Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 101398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
“Oh. Then your fiancée?” I say, but it’s more of a question, and when he furrows his brow, I add, “Or…your…uh…girlfriend?”
He shakes his head, and his brow line only creases more with confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“I…” My gaze makes its way to my shoes. If he doesn’t have a wife or a fiancée or a girlfriend, then what in the hell is that tattoo for? I have a hard time believing it’s because he has an obsession with flip-flops and beach vacations.
“Is this your way of trying to see if I’m single?” he asks, and I swear one corner of his mouth twitches into a smirk, but it can’t last more than a split second. “Because I’m not interested, sweetheart.”
“What?” My jaw gapes open like a fish that just got yanked from the water.
“I don’t date. Ever.”
“Wait. You think I’m interested in you?” A shocked laugh jolts from my lungs. “Um, no. No thank you. I noticed the tattoo on your finger and figured Summer was—”
“My tattoo is none of your business,” he cuts me off with a gruff snap and pointedly covers that very tattoo with his other hand.
Talk about cryptic.
Like you should talk, Ms. I Came to Red Bridge to Escape My Own Secrets.
Bennett proceeds to avert his attention from me entirely, and I’m left standing there wondering how every interaction I have with this guy ends up here. If we were in his truck right now, this would be the point in the night when he’d hit the brakes and kick me out.
Something inside me wants to find a way to take a detour. To end up at a destination that doesn’t end in a crash on Bad Temper Road.
Maybe you should try not to be so damn nosy? Especially on the same day he ended up in handcuffs because of you…
“Look, I…I really wasn’t trying to pry. I’m sorry. Sometimes curiosity just gets the best of me.”
His eyes peer into mine, searching for what, I’m not sure, until he lifts his glass and says, “Water under the bridge” before finishing off the rest of his drink.
His response is probably the best-case scenario for a man like him. Honestly, I figured I had a less than one percent chance of him answering me with actual words.
“Bennett, I—”
“Norah, we need to go.” Josie startles me with a persistent hand gripping my shoulder, her voice a mix of impatience and annoyance. “Now.”
I glance behind her to see Clay heading straight in our direction—or, should I say, Josie’s direction—fire, once again, licking at his heels.
“By the way, Bennett, I really appreciate what you did for my sister today. Thank you,” Josie interjects on a rush, not even giving Bennett time to respond before quickly turning back to me. “Let’s get out of here.”
“C’mon, Josie,” Clay states as soon as he arrives, his golden-brown eyes locked on my sister. “Just talk to me for a minute.”
“No.” That’s all she says.
“You’re in my bar, babe,” he comments with a little smile. “And you never come into my bar.”
“I’m only here because of my sister. Not you.”
“Are you sure about that?” Clay questions and places two hands to his hips. “If I recall, you said you’d never step foot in this bar again. Not for any fucking reason.”
“Sometimes we have to make exceptions and do things we absolutely don’t want to do because it’s for the people we love,” Josie retorts and grabs my hand. “Let’s go, Norah.” Between one second and the next, we’re on our way out the door, Bennett Bishop and Bartender Clay nothing more than a memory.
Well, well. Seems to me I might not be the only one keeping secrets in this family. Or in Red Bridge, for that matter.
Saturday, August 7th
Bennett
Nine Inch Nails pounds from the speakers hung discreetly around my studio, and Trent Reznor sings about how nothing really matters anymore.
I wish I could agree with him.
I push and pull my brush across the wall-sized canvas before stepping back to get a vision of the piece as a whole. An abstract vision of yellows and blues and reds and greens stares back at me. The work is undefinable, but at the same time recognizable.
It’s exactly what it should be.
I’ve never been the kind of artist who stays boxed into a certain style. I’ve dabbled in impressionism and surrealist-style portraits with a raw edge. I even spent a year doing purely conceptual art that was meant to shock my audience.
But for the past two years, I’ve been immersed in the abstract, my intention focused on creating a picture, a painting, that I haven’t planned. That might seem arbitrary and even a little destructive, and truthfully, it is, but what it isn’t is predetermined—because life isn’t either.
The beauty in this, I’m finding, is that even though nothing I’m creating is preset or even visually something tangible, the human brain will still want to associate it with something we’re already familiar with because it craves logic and comfort.