Page 29 of Story of My Life
“What kind of bed? Is it a king-size? You look like you’d prefer a king-size. I’m absolutely getting a king mattress now that I have the space for it. That and closet space are what dreams are made of,” I babbled.
I was still scrambling for possible topics of conversation thirty seconds later when our crabby driver brought his truck to an abrupt stop next to the curb. We’d made it two entire blocks from the general store altercation.
“Out,” he ordered.
Zoey didn’t have to be told twice. She jumped out of the back seat like it was full of birds eating fish heads.
I wasn’t as ready to be free of Mr. Inspiration. What if I couldn’t find him in town? What if our paths never crossed again?
“Thank you for the ride…and the show…and the first aid,” I said, poking the bandage on my forehead.
He grunted, still looking straight ahead.
“And sorry about the eagle and the sign and making you play Lyft driver.”
This time he looked pointedly at the clock on the dashboard.
“I guess I won’t keep you.” I released my seat belt and slowly began to gather my things.
“Hazel?”
I stopped what I was doing to look up at him. “Yeah?”
“If you need anything before you leave…” Those green eyes burned me up like they were emerald fire.
“Yeah?” I asked breathlessly.
“Don’t call me.”
“Har har. You’re one of those funny, chivalrous guys, aren’t you?”
“I’m neither of those things.”
“Then what are you?” I pressed.
“Late,” he said pointedly.
Zoey knocked on my window, jolting me out of my stupor.
“Uh, Haze? You sure this is the right place?” she asked.
For the first time, I looked at the building we’d stopped in front of. “Uh-oh.”
“This is the address you gave me,” Cam insisted as if I’d accused him of abducting us and dumping us in the woods.
Ignoring him, I climbed out of the truck and stared up at the monstrosity before me: 44 Endofthe Road. The number on the gate was partially disguised by an explosion of vines. Beyond the rickety picket fence and tangle of weeds posing as a front yard rose a three-story ramshackle mansion in eye-searing salmon.
“What did you do, Hazel?” Zoey asked as we stood shoulder to shoulder.
“I’m leaving,” Cam called through the open truck window behind us.
“This isnotwhat it looked like in the auction listing,” I insisted.
“It looks like the haunted house no one lets their kids go trick-or-treating at,” she observed.
Remembering the paperwork, I patted my bag and fished out the folder. “See? Look at this. It’s the same style and the windows and doors are in the same place, but in the pictures it’s not hideous and terrifying.”
A shrill whistle cut through the quiet. Behind us, I heard Campbell swear and shut off the engine. We turned and spied a small group of teenage boys running down the sidewalk toward us.
