A Lie for a Lie (All In, #1)(11)

“I’m just down the road if you need anything. It’s probably a fifteen-minute walk along the beach, but I’d wait until morning before you go exploring.”

“I’m probably just going to unpack and maybe tidy up a few things. It’s been a long day.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve been going since five.”

“You must be beat.”

“Kinda, yeah.” He glances around my cabin and seems disinclined to leave, but since there isn’t much else to say, he finally heads for his truck. I wait until he’s disappeared down the long driveway before I close the door.

“It’s fine, Lainey. You’re fine. Just put on some music and enjoy the beginning of your first-ever adventure,” I mutter to myself.

I find my portable speaker in my bag, plug it in, and put on some happy, upbeat music.

I resume unpacking groceries, putting away the fridge items first. It’s not very big, so it’s a bit like a three-dimensional food puzzle, but if I close the door fast, everything stays put.

Next I move on to the dry goods. Everything is fine. I can totally do this. I don’t need a big place or an actual oven to cook. I can get by with a hot plate and a microwave.

I open one of the cupboards and am greeted by a mousetrap—with a very dead mouse in it that smells absolutely putrid. I scream, because the black holes where its eyes used to be are staring at me, and it’s disgusting. I stumble back and fall on my butt in the middle of the kitchen. The floors are rough-hewn wood, and I manage to get a palm full of splinters.

“It’s fine. You’re fine,” I say, for what feels like the hundredth time already as I sit with a lamp aimed at my palm and pick each sliver of wood from my skin.

But I’m not fine at all. My vision blurs, and I suck in a panicky breath.

What have I gotten myself into, and how am I going to make it through the next six weeks on my own in this turd heap of a cabin?





CHAPTER 5

PRACTICE MAKES ANXIOUS





Lainey


“Hello, RJ!”

“Hi, RJ.” I shake my head at my reflection. “Hey, RJ!”

I blow out a breath.

I’ve been standing in front of my mirror for the past twenty minutes, practicing saying hello. The thing about being really into learning is that I haven’t spent a lot of time figuring out how to interact with people. I’m really good at presenting information and findings, but conversation isn’t my strong suit.

RJ said his cabin is a fifteen-minute trek down the beach. I use the term beach loosely. It’s more like a path cut into the grassy, sometimes rocky terrain with water on one side.

I’ve been here for two days. I have no internet reception. I’ve seen lots of birds and rodents and, in the distance, some whales. My only human interaction has come in the form of cashiers and a waitress at the diner I had lunch at today.

In the short time I’ve been here, I’ve made some interesting discoveries—such as, perpetual daylight sucks. Also, since I’m unable to connect to the internet, I can’t check my email or do any research. I have no satellite, and I’m bad at keeping a fire going.

More than anything else, this cabin sucks. It’s cold, drafty, dusty, musty, and creaky. There are a lot of spiders, and I’m pretty sure I have several rodent roommates, possibly related to the one I buried the day I arrived. Also, the hot-water tank seems to have an issue. So far my showers have been ice cold, which isn’t great, because my fire keeps going out—even though I took outdoor adventuring as a Girl Scout. Although I was never allowed to actually go on the outdoor adventuring trips because, according to my mother, those were too dangerous.

I called the rental office hoping they’d be able to help, or maybe they would have alternative accommodations better suited for human habitation, but they’re away on vacation and won’t be back for another week. So I’m stuck in this dump with only my textbooks and two novels, both of which I’ve already read. I also haven’t slept much, so I’m a little emotional.

This morning when I called my parents, I lied to them, which isn’t something I typically do. But I’m determined to make this work, so it was necessary. I told them I’m having a great time. I had to practice faking enthusiasm for ten minutes before I made the call. I’m also grateful for the terrible cell reception. It means my parents can’t video chat with me and see my puffy eyes or call me out on my lies.

After I got off the phone, I decided the best plan was to go to town and pick up a couple of tote bins to store my clothes and dry goods in. Hopefully it will make the cabin less enticing for rodents.

Two cab rides, three hours, some limited human interaction, one diner meal, and a shopping trip later, I’m back at the cabin. All of my clothes and dry goods are safely packed in totes, and now I have an entire afternoon free. With nothing to do.

So I’ve decided to bring RJ a thank-you gift. Well, it’s also an apology gift. It’s like killing two birds with one stone. Although I’d never kill a bird. But it’s a thank-you for being so kind and understanding on the plane—planes—and an apology for falling into his lap, accidentally kissing him on the cheek, and getting sick on the Cessna. And a thank-you for giving me a lift here from the airport.

I picked him up a six-pack of beer while I was in town, the same kind I saw him buy when we went grocery shopping together. I run my fingers through my hair and adjust my hat. Maybe a little makeup would be advisable.