Page 23 of Wicked Little Secret
The negative energy seemed mutual; he could hardly stand being around her either. Had he even paid any mind to the sculpture she had on display? Did he take time to notice her artwork? Did he even give any thought to the meaning behind it?
Of course not. Oafs like Wicker rarely do. It’s part of what makes them douches.
I’ve long wondered why women like Nyssa put up with men like Samson Wicker. Knocking on forty-two’s door, I’mno closer to understanding than when I was twenty-two. It must be some type of allure. Some draw to bad boys, as cliché as it sounds.
On that note, I shove aside any more thoughts on the matter, turning on my BMW with a press of a button. Finally, a chance to do what I really want on a Sunday…
“You left me!” Theo cries out five hours later. “How could you just leave without saying anything?”
I raise both brows at her as she pulls open the passenger’s side door and slides in. “Did you forget you wandered off without a word? Emma, Emma, over here!”
“I haven’t seen her in three years. Can you believe she got divorced and moved back to Castlebury to start over? She’s working admin at the police station and told me she’s into men…andwomen nowadays.”
“How fascinating,” I say sarcastically. “But I had no intention of spending my entire Sunday at some university art festival.”
Theo sighs, clicking on her seatbelt. “You’re insufferable. Why do I put up with you again?”
“It probably has something to do with that pesky blood relation.”
“Oh. Right. That. Are we sure we’re related? Maybe I got switched at birth.”
“Wishful thinking on your part,” I say, turning the wheel to pull away from the curb. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Theo launches into how she’s spent her afternoon, telling me all about catching up with her college friend Emma. I’m only halfway listening as I drive us back tomy house where her apple-green Volkswagen Beetle’s parked.
Apparently, she spent the entire time wandering the art festival with Emma. They dined on finger foods available from the vendors present at the event and drank copious amounts of iced coffee. They had originally been making plans to attend a show at a local dive bar but decided against it due to the stormy weather.
Fat raindrops speckle the windshield as I brake for a red light. The breezy, sunlit autumn weather from earlier in the day has long since faded. Thick clouds and chilling winds have taken its place, with streetlights popping on and most people rushing home.
The red light turns green. My foot presses down on the gas as we pass another block, and then a woman walking fast down the street captures my attention. She’s immediately familiar with her button-up dress and springy curls.
Nyssa Oliver, walking home in the rain. I almost slam on the brakes.
Almosthook a U-turn in the middle of the road.
As my BMW drifts further down the road, my eyes flick to the rearview mirror and I watch her slip out of sight.
A sensation like sinking stones hits my stomach. I check the rearview several more times on the drive home as if expecting Nyssa to suddenly reappear.
But she never does. She’s miles behind, at the mercy of the impending rainstorm.
“Thanks for being a decent brother and coming back to pick me up. I know how inconvenient it was for you to stop in the middle of your evening reading,” Theo says. She’s unclicked her seatbelt and begun gathering the knickknacks she bought at the festival.
I blink and realize I’ve pulled into my driveway. I drovethe rest of the way home without even recognizing that I had.
“Did I have any choice?” I ask, my words coming slower than usual. “You would’ve called Mom and tattled on me if I hadn’t.”
Theo whacks me one last time with the paper bag she’s clutching and then wishes me good night. I stay behind the wheel as she slips behind hers, twisting on her headlights and carefully backing out of the driveway.
She waves goodbye yet again before she finally drives off. I give a nod, counting the seconds until she’s rounded the street corner.
White noise roars in my ears. My heart beats faster, my pulse elevating. I’m not sure what comes over me other than to describe it as the rush spontaneity brings. In a rare turn of events, I make a snap decision. I go against habit and shift gears into reverse.
Backing out of my driveway, I turn in the same direction I’ve come from—the same route that’ll take me back to the art festival, and hopefully, the street where I’d seen Nyssa Oliver walking home in the rain…
6
THERON