We both start laughing, and for the first time ever, Ms. Hyland seems human.
“I’m just gonna take myself home.” She grabs her purse off the bar and goes to stand, but staggers back a tad. Her eyes widen, as if she’s adjusting them to the light, even though this place is gloomy as always.
“Woah,” I push my chair back and hurry over to her, “maybe I should call you an Uber. You really shouldn’t drive.” I brace her with my hand on the small of her back, and she straightens herself up.
“I’m totally fine. Besides, I don’t think a kid should be giving me advice on when I should or shouldn’t drive.”
There it is. A kid. Regardless, this kid isn’t letting her behind the wheel of a car. Not like this. I’ve witnessed what can happen when Mr. Porter took Jasper’s mom’s life from drunk driving. Not a chance in hell.
“Let me drive you, please.” I feel like I’m being a tad pushy, but I’m not backing down on this.
“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” she questions, with a scowl.
I snatch the keys that dangle from her hand. “Yeah, I’m washing all the dishes from this room full of customers. C’mon, I’m driving you.”
She lets out a sigh, but begins heading toward the door.
“Sid,” I shout, hustling over the kitchen doorway, without walking in, “I’m taking you up on calling it a night. I’ll see ya Friday.”
He doesn’t respond, but I don’t attempt to get one. Instead, I’m jogging over to the bar door that is slowly closing. I pull it open and step outside. She makes no attempt to wait for me, even though I hold the keys to her car.
This should be a fun ride home.
6
Claire
I keep walking down the sidewalk, as I hear Knox come up behind me. I don’t even look at him. I’m not sure if it's because I’m embarrassed about the way I’m acting, or if it’s because I’m pretty sure that, letting a teenage boy drive me home because I had one too many glasses of champagne, would be frowned upon by the almighty residents of Redwood. Way to get on their good side, Claire.
“Are you sure you have to do this?” I look over, and he’s now at my side. The keys in his hand to my Volvo, clanking together with each step.
“I’m sure. I walked here, anyway, my car is at home. Works out perfectly.” He grins.
I look down at my feet again, as we approach my car, not liking the way he makes me feel with that smile. It’s wrong. It’s just the alcohol making me feel these things. It always has me thinking irrational thoughts. It’s the desperation inside of me to always feel wanted. To feel loved. To have arms around me and a voice that soothes the pain. It’s not like this kid could ever give me those things.
“Thanks, I guess,” I mutter under my breath.
“What’s that? I didn’t hear you?” He leans over with his ear mere inches from my face, as he opens the passenger door for me.
“I said thank you!” Shouting loud enough to make him flinch. I start laughing uncontrollably, and it feels damn good. That’s twice today. I don’t think I’ve laughed since I got to this town. I suppose the night wasn’t a total bust after all. Now, I can go home and crawl into bed with a good book and sleep peacefully, knowing that I mingled with townsfolk and attempted to blend in. Even if, to Knox, I’m standing out. Something inside of me says that's ok. That my awkwardness and childlike behavior is our little secret.
I get in and shut the door behind me, feeling slightly embarrassed by the state of distress my car is in. Pop cans and water bottles are thrown around on the back floorboard, and it smells like a McDonald’s french fry in here, even with the three pine tree air fresheners hanging from the blinker switch. Now that I think about it, I did drop some down the side of the driver’s seat. Knox doesn’t seem to notice; he just starts the engine and pulls out, without even a hint of disgust at the stench.
“Should we get you some food to soak up that alcohol?” he asks, as he peers out the side mirror, before moving int o the turning lane.
“Oh no, I’m good. Some water and a nap and I’ll be good as new.” Once again, the guilt rises up my esophagus like a bad acid. Maybe I was wrong about him all along. I guess we can’t judge a book by its cover; I should know this better than anyone. It can be glammed up with a beautiful shell, one that draws you in. An image on the front of a sexy man that you dream about, you may even call him your book boyfriend. But, you open that bitch up, and it’s full of hidden secrets, lies, and a fifty-five year old bearded man with a potbelly. Nothing like that man you dreamt about the night before. The alcohol must really be going to my head, my thoughts are running ramped.
No one in this town would suspect that I left behind a house and possessions worth millions, a husband who dressed me to his liking each day, and a bodyguard who helped me escape. It sounds like a nightmare, more than a reality. To them, I’m just the quiet teacher who moved to a new town for a change of scenery.
“You really should eat something.” He glances at the dash clock. “It’s dinner time. We can swing through a drive-thru for a burger and some fries.”
Yep, he smelled the fries.
“Actually, I think the main housekeeper mentioned bringing something by tonight. Ms. Porter is leaving town for a couple of weeks, and she wanted to cook her up a nice farewell dinner.”
He snickers. “I don’t think I can ever get used to you calling her Ms. Porter.”
“What? That’s her name. It’s only right to call her, Ms. Porter.”
Knox turns his head to me, and I see amusement written all over his face.
“What? Isn’t her name Blakely Porter?”
He nods. “Yes, but she’s only twenty years old. I don’t think she needs that title, until she’s at least thirty.”
“Well, little do you know, I’m only twenty-three years old, and I have an entire school that refers to me as Ms. Hyland.”
“You’re only twenty-three?” he questions in shock. Almost as if he thought I was some old lady.
“Why is that so hard to believe? Do I look older?”
“No.” His eyes dance back and forth from the road to me. Like he’s inspecting my body for signs of old age. “No, I’m just surprised is all. I knew you were young. I just assumed you were closer to thirty. Ya know, because of your position and all. A high school teacher—you must be straight outta college.”
“Actually, I don’t even have a teaching degree. Just a two-year associates degree in fine arts. I’m not a teacher, I’m an artist.”
“So, are you just filling in temporarily?” He sinks farther back into the seat, getting more comfortable. His right hand rests over top of the steering wheel, as he watches the road.
“That’s the plan,” I respond, hoping this conversation switches gears real soon. Any more talk about my life, and I’ll need another glass of house champagne. “How about you? Just working at Scotty’s temporarily?”
“Yep, gotta make that money. If you haven’t heard, washing dishes is a secret goldmine.” I look over and catch him looking at me with that smile again. That same smile that I caught at the pub. The one that I held onto and that forced me into this designated driver agreement.