Not the Rebound Guy by Abby Knox (popular books of all time .txt) 📗

about his beekeeping business. He reveals that his parents are retired and traveling the country in an RV. He has a brother who’s a university professor.

“As for me, I received a small inheritance when my grandparents died a few years back, and I used it to do what I’ve always wanted to do. Play music and hang out with animals.”

I could make a snarky remark about how stress-free and easy his life sounds, but I refrain. Instead, I chuckle, “At least one of us has it figured out.”

“She’s proud of you, you know,” Garrett says. It feels at first like this is out of nowhere.

I turn my gaze from the perfect rows of corn back to Garrett. “Oh?”

“She talks about you every day. She’s proud no matter what you do or how much you have figured out.”

There goes one of those red flags again. I squint at him. “And you see her every day?”

“Most days. And even more now that she insists on cooking for me all the time.”

I have a strange feeling there’s more going on here than what he’s telling me. Is he mooching off her? The chivalry, the truck, and the cowboy boots threw me off of the scent of the scruff, the hippie accessories, the messy hair. Maybe he’s some kind of transient trying to worm his way into Grams’ inheritance. Perhaps he has a history of this sort of thing. If that’s the case, good luck. Grams keeps about seven hundred dollars under her mattress, and that’s all there is.

“Why is she cooking for you all the time?”

He chuckles. “Well, you know how she is about guests in her house.”

There could have been a record scratch, and I wouldn’t have been more shocked. “Wait a minute. You’re staying at her house? Why? I thought you were her neighbor?”

Garrett goes on to explain—because apparently, Grams has left out a lot of details—that his house was severely damaged in a fire several weeks ago. The kitchen caught fire due to some faulty wiring, and his bedroom above it burned as well. “The inspector declared it uninhabitable while it’s being renovated. I was going to stay with my brother in Urbana, but Betty wouldn’t hear of it. And I don’t want to have to move my bees somewhere else. I kinda think they like the wildflower meadow between Betty’s house and mine. Not to mention her flowers and produce.”

I blink at him. “So if you’re staying in the guest room, where am I staying?”

If he hears the concern in my voice, he doesn’t let on. As casually as can be, he replies, “Oh, the guest room is yours as long as you want it. I’m fine sleeping on the porch.”

Who willingly sleeps on a porch more than one night for fun unless they’re eleven years old? This is unacceptable. “Excuse me, did my grandmother buy a pullout couch and hire someone to close in the porch?”

Garrett smirks and cranks the wheel at the sign at the intersection: “Welcome to Piper’s Grove!”

“Nah, I have a bedroll. That guest bed was too short for me anyway. My legs hang off the end of it.”

The man is either oblivious to how absurd this situation has become, or he is pulling my leg.

I have to consciously close my gaping mouth and remain silent for the rest of the ride. We drive past the turnoff for the drive-in movie theater (which I’m happy to see is still in operation), roll past the post office, the high school, the library. Nothing has changed. Not in my twenty-eight years of life has any of these things been updated—no surprises in Piper’s Grove.

None except the ridiculously hot porch squatter whom I’m going to have to step over every time I want to go outside. Unless I start using Grams’ front door, which would just feel wrong. I don’t think a single soul ever uses the front door. Even the different Mormon kids who show up every summer seem to know to go around back.

Just when I’ve talked myself into the idea that maybe I’m making too much of this situation, an animal’s wild bleating rudely interrupts my thoughts. Through the windshield, I’m somehow staring into a pair of unsettling blue goat eyes. I shriek in surprise, confusion, and indignation. Out of nowhere, this creature has appeared on the truck’s hood as Garrett parks next to Grams’ house.

“What the fuck!”

“That’s just Gertie; she won’t bite.”

Garrett laughs, throws the truck in park, and exits the cab. I stay put but roll down the window. I watch him scoop up the goat in his arms and gently set it down. “What are you doing over here, Gertie? Where’re your babies at?” The goat bleats when Garrett scratches her behind the ears. Just then, a scruffy little dog runs up, barking and jumping. This animal, he picks up and holds against his chest, laughing as the thing wiggles and licks his face. His voice changes in that silly way that dog lovers’ voices always do. It’s odd, but I’ve always been a little bit envious. No animal has ever had that effect on me, and I’ve always wondered if something is wrong with me or with everyone else. So, apparently, this man is at everyone’s beck and call: the bees, a dog, goats, and my grandmother. Something about this feels like a setup. He’s too good. Too perfect. Too … I don’t know. I mean, who in their right mind goes so far out of their way to pick up their neighbor’s granddaughter from the airport?

And then I remember as I watch this man who’s conversing with a goat and a dog at the moment as if they were classmates catching up on old times: This is Piper’s Grove. None of this generosity should be a surprise.

“Just hang on a minute, girls. I’m gonna help our new friend unpack, and then we’ll play, okay? Jeez, I was only gone two hours.”

“Oh no,” I protest, exiting the truck. “That’s not necessary;