Page 25 of Total Jane Wreck

“Ha, ha.”

Suddenly, against my will, I’m picturing Chet lying in bed. He’s bare-chested, hands behind his head, covers pulled down and skimming his navel. He’s looking at my painting, thinking about me . . .

Jeezle-Pete. Someone should just shoot me now.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” I manage to say. “Nobody likes a whiner.”

Chet steps away, toward the fence. “You got a minute?” His voice is so soft that he almost sounds shy.

I nod. “Sure.”

“Great,” Chet says. “I want to show you something.”

Chapter Twelve

Both her words and her air seemed to excite not only the admiration, but the amazement of her auditors…very dashing and daring indeed.

Chet leads me to the blue barn, which is several hundred feet to the left of the horse ring. The door’s handles don’t quite line up; they’re warped and askew.

Inside, it’s dark and spiderwebbed and smells like cedar. In here, you can feel the years, all stacked up like hay bales. Straw crunches beneath my boots, while Chet’s steps seem heavy enough to rattle the eaves.

In the corner, I spot a slop sink and, strangely, a toilet. “Do those work?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Chet says. “Years ago, the owners had a mind to turn this into a guest house. Clearly, they didn’t follow through on their plans. Except . . .” He grins and points past a rusted grain bin and a couple of empty stalls. “Let’s go upstairs.”

I look toward where he’s pointing. There’s a narrow staircase that’s more like a ladder with aspirations. It’s bolted to the north wall. Above us is a hayloft, and above that, a small hatch in the ceiling. It’s the classic horror-movie setup, but I’m too curious to be nervous.

“Lead the way,” I tell him.

Chet goes first. I follow, trying to ignore the unreasonably nice view of Chet’s jean-clad butt. At the top, Chet leans against the wall, catching his breath. “Are you afraid of ghosts?” he asks, just conversational. “Because supposedly there’s one up here.”

“I’m not scared of ghosts,” I say. “Just ex-fiancés and evil sister-in-laws.”

That makes him laugh, though he also tilts his head for a moment, as if in confusion.

This room above the hayloft is barely big enough for two people to stand up straight. Someone—probably years ago—finished the walls with plywood and painted them in crazy, swirling streaks of blue and green and metallic gold. There’s graffiti, poems, and a battered easel still upright in a corner. I’m drawn to it like a moth to a flame. “This is so cool,” I say, running my fingers along the easel. “Perfect spot for an artist to create.”

“Yeah, I wish I could let you use this space, except it’s, uh—” He gestures with hands, fingers splayed.

“Hardly OSHA approved?” I finish for him.

“Exactly,” he answers. “Best not to come up here.”

“Then why show it to me now?”

Chet shrugs. He ambles toward me, standing so the light through the eaves hits him just right. “I wanted to share the strange beauty of this place.”

He’s close enough that I could measure his eyelashes. For a second, there’s nothing else in the world but us two, the bohemian feel of this place, and his hand brushing mine.

The tight space and the low, slanted ceiling are making me dizzy. Like I’m at the very top of a roller coaster, right before gravity yanks me down. Looking into his eyes, I swallow roughly. “Thanks,” I rasp.

“For?”

“Showing me the barn, of course.” My lips part.

He’s staring at my mouth; I can tell. And I get the sense his pulse is racing, just like mine. Perhaps it’s subtle, but Chet seems to lean toward me, tilting his head to the side . . .

We’re two heartbeats away from collision.