I find a few in size small and throw them in my cart. Digging around, I find a pair of overalls in my size, and a pack of men’s boxers that I figure will double as pajamas.
The pack of granny underwear feels like a coup, and I grab basic toiletries as I dart around.
“Hey, little lady, haven’t seen you around before.”
“Just visiting some friends,” I tell the cashier. I deposit my items on the counter, reading his nametag. This is Roscoe himself.
“Who might your friends be?” Roscoe asks. “Small town, we all know one another.”
“The Harrises.”
“Ohhh, fancy folks, them are.”
I hand Roscoe my debit card and he swipes it, then bags up my items.
“Thanks,” I tell him, the uneasiness growing in the pit of my stomach. I don’t do families, and especially not fancy ones. Turning back to Roscoe, I ask, “Um, how fancy are they?”
“The Harrises? Ohh, they’re the fanciest family on the island. Waterfront property, neither of them work. Have a famous son.” He leans across the counter, looking me over. “But you must know all this if you’re their friend.”
“Right. Well, I am. I’ve just never been to their place.”
“Me neither. Just rumors. That singer Ashley Fast used to come up here with their son, and the whole town would be in a titter.”
It makes perfect sense that Jack and his girlfriend would come here to visit his parents, and it just reminds me that Jack isn’t bringing me here because I’m his girlfriend; he’s bringing me here because ... well. I don’t really know.
He wanted to take me somewhere safe, and I feel pretty crappy to have tied him all up in my life.
“Oh, well, thanks again.” I leave the store and slide back into Lenny’s taxi.
“Get everything you needed?” Jack asks.
“Yeah. Did you talk to your parents?”
“No, I tried, but no one answered. They’re probably out on the boat.”
“Right. The boat.”
I have a sinking feeling this is going to be a disaster. I need normal people. A family I can relax around—which, to be honest, is nothing I’ve ever experienced before. Or, if not a normal family, then I need quiet, seclusion. A chance for me to get my head on straight.
Not fancy-pants people who will be nosy and judgey while driving a freaking yacht around. Eating lobsters and gorging on diamonds as parents of a world class DJ who has a helicopter pad on his freaking rooftop.
“You okay, Tess?” Jack asks.
“Why?” I shake out of my thoughts.
“I just wanted to see if you’re okay.”
“I’m fine, I promise,” I tell him sharply, knowing as I speak that my tone is undeserving. Sighing, I add, “I’m emotionally spent. I need a shower. Need to eat. Need to relax.”
“I’ll get a masseuse to the house, if you want? Mom has one come out every few days.”
“What?” I squint my eyes. “A massage every other day? I can’t even, Jack.”
Lenny pulls up to the house and grabs Jack’s bag. I carry my measly plastic sack, holding my possessions. Feeling like I couldn’t be arriving here in a less fashionable way.
After Jack pays him, we wave goodbye to Lenny.
Walking to the front door, my heart slows. Okay. This place isn’t a mansion. It’s actually ... quaint.
I take in the blooming hydrangea and lilac blossoms. The fragrant clematis climb along a wooden fence, and the walkway to the door is covered with moss and tiny white flowers. It isn’t the manicured garden I was expecting. This is a garden from a storybook.
The house itself is a two-story cottage, something built a hundred years ago, and Jack opens the unlocked door and lets himself in.
“Mom? Dad?” he calls, walking through a small foyer into a living room.
Large leather armchairs flank a fireplace; bookshelves cover the walls. Magazines fill a coffee table, but not my gossip rags. The yellow spine of National Geographic and the iconic cover of TIME stick out from the pile.
No one’s here, though. I follow Jack into a large kitchen, and the beautiful space has been renovated. But it isn’t granite and stainless steel. A large white enamel farm sink and butcher-block counters create a welcoming environment. A bright yellow Le Creuset Dutch oven sits on the stove. I watch Jack lift the lid.
A grin spreads across his face as he smells the pot. “Sunday roast.”
I can’t help but smile. My constricted heart softens, and those tears that don’t have any place here surface.
“What’s wrong now?” Jack asks, replacing the lid.
“I’ve been freaking out about coming here.”
“To my parents’?” Jack asks, pulling his head back in confusion. “Why? My parents are, like, the most down-to-earth people on the planet.”