Page 32 of The Best Wrong Move

“Should we come up with your plan of escape next? Something involving fire and nudity too?”

She laughs. “Probably. I need to get out of here and take a shower today. Brett just told me that my office has a funk to it, but that didn’t stop him from handing me another stack of records to comb through.”

We hang up after I make her promise to take the longest, hottest shower of her life in her own bathroom today, and then get a quick workout in to release a storm of endorphins into her bloodstream before she heads into another work bender. I briefly wonder if Abby and I should both forgo the idea of finding love with actual men, and just grow old together on a tropical fruit compound here in Hawaii.

Absentmindedly, I scroll through local land for sale on Zillow while making coffee, then click on a listing near the North Shore. The photos show a blue, two-story house on a lush green lot, perched on a small hill. The listing says it has views of both the rugged green mountains and the ocean, with two acres of fruit crops, including banana trees, avocados, and papaya. There’s even a mango tree near the pineapple patch.

I send Abby a screenshot.

Can you believe people actually live like this? They’ve made all the right decisions in life. Join me in banana farming, please

She responds immediately.

At this point I’d just settle for a shower and nine uninterrupted hours in my own bed. But, sure, let’s be banana farmers

I chuckle, wishing with all my heart that she was serious.

Chapter 21

Dom promised he’d check in on me later today, after he gets a mountain of work done. After writing for a while, I start hitting a wall of hunger, so I grab a travel mug of iced coffee and set out on a quick jaunt down to the ABC Store. I need sustenance if I’m going to nail this scriptwriting thing.

While checking out, the cashier at the little store recognizes me from the viral clip.

“You here to forget about that proposal?” she asks, but she’s smiling sweetly like she genuinely wants to know.

I sigh, forcing back a smile. “And to get more snacks.” I set a bag of yogurt-covered pretzels and a box of Raisinets on the counter. Her name tag hasGinnywritten in blocky letters.

“Did you move here or just visiting?”

I guess Ginny likes to keep tabs on her customers.

“Just renting a little place up the road for a few weeks. The snacks are a distraction from my writer’s block. Hoping the salty sweetness will perform a small miracle and I’ll accomplish what I came here to do.” Then I grab a chilled bottle of prosecco out of the nearby fridge and hold it up. “And this is if the snacks don’t work.”

She drags the bottle’s barcode across the scanner. “Ah, you’re a writer now?”

I’m not used to the slow, friendly pace here on the island. A grocery clerk would never dream of opening up a casual conversation back home. Everyone is always in too much of a hurry.

“Trying to be.”

“Then be one.” She smiles, like it’s that simple. “And I’ll be here when you need more salty-sweet miracles.”

She tosses a small pack of Swedish Fish at me, which I somehow catch with one hand.

“You got these last time you came in yesterday, right?” she asks, smiling. “Hopefully they help more today than they did yesterday.”

“Thank you, Ginny,” I say, feeling touched by her thoughtfulness. Most people like to gape at me, but she seems genuinely sweet. “Even with these, there’s still a good chance that I’ll see you later.”

“I think today is going to be your day,” she adds. “But, if not, come see me again. I’ll be here.”

As I’m walking home, thinking about how everyone seems so nice here, a shabby brown-and-black cat darts between my legs. It nearly trips me, weaving its lean body around my ankles with each step.

I catch my balance, careful not to trip on it, but the cat falls into a trot beside me, dodging over and under my feet until I finally come to a stop. Her coat has a unique coloring, like a bowl of mashed-up prunes.

When I stoop down to pet her, she immediately flops to her side, ribs poking up through the thin skin on her belly. She starts purring loudly, like a heavy rollerball is lolling back and forth inside her chest. I lean against someone’s fence and sink down onto the sidewalk, rubbing her soft fur through my fingers.

I might open the prosecco bottle right here while the cat and I have a good chat about writer’s block, stupid ex-boyfriends, and sexy Airbnb guys. But after about ten minutes, the owner of the house behind the fence comes out and crosses her arms, watching me like I may be a random drunk leaning against her property line at nine thirty in the morning.

“Aloha!” I say, grabbing my bag. Then I rise to my feet and shuffle down the road again.

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