Well Played (Well Met #2)(14)

Date: September 3, 4:47 p.m.

Subject: My Real Name


So.

I’m what you might call a miracle baby. My parents wanted kids from the second they got married, but had trouble conceiving. They tried all the old wives’ tale ways of conception, but no luck, and medical intervention was way too expensive for them. They applied to be adoptive parents and were put on some kind of waiting list. While they were waiting, they got a letter from my grandmother. My mom’s great-aunt, someone Mom hardly even knew, had died and left my parents a pretty big sum of money, but she earmarked it for my parents to try IVF. So they did, and eventually I came along. My mother felt like she had to name me after their benefactor, even though she was a distant family member that she didn’t really know. A nice gesture, right?

Well, let me tell you, Anastasia isn’t the most fun name to go through the first grade with. I’ve been Stacey to everyone who knows me since I was six years old. So I can be Stacey to you too.

There. Now it’s your turn. Tell me something about you.



His answer came more quickly than I expected. I wasn’t used to refreshing my email as constantly as the notifications that came through on my phone, so it wasn’t until almost bedtime that I checked my email again and saw that he’d answered within a few hours. I curled up on my bed, with its fairy lights switched on, and read.


To: Stacey Lindholm

From: Dex MacLean

Date: September 3, 7:56 p.m.

Subject: Re: My Real Name


Something about me. I’m really not used to talking about myself all that much. People don’t usually ask. I mean, the most interesting thing about me is what you already know: what I do for a living. I love it. The travel. Meeting new people, and basically living out of a couple duffel bags and a backpack. But it’s sort of one of those blessing-and-a-curse situations. Sometimes I miss home. And what’s weird is that I’m not sure that I know where home IS. I mean, there’s our family home, where I crash in the basement for the couple months a year that we’re back up there. But that’s not MY home. That was childhood-me’s home. Teenage-me, even. But adult me? I feel like a guest in the place where I grew up, and that’s a strange feeling. I’m starting to suspect that I don’t really have a home, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Sometimes I wonder how much longer I can do this. This life on the road. Don’t get me wrong, I love it. There’s something compelling about not having a fixed address, and not being tied down to things like mortgages and car payments. But sometimes meeting new people sucks. I’m a friendly guy, that’s not the issue. But I miss familiarity. I miss people who know me for more than a couple weeks at a stretch.

Then again, I get a little twitchy during those couple months every year that I’m home in Michigan. Restless. Then I’m packing and unpacking my shit, wondering if I can travel leaner, lighter, during the next round of faires. So maybe I don’t want that down-home kind of life as much as I think.

Am I wrong, Anastasia? There must be a reason that you stayed in a small town like Willow Creek. Tell me what I’m missing about small-town life. Besides you. Which, let’s face it, might be reason enough to convince me.



Well.

My heart pounded at those last couple sentences. I couldn’t believe this. Dex MacLean, who had a new wench at every faire, missed me. He thought I would be a reason to settle in one town. I flipped back to the tagged picture of him from our Faire, which I had downloaded to my laptop. I took my time savoring him. His smile, free and open and just a little naughty. The strong column of his throat and hint of chest disappearing into the loose linen shirt. Strong corded forearms; long, nimble fingers coaxing music from his guitar.

I studied his face with the new knowledge of this email I’d received, and I felt a twinge of guilt. I’d severely misjudged him, thinking he was just a fun piece of man candy for a couple weeks. No, Dex was the complete package: gorgeous as hell, but smart and sensitive at the same time. Why hadn’t he shown me this side of him when we were together?

Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I hadn’t let him in until I’d sent that first message. But he’d certainly let me know that it wasn’t too late.

Good job, Drunk Stacey. Maybe you didn’t screw up so badly after all.





Five



To: Dex MacLean

From: Stacey Lindholm

Date: September 4, 7:37 p.m.

Subject: Re: Re: My Real Name


I didn’t exactly stay in Willow Creek by choice. Some of us choose to settle in small towns; some of us have settling in small towns thrust upon us.

Let me back up.

When I graduated from college with a degree in fashion merchandising, I was so excited. I had a future. A job: my advisor had, by way of a well-worded recommendation letter, paved the way to an entry-level job in New York with one of the bigger department stores. A place to live: okay, it was with three roommates, and I was relatively sure that my future bedroom had originally been a closet, but it was in New York. I was on my way to everything I’d ever wanted. Independence. Excitement. My life was about to begin.

I only had one more carload of stuff to move to New York when Mom had her first heart attack.

I didn’t even get to start the job. I put them off, and for a few weeks they were even nice about it. But when Mom ended up needing surgery—the scary kind, with words like “bypass” and “quadruple”—those weeks stretched into months. I couldn’t imagine trying to start a new life and a new job away from home while worrying about Mom and her recovery. The job offer disintegrated. My New York roommates found someone else to sleep in their closet. I got the message: you’re not going anywhere.