“This is my weekly newsletter. Feel free to flip through it!”
My eyes widen as I take in the bold headline: ILLUMINATI IN YOSEMITE: AN EXPOSÉ. Underneath is a black-and-white photo of a forest and a badly photoshopped Illuminati symbol, hovering in the sky. Similar insane headlines are littered throughout the paper, GOVERNMENT MIND CONTROL PESTICIDES and KGB AGENTS AMONG US.
“Uh, is this a joke?”
Given the fervor shining from George’s eyes, it’s definitely not. He laughs and seems to take it in stride. “It’s no joke. My newspaper has the most subscribers in Fair Oaks. The only one that comes close is Mary Weather’s birdwatching newsletter.” A shadow descends over his features as he twists his thumbs. Damn that Mary Weather and her pesky competition.
What the hell am I supposed to say to Illuminati in Yosemite? Biting back a grin, I look at him. “Wow. Well, thank you.”
“You’re very welcome, Olivia. Don’t forget my wife’s weekly crockpot recipe. It’s on the last page! It’s peach cobbler.”
A conspiracy theorist newsletter with a recipe section. I try not to laugh as George waves at me and approaches other customers. At the very least, it’ll be interesting reading.
An older woman in line leans toward me. “Don’t mind George. He’s eccentric but harmless. I’m Trudy, by the way.”
Her pruned hand feels like soft leather as I take it. “I’m Olivia. Oh, don’t worry. I didn’t think he was…” A complete psycho? Dangerous? I trail off, but she nods.
She lowers her voice to a stage whisper. “Everybody in town subscribes to his newsletter to get his wife’s crockpot recipes. She makes the best chili. Wins every year at the chili cook-off, and it’s been six years in a row, now. I’m hoping one of these days she’ll slip and reveal one of her secrets.”
Another voice down the line chimes in. “I read it because I like her recipes.”
“Everyone does.” Trudy glares at the man behind us who spoke up.
“Does he know everyone reads the newsletter for the recipes only?”
“God, no! The poor dear. It would hurt his feelings.” She turns around when the line moves, and I tuck the newspaper in my purse.
What a quirky little town. They even have their own conspiracy theorist. I watch as the cashier greets every customer by their first name. It takes about ten minutes for me to get to the register with all the chitchat and how-are-yous. Fair Oaks couldn’t be more different from the hustle and bustle of San Francisco. I couldn’t even tell you my neighbors’ names. And I’ve been living in that building for over a year. With Mark. A chill spider-crawls down my spine as I think of my phone on the nightstand, blazing with a million text messages.
The moment I stepped inside our apartment and heard a soft giggle, I knew. And yet I climbed those steps anyway. They left a trail of clothing on their way to our bedroom. I saw tangled limbs. Smelled the stench of sex—another woman’s perfume all over my sheets. Then I turned on my heel, picked up the suitcases I’d already packed, and left. They didn’t even notice me.
And you know what I felt?
All I could think about was the social media project at work for a celebrity’s shoe line. I thought about the drive here. I thought about a stubborn spot that just wouldn’t wash out of my jeans. I screamed my head off in the car to Queen, but I didn’t shed a damn tear. And I knew I never would.
I don’t care.
The table at the Airbnb rattles as I slam the wine bottle down, glaring at the four walls of this place. Unanswered emails from work blink at me from the phone.
Fuck. It. All.
I pull out the conspiracy theory newsletter and burst out laughing at the headline again. Maybe after dinner I’d read this thing with a glass of wine. When was the last time I’d actually read something for fun? Too long. And while I’m here, there won’t be any distractions. No work. No Mark. Nothing but peace and—
Someone knocks.
Damn it. Who is it?
It takes two seconds for me to cross the room and open the door to one of the most stunning men I’ve ever seen.
“Hello, welcome t—ah.” Recognition dawns on his handsome face.
Oh my God. It’s him.
“Well, well, well,” he chimes. “San Francisco.”
The mechanic is standing at my front door. Wearing clothes, thankfully. He wears a plaid flannel shirt, all the grease washed from his body, his black hair slightly damp from