the senior partners, so when they gave it to me, I took it as a good sign. It might give me grounds for a promotion.”
“Oh. Wow.” I force the kind of smile you’d expect from a girl who was just told the guy she’s dating is up for a big promotion.
But my insides are not that same level of okay.
They hear the word promotion and begin to think about that night at Nona’s.
Reeve was so excited when he found out I was inheriting the dance hall.
But now I wonder, was that enthusiasm for me or for him?
It’s an ugly thought. And before it can fully take shape, Reeve reaches for my hand.
“We should get going. Marcus is easygoing when it comes to almost anything, but he’s an absolute stickler when it comes to time.”
I’m too worried to ask who Marcus is as we get back into the car and pull onto the highway.
What if he’s a real estate agent or a lawyer?
I’m not prepared to have a conversation with either of those people yet.
I’m considering telling Reeve that I’m feeling sick—that my stomach flu is relapsing—when we turn down a dirt driveway and head into the woods.
The driveway is bumpy and uneven. I have to grip the handle above me as the road twists and turns for a good half kilometer until the trees open up to reveal a small cedar-sided cottage up ahead.
The cottage almost blends into the surrounding pine trees.
Next to it is what looks like a large garage.
The wooden siding looks a little older than the house, aged gray with mossy bits in a few places.
Its carriage-style doors are open, and a small orange light illuminates the inside.
It’s filled with what looks like tables and tables of random stuff.
“Where are we?”
Reeve pulls the car into a clearing next to the trees.
“This place belongs to my friend Marcus Landers.” Reeve pauses, and I wonder if I’m supposed to recognize the name.
“He’s an artist,” Reeve explains. “I met him when I was interning at the gallery. We carried several of his pieces. He’s a potter and a sculptor and is incredibly talented.”
We get out of the car and start to walk toward the garage.
When we are about halfway there, a man comes out to greet us.
He looks to be in his mid-sixties—a mixture of Bob Ross and Fred Penner, complete with a bushy gray beard and wild curly hair.
He has paint on his pants and clay under his nails, and smells like sandalwood.
I like him the moment he shakes my hand.
“Jules, eh? I once had a dog named Jules. She was the best girl.”