Chapter 8
Eight
Sierra
The print shop is, unfortunately, on Main Street.
“There’s no point driving there,” Logan says, looking at me like I’m absurd. “It’ll take twice as long to park as it would to walk.”
“Now? In broad daylight?”
“It’s a nice day out. You’re not a vampire, are you?”
“Only on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” Sweat breaks out all over my body. It’s like my Sagebrush nightmare come to life. I can’t do this.
I can’t not do this. Somehow, Logan LaSalle has bullied me into a job I don’t want, in a place I wouldn’t be caught dead in, interacting with people I’d rather never see again. He stands next to me, looking as innocent as a boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar.
“Can I borrow a hat? Sunglasses?”
Logan tosses me a ball cap hanging near the front door, then hands me a pair of smeared aviator sunglasses. “I think Seth might own a cowboy hat,” he offers as I pull the cap low over my eyes.
“Yeah, that might be better. Seth!”
Seth does have a cowboy hat, though it’s a little too big for my head. Beggars can’t be choosers, though, and I thank him profusely.
“Oh, god,” I murmur as we head down Main Street. “What if someone recognizes me?”
“Come on, you haven’t seen this place in years. Let me show you around.”
“People might see me.”
“It’s mostly tourists.”
“Tell me another! I can see Jamie Lynn Hurst from here.” She’s standing at the counter of some ice cream parlor named Sweet Dairy Heir. “This isn’t going to work. I’ll have to abandon Clunker and hike out of this place on foot.”
Logan’s face changes. “Don’t joke about that,” he says quietly.
I frown at him. Did someone he knows die doing that or something? He looks so somber, I decide it’s best not to ask. “Sorry.”
Maybe I can get through the day without being recognized.
If this is really part of the job, then I’ll do it.
I don’t want him to change his mind and cut my job short.
I adjust my comically oversized hat and sunglasses and match my step to his, moving in the same direction, as if he’s a conductor and I’m his orchestra.
Sagebrush has, indeed, undergone a complete makeover.
The time-travel feel of Main Street is now charming rather than pitiful.
Between Wild West era-appropriate storefronts, the pockets of ruins—the old brothel, horse corral, and jail—feel strategically placed, giving an air of intentional preservation rather than neglect.
Formerly boarded up, dripping-in-graffiti buildings have been stripped clean and freshened up with a new coat of paint.
Miraculously, the place no longer smells of piss and old trash.
Potholes are filled, antique benches and demure trash bins line the now-smooth sidewalks.
Somebody has even added hanging baskets overflowing with fresh flowers to every lamppost, like it’s goddamn Wild West Disneyland.
And Disneyland, it is. It’s four in the afternoon, and the place is overflowing with tourists.
We weave through a dense crowd in front of The Beauty Apothecary and then past Canyon Crystals.
A waiter at the Indian restaurant, Naan Believers, props up the buffet sign while a Thai Me Up server seats customers at their adorable gingham-covered tables.
“We have Asian restaurants here now?” I squint at the Soup Du Jour place. “French? You’re kidding me.” The last time I lived here, we had one Mexican fast-food restaurant and a family diner.
I wait outside the print shop as Logan picks up our order, studying the many shops that line Main Street.
In addition to the Sweet Dairy Heir, there’s Lot o’ Gelato and a Fro Yolo frozen yogurt shop, plus four little coffee shops, all with ridiculously cute, punny names like Rise and Grind and Little Lotte’s Lattes.
They occupy some of the places that I used to break into as a teen.
I remember how exhilarating it felt to sneak into abandoned, condemned buildings.
Chains, fences, and boards never stood a chance when I was determined.
It felt like time travel, escaping to another world, a version of the past that seemed more hopeful, simply because it existed before I did.
I kept my finds in an old box at the foot of my bed: a soda can with a bright, blocky ’80s logo; grainy ’50s newsprint ads for bustiers; a cigarette pack stamped with Bull Durham Smoking Tobacco, Best for Three Generations.
Once, I even uncovered a pair of miner’s blue jean overalls left in a heap, dust and mud caked along the hems, as if their owner had simply stepped out of them and walked away from his life.
When Logan returns, we hike up the steep incline of Main Street toward Settler Square, where a large copper statue—so new there’s not even a tinge of green—stands in the center. “Is that a ginormous statue of Billy Blackstone?”
The statue’s a full-sized handsome cowboy with a villainous glint in his eyes. I’ve got to give props to the artist for capturing his spirit. Pennies are lined up around the base of the statue.
“Lots of fortune and treasure hunters come to see if there’s anywhere else that he may have hidden his treasure,” Logan explains. “They leave a penny for good luck.”
There are also a couple of satiny lingerie pieces stuffed into the hat in his hand. I raise an eyebrow at Logan, who shrugs.
“He was also known for writing some pretty racy letters and poetry to his girlfriend, Lula Maude.”
I’m once again struck by how attractive Logan is.
Today, he’s in a navy shirt that brings out the blue in his eyes.
His hair is combed, so different from the messy cowlicked mop of his childhood.
I used to smooth those stubborn tufts down when we were kids, innocently thrilled when his eyes fluttered shut at the touch.
Does he still like it when someone plays with his hair?
Logan’s staring at me, and I realize I need to respond. “Ooh, Lula Maude. She sounds hot.” I wiggle my eyebrows.
Logan laughs. “We don’t know what she looked like or who she really was, but his poetry was quite…descriptive. I’ve got a copy of his poems back at the house, if you’d like to read them.”
“Uh, sure,” I say. Not sure I need to read erotic poetry while sleeping in the room next to my hot ex-boyfriend, but why not? Live fast, die young, and all that.
“Want to grab some dinner? I’m starving.” Logan presses his lips together. “I’ll buy, but I choose the place. Poquito Poquito. They still do those amazing all-day breakfast burritos.”
“Ugh, with the hash browns?” I still dream about those burritos. They were cheap, filling, and I could usually scrounge up enough change from my mom’s purse to buy one or two a week.
“Yep, the hash browns.”
“I don’t know.” My mouth already salivates from the memory, but it’s a local place where we could run into someone I know. At the very least, I would see the Juarez family, although I only knew them from all the years of breakfast burrito runs.
“Come on. Isn’t this why you wore a hat? You’re practically invisible. I’ve been squinting all afternoon trying to find you, you’re so well camouflaged.”
“Har har,” I say. “All right.”
“It’ll be all right. We’ll order at the walk-up to-go window.”
Cynthia Juarez cries out when she sees us approach the window. Then she disappears.
“We should just go,” I whisper to Logan. I don’t need to suffer the embarrassment of being refused service.
But Cynthia bursts out the side door and hustles toward us. I hold up my hands, bracing for an attack that never comes. Instead, she hugs me tight, babbling in a mix of Spanish and English. “Where did you go? We thought the worst! Mi pobrecita. You want breakfast burrito with hash browns?”
“Yes,” I say, shooting a bewildered look at Logan, who just smiles thinly.
“So happy you’re back,” Cynthia says. “Wait here.” She hurries back inside.
“I don’t understand,” I say finally.
“What don’t you understand?”
“I thought… Well, I thought I’d been seen as the villain.”
Logan frowns. “You did nothing wrong.”
It’s such an absurd statement, I don’t know how to respond. Of course I did. Everything about it was unforgivable.
I had slept with a married man.
Cynthia may not have known, I realize, as she hands us our burritos and a bag of chips and salsa. The language barrier might’ve kept her from knowing everything that happened before I left.
Still, it’s not exactly comforting that my burrito lady recognizes me even with my hat and sunglasses. So much for my disguise. If anyone else recognizes me, word could get back to the town marshal, Rick Dawson, that I’m back. That’s the last thing I need.
I can swallow down my misery and hold back pity for a few more hours—until I’m back in my temporary bedroom, playing sappy music and having a good cry.
Seven more weeks. Seven more weeks, and I’m gone.
This time for good. I’ll drive around the whole damn county just to avoid passing through Sagebrush again.