Chapter 5 Jack
Jack
A dozen potential culprits for this break-in went through my mind as I tiptoed down the stairs from my apartment into my shop.
A burglar.
Some obnoxious kid.
An animal.
A fucking ghost for all I knew.
None of them were even close to what I encountered.
A light sleeper all my life, I heard the faint noise downstairs, and it woke me from a strange dream I couldn’t quite grasp, though I distinctly remembered my grandfather being in it.
Sitting up, I shifted a bit, listening closely until a soft noise hit my ears, one I probably would have missed if I had been asleep. I quickly slipped on a T-shirt and my glasses, and tiptoed toward the landing of the stairs, making my way down silently.
A soft, barely-there glow illuminates the back of my store, near the bookshelves filled with personal knickknacks and decorations and figurines for sale. I squint just a bit until I see her.
Rosemary fucking Mayfield.
I watch her moving slowly toward the bookshelf, my own slow steps silently following her.
It seems like her destination is not the shelves or the priceless collectibles there, but strangely, my grandfather’s old flask, beaten, scratched, and dinged up.
Even stranger, I could swear it’s almost… glowing.
While that is clearly an exhausted hallucination, Rosemary whispering “score” is not, and neither is her reaching out to grab the old flask.
Which is when I flick on the light.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask as I do.
I’m not sure if it’s my voice or the lights temporarily blinding her, but whatever it is, she jolts, her hand hitting the shelf, and as usual, everything comes toppling to the ground.
The figurines, the frames, and the flask first, with the shelf itself following suit with a loud clatter.
“Oh my god, Jack, you scared the shit out of me!” she says, putting a hand to her chest.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask again. Now that I know it’s not a deadly intruder, my nerves are replaced with utter frustration, something I always seem to feel when Rosemary Mayfield is near.
Is it frustration? a pesky voice that sounds a bit like my meddling grandfather asks. Or something else entirely? I push the voice aside, not in the mood to grapple with its conundrum.
“Oh, me?” she asks, an uneasy smile spreading over her lips, and I can see her trying to come up with an explanation. “I, uh… you know, it’s a really funny story, actually.” I step closer to her, and she steps away, her back bumping into the wall behind her. There’s barely a foot between us now.
“What are you doing in my store after midnight, Rosemary?”
“Is it really after midnight? Goodness, I should get back, you know, pumpkin carriage, glass slipper, and all.” My brow furrows at her nonsensical answer.
“You know, Cinderella? Turned back to a peasant at midnight?” I continue to glare, and she rolls her eyes, like I’m the one inconveniencing her.
“My god, Jack, you really don’t know the classics, do you? ”
I open my mouth to argue. I always want to argue with Rosemary Mayfield.
No one gets under my skin like her, no one flusters and aggravates me the way she does.
It’s why I avoid her, the town sweetheart.
Those three Mayfield sisters have this entire town wrapped around their pinky fingers, and I’ve refused to fall for the act.
I moved to Heartwood Hollow, coming on five years ago, after growing up in the town just over the hill.
After deciding to open my brick-and-mortar gaming shop, I spent nearly two years meticulously selecting the best location, considering customer demographics, local shopping trends, and the properties with the best investment potential.
I found this building, which features a shop on the first floor and a one-bedroom apartment on the top floor.
It was perfect, and I jumped at the opportunity to have a storefront for my online business.
However, what I failed to realize was just how tight-knit Heartwood Hollow truly is.
The town holds regular events such as the fall festival and street fairs, where local businesses can have a stand to sell to visitors, which is a great perk, but it also means that everyone in this small town is always in each other’s business.
It’s the kind of town where your walk to the grocery store will be interrupted three times by well-meaning neighbors to shoot the shit, and if you have some kind of life update, everyone will know by the end of the day.
This has been great for my business, which has grown rapidly since I moved here.
And it’s great, I’m sure, if you’re the kind of person who can’t go a day without chatting with someone or if you love the idea of an active community.
Unfortunately, I like peace. I like quiet. I like keeping to myself.
Rosemary, for reference, is the kind of woman who was born to live in a close-knit town.
She knows everything about everyone, and she is apparently friends with everyone she bumps into here.
Except me, of course, though she’s spent the last three years trying to win me over.
It’s part of why I find her so grating: the woman embodies everything I dislike about this small town, from her endless chattering to her tornado-like behavior.
My eyes move over her most recent tornado, taking in the now-headless Third Warlock of the Night Realm and a handful of books that definitely have bent pages now. Rosemary makes as if she’s going to leave, but I step toward her again, putting a hand to the wall beside her head, and she freezes.
I’ve never been this close to her.
Except for this afternoon, of course, when I caught her, but that doesn’t count.
But just standing here, in the dim fluorescent overhead lights, I spot a smattering of light freckles across the bridge of her nose and can see how full her pink lips are and how grass-green her eyes are, and—
Fuck. There I go again, getting distracted. “What the fuck are you doing in here, Rosie?”
Her pink lips shift, perfectly straight white teeth digging into them, and her brows come together as if she’s trying to decide how to answer. “I was sleepwalking?”
I glare at her, disbelieving, and she tries again.
“Okay, okay, I got lost?” She says it as if it’s a question, instead of an answer to a question of my own. I don’t give in to her nonsense, don’t argue with her because that’s what she wants: a diversion.
“Going where?”
She continues to bite that lower lip I can’t stop staring at, only breaking my focus when she answers. “Home? And I really should get back there, since I have to feed Percy and all. I put it off as long as I could, punishment, you know, for the mess he made this afternoon. But I should really—”
“The door was locked,” I state, cutting her off.
Her eyes go wide with panic, but her head tips to the side like she’s confused. “Huh?”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “The door was locked. How did you get in?”
“Are you sure it was locked? I was probably sleepwalking, and I’m talented, but I can’t pick a lock in my sleep.”
“Yes, I’m sure, because I double-check my locks every night.”
She nods but then looks up at me with a mischievous look. “Maybe your brain was muddled because of your mental stress from the completely freak accident this afternoon.”
I take a step closer to her until I can feel her body heat through my thin T-shirt. Her breath grazes along my chest as her head tips up to look at me. She’s wearing sneakers now, not her usual heels, so this is the first time I realize just how much shorter she is, a good foot at least.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re here, or are you going to try and cute your way out of this?”
She smiles as if she won some kind of standoff I didn’t know we were in. “Cute? You think I’m cute?”
“No,” I say, far too quickly. A smile hits her face. “I just think you think you can be cute and get out of things.”
“Is it working?” she asks, and for a split second, I think about smiling back because sometimes, despite myself, she’s funny. Annoying as can be, but funny. But I know that would only encourage her more, so instead, I shake my head before taking a step back.
“Tell me why you’re here,” I demand, taking in her black outfit, complete with a black hat like she’s some kind of catnapper. The sweater and pants are skin tight, something I shouldn’t be tracking, but Rosemary Mayfield has curves that would make any man’s head turn.
“I told you, I have a terrible sleepwalking tendency.”
“Then I’m just going to have to call the police, and they can figure this out.” I start to turn away.
“No!” she shouts, her soft fingers wrapping around my wrist. She starts, a confused look on her face before she shakes her head and speaks again. “No. Don’t. Please.”
I shift my body back to her, taking my hand back and crossing my arms. “Then tell me what you’re doing here.”
She looks up at the ceiling, then at the mess on the ground, her eyes locking on my grandfather’s old flask before she looks at the ceiling again, cursing too low for me to hear. “If you don’t tell me exactly why you’re here, I’m calling the police.”
She groans audibly. “You’re never going to believe me,” she says in an almost-whiny tone.
“Try me.”
“I’m serious, Jack. You’re never going to believe me.”
“Either tell me or tell the police,” I say, reaching for my phone in my pocket.
“No! No. No. I don’t need my sisters finding out what I’m doing.” I find it interesting that she’s more concerned about her sisters than the police, but I don’t have time to linger on that when she takes in a deep breath, closes her eyes, and lays out the most colorful lie I’ve ever heard.