Page 85 of Dead Rockstar

I blanched. She noticed my expression and frowned. “Sorry.”

“It's okay.” I managed to smile. I must really have looked rough - Sloan never apologized for shit. “I wasn't gone long enough to have lost weight. Though I had a hard time finding vegan fare. He did make me the most amazing spaghetti one night.” My cheeks flushed as I remembered the spaghetti Phillip had started, then forgotten, because we were upstairs, wrapped up in each other. Jason had finished that spaghetti and he’d teased us about it during the meal. We’d toasted Phillip with good red wine and Phillip and Jason’s wide smiles had both been so genuine, so full of joy, me sitting in the middle, just watching them, deliriously happy, while Phillip’s hand had caressed my thigh under the table. “And anyway, it was Blinken who was apparently starving.” I wasn’t planning on letting it go, whatever she thought.

“Yeah, sorry,” she muttered, having the good sense to look down at her feet. “I did feed him, but I didn’t come as often as I should have. My bad.”

My bad? Really? A few choice words sprung to my lips, but I bit them off with a placating smile, deciding it wasn’t the time to start a fight. Later, though, for sure. The old doormat Stormy was gone for good.

Sloan regarded me with curious eyes.

“So are you going to tell me what happened?” she asked. “With Phillip?”

“Yeah,” I said, letting out my breath in a long sigh, though it was a lie. Sad as it made me, I wasn’t sure I wanted to entrust her with everything that had happened, with all my newly obtained secrets. “Eventually. What about you?”

“Same,” she said. “Eventually.”

And that was that. We finished our coffees, got dressed, and an hour later were in my poor, abused truck heading to Brunswick to the market, back where I’d started. The day was sunny, but the air was cold and windy. I could smell the salt in the breeze. The truck was still making the knocking noise and I made a mental note to check my funds and take it into the mechanic on Monday, if I could afford it. Along with the note that I couldn't bear to think about, I had also left Phillip's money sitting on his suitcase. I didn't want it. I never had.

What I wanted I could not have, not without bringing more trouble to the man who had dealt with enough of it already.

The market was surprisingly dead for a Saturday morning and Sloan and I didn't even have to stand in line to get fresh, warm chocolate croissants from Juan. Two more steaming hot coffees and a loaf of ciabatta later, we stood over by the picnic tables, wiping crumbs from our mouths. I handed her my little bundle wrapped in parchment paper. “I can't eat mine,” I said, pushing it at her. “I don't have any appetite.”

“But these are so fucking good,” she protested.

“You go ahead. I can't.” My stomach was doing somersaults.

“So who is this VIP we're here to see? The gluten free lady? Because if you think I'm going to start eating cakes made with chickpea flour-”

“No, it's not her,” I said.

“Ooooh, I know. That cute avocado farmer you told me about. Yes! Get right back on that horse, that's the spirit! Where is he?” Her eyes danced. Gone was the weary, abrupt Sloan from the night before. I wondered, again, what was going on with her, why she was being so weird, so flaky.

“No, it's not him, either,” I said. “But if I'd been smart, I would have jumped on that before...everything.”

“There's still time.”

“Nah,” I said. “I'm not interested.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fiiiiine. So who are we here to see then?” She popped the last bite of pain au chocolat in her mouth and licked the chocolate from her fingers.

“Her.” I pointed down the middle row to the little table that held the goat's milk soaps, bundles of sage, bottles of random items – the “Pagan Priorities.” Sitting in a folding chair with a green canvas was a stooping woman with long, red hair with streaks of gray, in two messy braids, and clad in a pink sundress – if I remembered right, the same one she'd been wearing when I'd last seen her, handing a delicate little soap to Phillip. I felt a pang in my chest. “If you want to stay here, I'll go talk to her. You don't have to come.”

Sloan craned her neck, looking. “I don't even see who you're talking about. That row is so clogged. The lady with the hibiscus jam or the one beside her with the hemp purses?”

“Neither.” I pointed again. “The Goat's Milk Soap lady – the one with the Pagan Priorities sign.”

Sloan followed the direction of my finger, then went visibly pale. “Uh.” She bit her lip with a little gasp and shook her head.

“What's wrong?”

She tried to recover herself somewhat. “You go talk to her. I'll stay here.”

“Do you know her?” I asked. When she didn't answer, I asked again. “Sloan?”

“I need a bottle of water,” she said, shaking her head again. “That croissant got stuck in my throat. I'll meet you at the truck.” Then she was barreling out of the market and toward the parking lot, digging her phone out of her purse as she went.

I stared after her, baffled, and then shook my head and moved toward the makeshift table, squaring my shoulders. I'd worry about Sloan later - she was being weird as fuck, but I didn't have time for it right now. I was here, and I was going to talk to this woman and find out what I needed to know. I swallowed down the butterflies and took a deep breath, telling myself not to take any bullshit. I would take care of this once and for all. For me. For Phillip.

When I reached the table, I had to stand and wait while she bagged up four waxy, fragrant bars of soap for a woman in a hideous long, flowing dress that seemed to be made entirely from burlap. They exchanged a few pleasantries and my brain screamed, ready for this to be over with. If I had to wait much longer, I'd lose my nerve.

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