“I’ll give you my PayPal address. You can pay me back and I’ll find someone who actually needs the money.” I can’t write on the Parlonis’ receipt. I have one of Sylvia’s business cards in my pocket. I cross out her email and write mine. The gas station attendant gives me a grinning thumbs-up and I burn red with humiliation.

He studies the business card I put into his palm. “A retirement villa?” His eyes spark. The irises are mixed colors— familiar, but I don’t know what they remind me of. He is holding a new laugh in. “What’s going on with you, anyway?” I cram myself into the car and lock it. “Wait, wait,” the guy shouts. Now his I’m sorry is muted and far away. I’m sorry too. Funny how fast a good deed can turn bad in the outside world, like time-lapse footage of rotting fruit.

While I wait for a gap in the traffic, I look in my rearview mirror, praying he doesn’t try to follow. The heel of his palm pressed to his temple is universal language for, I fucked that up. At least he realizes it. Most people who hurt my feelings never have a clue they did. I just invested twenty dollars for a reminder of why I stay at Providence and tucked in my safe little forum in the far corner of the internet.

Outside World Shields Up.

“YOU’VE BEEN SO quiet today,” Melanie says behind me. “Did I say something, or … ?”

“I got my feelings hurt a bit last night. Not by you.” I keep staring at the parking lot, watching for a car.

After I sorted out the Parlonis and left them asleep on the couch, holding hands, I stood in front of the mirror in my bedroom. Then I used a second makeup mirror to look at myself from behind. That guy was right: From most angles, I am an old lady. I messaged my forum admin friends Austin, JJ, and Kaitlynn. The group chat was a big chorus of outrage— what a dick, that’s so RUDE, of course you’re not old— but the reassurance didn’t feel authentic because none of us have ever actually met in person.

“Here’s what I know. You’re a good person, Ruthie,” Melanie says so kindly. “And you don’t deserve hurt feelings. Tell me who did it and I will kill them.”

“A complete stranger. Someone I’ll never see again.” I recheck the time and sidestep the tight squeeze of emotion in my throat. “I need to focus on the meeting. I wish I knew what it was about.”

“I’m sorry,” Melanie says. “I know I screwed up big-time.”

When I was up a ladder replacing a blown bulb outside the recreation center this morning, Melanie took a message for me. All she wrote down was:

? Jerry Prescott

? Today @ 3 P.M.

? Maintenance something?

“Jerry Prescott owns Providence,” I told her, with sheer terror coursing through my veins. “You spoke to his assistant?” She shook her head no. “You spoke to the owner of Prescott Development Corporation? PDC? PDC?”

“He sounded nice, I think,” she replied.

I have tried everything— even an improvised hypnotism session in the darkened office— but Mel swears she can’t recall any more details than that. Jerry’s assistant never called me back.

A motorbike turns into the parking lot.

“Nope.” I’m looking for a rental car. The rider takes off his helmet, shakes his head back, and looks up at the office. I’d know that phenomenal head of hair anywhere.

CHAPTER FOUR

A sensation I’ve never felt before unfurls in my chest and now my heart is throbbing in my ears. Angry, thrilled? The guy from the gas station is here to repay his debt, or apologize for laughing at me, or to ask for more cash.

“Oh great,” I say out loud. I don’t have time to deal with him on top of my shredded nerves. “Mel, I need you to run interference on something.”

“I live for that,” she confirms instantly. “Can do. Point me at it.”

But … my mouth doesn’t open and I don’t want to delegate just yet. The breeze picks up his hair and swirls it artfully. Just like at the gas station, he sits sideways on his motorbike and is in no hurry. There’s that bulging backpack again. I wouldn’t think riding around with everything but the kitchen sink strapped to your back would be very comfortable.

“Who’s that?” Melanie says, coming around to look. “Do you know him?”

He owes me money. Don’t ask.” I enjoy being mysterious, who knew?

“But I have many, many questions,” Melanie argues. “I really wish we had the Sasaki Method agreement in place, because then I could give you some serious advice. That one’s out of your league, girl.”

Why’d she have to say that? I am a dork. He is on a motorcycle. High school wasn’t that long ago, and I know what combinations are impossible in real life. I’ve got that familiar hurt feeling somewhere near my heart, like Melanie’s dug her thumb into a soft peach.

“In a million years I would never— ”

Melanie advises over the top of my protests, “You’ve been walking around with hurt feelings over— actually, I have no idea what. I’m not letting you get hurt by this one. He is a Lamborghini, and you’re a learner driver. You’d tap the gas and drive into a wall. Hurting yourself.”

“It’s really not like that. You’ve got the wrong idea.”

“I see a bad boy. Do you see that too?” I have to nod. “You need a nice suitable man who won’t destroy your heart. Never loan money. Never get yourself hurt.” That last bit is a protective scold. Melanie links her arm through mine, squeezes, and holds tight. “Suddenly I’m glad you never go anywhere.”

Embarrassment and the friendly lean of her shoulder on mine makes me gruff. “I’m not stupid, Mel. I can’t even imagine trying for a guy like that.”

What a liar. I can imagine everything.

I feel the crunch of gravel under my shoes. I’m stepping between his knees, twisting my fist gently in his hair. I tip his head back. His eyes spark with surprise, a new laugh on the tip of his tongue. He allows me to hold him in place. I make his cheeks burn with color as I tell him something honest, and I drop my mouth down to his and—

Melanie interrupts. “I wouldn’t blame you for fantasizing.” (I try not to squirm.) “Wow, that’s some pretty hair. Maybe prettier than mine. Ugh, I hate that guy.” She drops my arm and threads her ponytail through her hands. Like he can feel her attention, he twists his black mane into a knot with an elastic from his wrist. It’s safer for the general public if he holsters a hair weapon like that. “You’re really not going to tell me how you know him? At least tell me his name.”

“I can’t.”

The nameless guy sits there, yawning big lion roars. A tortoise lump gets closer to his boot. He picks it up, talks to it, dances it gently on his palm, then puts it in the garden. That tortoise’s thought process is something like: He’s so big, beautiful, and funny, but why did he do that to me? I’m not actually injured, but I’m also … not okay?

Maybe he’s rehearsing what he’ll say. A good speech, combined with that torso and the repaid sum of twenty dollars, and I might just get my faith in (young) humanity back. I can’t seem to take my eyes off this person.

The clock is ticking, bringing Jerry Prescott closer and closer. I need to get myself together. “I’ll run out quickly. Just to get rid of him.”

Melanie replies, “I’ll do it.”

Before I reply, a late-model sedan comes into view. This is the rental car I’ve been watching for. The driver accelerates fast into the space beside the motorbike, braking with a screech. That tortoise would have been pancake-flat. A man hops out, and it’s Jerry Prescott. (I have done some extensive online research/stalking, so I can say this for sure.)

He speaks to Tattoo Guy and gives him a slap on the shoulder. Hey, man, how’s it hanging? Men are all part of one big penis club. Poor phrasing on my part. Now I’m looking at Tattoo Guy and I’m thinking the words big penis …

I force myself to move away from the window and rearrange water glasses on the tiny meeting table.

“They’re coming in together,” Melanie narrates. “Young Guy is picking up a different turtle now. He’s showing it to Old Guy, who’s mad about it. They’re walking up the path. They’re having an intense conversation. A chest poke. Can’t see them now, but they’re almost at the door— ”

“Knock, knock,” Jerry Prescott says in the doorway and I still jump. He comes inside, and Tattoo Guy leans in the doorway, an air-paddling golden bonnet tortoise in one hand and his backpack hanging heavily from the other.

“Hello, Mr. Prescott. Nice to meet you. I’m Ruthie Midona.” I weave through the tight office space to shake his hand. “I’m holding the fort in Sylvia Drummond’s absence.” I sound plummy and old-fashioned, a good solid secretary type in my cardigan and loafers. Oh man, I’m still wearing my reading glasses on their chain. And they’ve been noticed.

“Oh hey,” the young guy says with easy recognition, like we’re old friends. “I had a real interesting dream about your glasses last night.”

I decide I didn’t hear that. “And this is Melanie Sasaki, my temp.”

“Ruthie, Melanie, good to meet you both.” Jerry pumps our hands vigorously. He’s the older version of Tall, Dark, and Handsome. He has an expensive smile. To me he says, “I’ve heard a lot about you from my team back at HQ. You’re a lot younger than I expected.”

“I get that a lot.”