Rock and a Hard Place - By Angie Stanton Page 0,3

comment. She didn’t want to think of her mom. She missed her so much her heart hurt. “You’ve been here before?”

“Quite a few times, actualy.”

Of the dozens, maybe hundreds, of times she came to Parfrey’s, she never saw them. How odd that today they would meet. This news warmed her insides. She wondered how many times in this last lonely year they just missed each other coming and going.

“Hey Petey, who’s your girlfriend?”

Peter’s other brother yeled as he moved toward them with a cocky walk and hooded eyes. He appeared older, a little shorter than Peter and not nearly as good looking. He stared down at her as if she were a mangy dog.

“That’s Garrett,” he said under his breath. “Ignore him, he can be a jerk.”

“Hey Loverboy, Mom said it’s time to eat.” Garrett stopped before coming too close, as if Libby was tainted.

Libby puled her knees in and hugged them. Garrett made her feel like a second-class citizen. She couldn’t see any resemblance between him and Peter.

“I’m coming,” Peter got to his feet and turned toward Libby.

“I’ve gotta go, but maybe later.”

She’d love to see him more than he’d ever know.

Libby checked her watch. “Oh my God, I didn’t realize how late it’s getting, I’ve gotta go.” If she didn’t leave right now, she’d get the third degree. She flipped the sketch pad closed and gathered her belongings.

“Here.” Peter extended a hand to her, his face kind and close.

“Thanks.” She grasped his strong hand and stood enjoying the warm touch of his skin.

“It was fun talking. I wish I’d bumped into you sooner,” he said.

Was he actualy disappointed to see her go?

“Who knows, maybe I’l see you again someday.” He rewarded her with a mega-watt smile.

“Maybe.” She couldn’t imagine it happening, but for the first time in months she felt happy.

“Have fun on your tour.” She dumped the weeds and wild flowers onto the ground. “I’ve gotta go.”

She hesitated for a moment not wanting to end the magic. It had been a very long time since she’d relaxed and hung out with anyone, let alone a great guy who smeled good.

“Wel, bye.” She ran down the trail into the woods. Once in the thick of the trees she turned back. Peter stood in the same spot holding one of the wildflowers she’d left behind. He waved. She waved back then disappeared into the woods.

She recaled the touch of his hand on hers and brought it to her cheek. Being with him made her happy and a little giddy. An unfamiliar sense of euphoria washed over her.

Libby took the long way back, so Peter wouldn’t see where she lived.

# # #

Libby braced as she approached the beat up old farmhouse.

It loomed forgotten on acres of rich farmland and wooded areas.

Most of the land was leased to a farmer who benefited from the fertile soil. From what she could tel, the leased property was her aunt’s sole method of income. The rest of the property sat abandoned and lonely with a colection of broken down cars littering the yard. The odor of leaking oil and rusted metal clung to the air. Once a vegetable garden flourished providing fresh life and nourishment, but that must have been years before.

She didn’t know why her aunt let it al fal apart, but her parents always said Aunt Marge struggled with demons early in life and never recovered from the fight. Libby heaved a sigh and inserted her key into the lock on the paint-chipped door.

Upon entering, the familiar smel of smoke and trash filed the air. The television blared in the next room, confirming her aunt’s presence. She hoped to sneak upstairs unnoticed.

“Don’t forget to lock the door behind you. We can’t be taking any chances.” The gritty voice of her aunt holered from the sickeningly sweet smoke-filed living room. “People are getting murdered in their beds every day.”

“It’s locked,” she said resigned. The house was dark, as always. Aunt Marge kept the curtains closed and shades puled.

She didn’t want the Peeping Toms watching her. Who would want to watch a middle-aged woman smoke and drink al day?

“Come in here and let me get a look at you.” Libby dropped her backpack at the foot of the steps and dragged her feet as she entered the living room. Aunt Marge reclined in an upholstered chair, her feet on a mismatched ottoman.

A dented up TV tray served as her coffee table, cluttered with smoking paraphernalia, a bottle of whiskey and a dirty glass.

“What’s wrong?”