AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I let my phone drop beside me as I make an Egyptian cotton five-thousand-thread-count sheets angel. Then I pick it back up and text Locke.
Me
One-night trial.
Hottie Icicle
You’re so good at making me happy. I’m proud of you.
Ugh, if I don’t melt into the bed thinking about Locke’s deep voice repeating those words into my ear. I’ll probably dream about pleasing him.
I think if I sleep here, I’ll never leave.
When I wake up the next morning, my car is sitting outside, newly washed and sounding like it has a brand-new engine. On the hood sits my lease.
One page. One paragraph. Written below a letterhead that reads Carmichael, Berry, Franklin, and Powell.
I can’t help but laugh. Locke has already signed it above his printed name along with David Carmichael, Attorney at Law. There’s a blank line waiting for my signature. I squint to see if he printed this off the internet as a joke, but no, it’s completely official.
Except for what Locke must have forced an actual lawyer to type out and sign: Maren Murray, the alliteration, can live in Locke Hughes’ guest home and do whatever the fuck she wants. Locke Hughes can kick Maren Murray out anytime he feels like it, though he will neverdo such a thing. Maren Murray can write Locke Hughes checks that equate to whatever she was paying when she previously lived alone, but Locke Hughes will never deposit them. If any other confusing legalese arises that Maren Murray does not understand, her opinion will always be correct.
It’s been three weekssince I signed my name on the line, wrote out a check for the deposit, first month’s rent, and an estimation of my car repairs, and dropped everything in Locke’s mailbox.
The first week, I was back in California for half of it while Locke skipped another tournament. The second week I was off from work while Locke played in the tournament in Mexico.
He’d come in second, but Landon won his first PGA tournament, which was pretty exciting. When I watched the highlights on television, Locke shook his hand and clapped him on the back, and I think he did it because he was happy for Landon—despite his face looking unemotional.
The only evidence that Locke lives next door is the occasional light I’ve seen come on, or the television glow from what I assume is his bedroom. He parks in the garage, so I never know if he’s home or not.
When I knew for certain that he was over a thousand miles away in Mexico and not spying on me from one of his enormous reflective windows, I felt comfortable enough to roam the backyard—if you can call it that. It’s more of a vast expanse.
My front yard is the second hole of Locke’s six-hole golf course that winds along the outer edge of his property. His pool had been calling my name ever since I laid eyes on it, but I had to wait until I was sure he wasn’t home to feel okay enough wearing a swimsuit and traipsing around like I was on spring break.
The one thing I wasn’t prepared for with living here is the loneliness.
When your core group of friends is rooted to your ex-boyfriend, you’re usually the one who gets left behind. And when your best friend/sister is about to have a baby, she and her husband are marathon dating before they’re too tired for shit like that.
So, one might be desperate enough to call their mother just to hear a human voice.
And desperate enough to fake enthusiasm when she answers the phone with, “Hi, Maren, sweetie. Oh, Camille told me all about your new house. Is this my invite call?”
“Hey, Mom. And soon,” I promise, making a mental note to yell at Camille for I-don’t-know-what-yet. “I’ve been trying to get settled in.”
A small laugh slips out at the thought of my mother meeting Locke. I wonder what some of the first words out of her passive-aggressive mouth would be:
You’ve always lived alone in this huge house?
Why golf? No, I can’t say I watch it. It’s boring. I’ve always preferred football.
A smile would make your face so much more handsome.
She sighs. “Of course, I’m sure you’ll invite me when you’re ready. Speaking of invitations, I can’t believe you’ll be thirty in a couple of months. Seems like yesterday I was giving birth to you.”
“All eighteen hours of it,” I say before she can. Usually, she makes it seem like I should feel bad and take responsibility for my unborn fetal self.
“Eighteen and a half,” she laughs. “But how are you feeling?”
“About?” I question her, despite knowing exactly where she’s going. To hell if I’m not going to make her say it out loud.
