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I make a break for it, laughter chasing me out of the room like a deranged clown at a backwater carnival. I reach our rental car and pull on the handle with such force I'm surprised it doesn't come off in my hand.
"It was a joke!" Harper's giggle follows me, her amusement clear even from a distance.
"Not funny!" I counter, shouting over my shoulder as I fumble with the car door, eyeing the motel warily. The sight of the curtain at the front desk peeling back sends chills down my spine. "Just open the damn door unless you're volunteering to be the first contestant on 'Who Wants to be a Pickle?'"
The car beeps open, and I practically dive inside, my heart still racing. Harper rounds the car, tears of laughter streaming down her face. "The first what?" She asks between giggles, closing the door behind her.
"Pickle. That man," I jerk my head toward the motel, "gives off serious 'I'd-make-a-lamp-out-of-your-skin' vibes. Everyone knows they have to pickle you first before they mold you into furniture."
Harper erupts into more laughter as she starts the car.
"Thought you were looking out for me, not trying to get me cast in the next horror flick," I grumble, still catching my breath.
"Oh god," Harper clutches at her sides, laughter unabated. "I think I peed a little."
"Just drive, Harper. Floor it. Let's get as far away from this nightmare."
And with that, we leave the motel—and its potential horror stories—behind, trying our luck instead with a few hours of uneasy sleep in a truck stop parking lot, safely ensconced in our rented sanctuary on wheels.
Chapter 33
Harper
The car rolls to a gentle stop in front of a storybook-looking house, modest compared to the spacious four-bedroom homes Poppy and I grew up in. This one boasts only two rooms, surrounded by a small garden filled with fruits and vegetables, a testament not to my horticultural skills but to the gardener I pay. I’d likely grow poisoned apples before Honey-crisp ones.
Unstained pine shutters frame light blue shingles and a dark brown roof completes the picture. A massive pecan tree casts its shadow over half the house, a constant trigger for my irrational fears of a storm toppling it and crushing half the dwelling.
Can I cut it down to ease my fears? No, because the original lover of this charming, small house adored that tree.
A cute white picket fence, once admired by Peter, Poppy’s brother, encloses the property. That’s why I bought this place.
I felt like I was purchasing a piece of Peter.
As soon as I landed a paycheck big enough to cover the mortgage, I bought it under a fake identity. I never wanted anyone to know about this place.
It’s my safe house.
It’s Peter’s house.
I can’t deny coming here feels like I’m cheating on Peter. Knowing my heart now loves another.
I remember the first time Peter told me about this house. He made me feel like a child—not the kind in diapers, but the kind with a wild spirit. I remember the night when Poppy went out on a date with Andrew, and that’s when Peter and I started hanging out alone. He had finished college a year earlier than his twin Henry and was living in his family's house. I came over, and Peter pulled out his old bike. I sat on the handlebars as he rode us around the neighborhood well after dark. We laughed and giggled and shared our deepest, darkest thoughts and our wildest dreams.
Peter stopped his bike at this house, which was slowly being updated in an old neighborhood. I made a joke about his lack of endurance for having to stop. He kissed me with such force it knocked me off balance. He told me to look at the house. That’s when he confessed he wanted to buy it. That was going to be the house he started his family in.
I always wondered why he told me that. It was like he wanted my reaction, wanted to gauge how I felt about the house. Did he envision me and him starting a family here? Or was I just a girl lost in the clouds of love, dreaming that he was?
I shift the car into the park.I wonder what Poppy's night was like that night. Did Andrew hit her?
I was falling in love; my best friend was being abused.
“This is your safe house?” Poppy asks, her eyes scanning the modest dwelling.
“Yep.”It was the house your brother loved, too. I wish I could tell you that, but I’m chicken shit scared.
“It’s,” she pauses, taking it all in,“Really cute.”
Time to joke. That or cry.“Are you implying my tastes are usually not cute?”
