Page 3 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

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Of course that stupid girls’ night had bitten Clementine in the ass. She should have known better than to try and make non-reptile friends. Socializing wasn’t in her DNA, especially when conversation veered to talk of foster care. If she’d known one of Jenny’s friends was a foster parent, she’d never have gone. Listening to the woman praise those government services had been excruciating. Everyone else had smiled and nodded along with her effusiveness. Not Clementine, who had intimate knowledge of how wrong foster care could go. Nope. She’d lashed out at the woman’s ignorance, revealing parts of herself she never shared, and had stormed from the apartment.

Four weeks later she still wanted to throat-punch herself for attending.

Tired of rehashing that horrible night, she focused on her current job and reread Lucien’s text.

Lucien: Find Elvis Presley.

The instruction sounded simple enough. Unfortunately, it wasn’t 1957, and she was en route to a town overrun with the deceased celebrity.

Clementine: You’re a real comedian.

She pocketed her phone and pumped gas into her rental car while scanning her beige surroundings. A single tree punctuated the flat landscape, bruised grasses staggering in the faint breeze. An old man sat on a nearby rocking chair, pipe in hand, sentry to a dilapidated convenience store. And was that an actual tumbleweed blowing down the dusty road?

Yep. An honest-to-God tumbleweed.

She stowed the pump and resumed texting Lucien, hoping he’d feel her steely-eyed stare.

Clementine: You’ve sent me to Lucifer’s playground.

Lucien: It’s not hell, Tangerine. It’s small town Nebraska. Breathe the fresh air. Make nice with the locals. And get us that painting.

Clementine smirked. Tangerine. Grapefruit. Kumquat. Yuzu. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d used her actual name.

Clementine: The fresh air of which you speak is stifling. Sweat is practically dripping from the sky.

Lucien: You hate New York winters. Quit bitching, enjoy it, and stop dragging your feet.

She gulped at his last comment.

Clementine: I’ll secure the painting in no time.

Lucien: But don’t rush. Rushing leads to mistakes.

Clementine: I won’t let you down.

Except she already had.

Without that awful girls’ night, Clementine would have flown here from New York as planned. A quick flight to prepare her character and analyze last minute details. Instead she’d spent the past few weeks distracted and down, and hiding in her apartment to avoid Jenny. When the walls had felt like they’d been closing in, she’d chosen to drive to Nebraska. A quicker escape from home, only a twenty hour drive. But she’d been on the road three days now. Three freaking days, delaying her arrival, her unease growing as she neared her destination.

Annoyed with herself, she put that night and its after-effects out of her mind. She swiped a line of sweat from her neck. She needed a cold drink, something fizzy and bright to wake her up. The shoebox convenience store, with its rotting siding and worm bait advertisement, didn’t look particularly convenient, but it would do. Still, she didn’t move.

Her attention dragged to that lone tree. It stood tall and stoic. Strong. Resilient. Alone. An unnamed ache spread through her chest and she rubbed her breastbone.

“Passing through?”

She swiveled. The pipe-smoking man was intent on her, his skin as weathered as the scorched earth. The wooden sign above him hung at an angle. Thanks to the odd slant, its painted arrow pointed toward the ground. It read: This way to Whichway. She snickered.

“That’s how the town got its name,” he said, his voice like crunching snow.

“Excuse me?”

“Whichway.”

“What way?”

“The town down the road.” His rocking chair chewed over gravelly pebbles. “There ain’t much to see there. Farms. Prairie. That big ’ol factory. No reason to stop and visit, but it’s on the way to larger counties. Folks passin’ through often ask directions: Which way to here? Which way to there?” He shrugged. “And the town of Whichway got slapped on a map.”