Page 22 of Lovetown, USA

Lane

I’ve been in the county tax assessor’s office for over an hour flipping through dusty spreadsheets, property rolls, and enough property tax records to make my eyes cross.

My coffee’s been cold for a while now, but my instinct is hot. There’s something in these pages, I can feel it.

The clerk behind the counter has yawned so many times I’ve lost count. His yawns and the hum of fluorescent lights above are the only sounds I’ve heard since I’ve been here.

There are sounds in my head, though, and they sound like Trey. I hate to admit it, but I’m feening for that tall man. The other night, after the movie, he took me back to the hotel and dropped me off. He said he had some work to do. I pretended like I understood, but I was pissed. I wanted him.

I still want him.

I angle my head from side to side until my neck cracks, then stretch my back. I need to focus. Research is boring and tedious, and often sedentary. But I press on.

It’s my tenacity that gave me the ability to write the stories I used to tackle.

The chemical plant coverup in Carter, Georgia.

The investigation I did on underfunded women’s shelters.

That one won me the Franklin Award for Investigative Journalism.

Then there was my piece on financial mismanagement in a chain of charter schools.

That one got me recognized by the governor.

So I’m not new to this. I’m true to this. Or I was .

I hope I still got it.

And then I see something.

A small line item tucked inside a “residential property tax exemptions” table, sandwiched between veteran benefits and homestead exemptions. It’s labeled Marital Stability Incentive Program.

I blink.

Then read it again.

The language in the fine print seems almost deliberately sterile, perfectly designed to keep curious eyes sliding past without a second glance.

But I don’t miss a damn thing.

Qualified residents who enter into a legal marriage within thirty-six months of establishing primary residence in the jurisdiction shall be eligible for a phased property tax reduction over a five-year period.

That’s it.

The smoking gun.

Satisfied, I sit back in the chair and smile. I’m not doing a victory lap yet, but I finally have something real I can use.

I jot notes furiously, the scratch of my pen the only other sound in the cavernous room. Every word I write feels like it’s feeding the beast of my exposé. It’s proof that this ridiculous town isn’t a fairytale come true. It’s a program, and it’s been carefully planned.

True love, my ass.

I finish taking notes, gather my things, and head next door to the coffee shop, once again assaulted by the aggressive heart motif covering almost every inch of this fucking place. I’m almost mad that I’m starting to get used to this shit.

Couples fill nearly every table, even now at two in the afternoon when their asses need to be at somebody’s job. They’re holding hands, leaning in close, smiling in that nauseating way that makes you wonder if all the lights are on upstairs.

I settle at a small table by the window and dump my stuff on top, trying my best to block out the annoying laughter around me.

Laptop open, a Love Potion Latte in hand, I’m just starting to type up my notes when my phone buzzes.

My mother.

“Hey,” I say softly into the phone, lowkey hoping she doesn’t hear me.

“Hey, baby.” Her voice is a little too cheerful, which is always a bad sign. “I guess you heard by now.”

“Heard what?” I say, even though I already know.

“Me and your daddy are going on a cruise.”

“Great,” I deadpan. “Have fun.”

“We plan to! We’re gonna celebrate our anniversary.”

“Yes, I remember you mentioning that,” I say as I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m not sure if you hear yourself when you say that, but it doesn’t sound good on my end.”

“What do you mean?”

I blow out a breath. “People don’t commemorate their divorce together. It’s not a thing.”

“Of course it’s a thing,” she laughs. “We might not be on paper anymore, but we still enjoy each other’s company.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” I say. “You’re divorced. Maybe stop celebrating it like you’re in a rom-com. It’s not cute.”

She sighs loudly. “You’re so negative. My God. Me and your daddy…we just don’t take ourselves too seriously. That’s how you get through life. You gotta find the joy in things.”

“There’s nothing joyful about confusion, and that’s what this is.”

A man at the table next to me looks over. I give him a nod and lower my voice.

“I watched y’all go through a painful divorce only for you to be out here hopping in each other’s beds and going on trips together.

How do you think that made me feel? How it makes me feel now?

” I shake my head. “Sorry, I’m not celebrating that.

What did you used to say? God is not the author of confusion. ”

“Well, the Bible says that.”

“And you repeated it!”

“Relax,” she laughs. “Loosen up. You’re so uptight now, my goodness.”

“I’m good,” I say bitterly, trying my best to steady my voice before it breaks.

“Mm hm. You talked to Reginald lately?”

I nearly choke on my latte. “Why in the world would I ever talk to him again after what he did?”

“I still see his mother around,” Mama explains. “She always asks about you.”

Fuck her and the uterus her son rode in on. “Tell her I’m fine. Now .”

“I only asked because maybe…maybe he’s changed. People can surprise you.”

“Yeah, he surprised me, alright. Once was enough.”

There’s a pause before she shifts gears again. “How’s the assignment going?”

Finally, something I can talk about without feeling depressed. “Better than I expected. I think I found a real story here. Some kind of scam or corruption.”

She bursts out laughing. “Of course you’d turn something sweet into a conspiracy. So, what are we calling the article? Lovergate?”

“Gee, Mama, thanks for being so proud of me.”

“Oh, come on,” she laughs again. “I’m teasing.”

“You know I’m an artist. I’m sensitive about my sh—stuff.”

“I know, I know. Well I look forward to reading about the grand conspiracy.”

“As you should. It’s gonna be good. It might even get me out of this hole I’m in.”

Mama doesn’t respond to that, but I already know how she feels.

As weird as she and my father are about their divorce, one thing I can say about that woman is that she always has my back.

When I lashed out at Reginald, she cheered me on all the way.

Some might call that enabling, especially since it cost me my career, but I call it a mama bear doing what she does for her cub.

After our call ends, I look up Mayor Daphne on a hunch, surprised to find that she has an MBA in finance. No law background to speak of. That’s a bit unusual for a politician.

But it makes sense. Mayor Daphne seems to be all about the numbers and the money that comes with them.

My instincts prickle as a smile breaks across my face.

I think I just found another clue.