Page 8 of Lovetown, USA

Lane

“Open your mouth, just a little. No, not like that. You’re not catching flies.”

I blow out a breath, holding my body still. Max, the white-haired tyrant of a photographer Britt sent here to torture me, is attempting to get a good shot of me in front of the county courthouse, and apparently, my face isn’t cooperating.

I’m not all that photogenic. If I had a dollar for every man who told me, “You look so much better in person!” on the first date after meeting me on the apps, I’d be…well, I wouldn’t be in this Stepford ass town.

“There we go!” Max yells over the click of the camera shutter. “Turn slightly to the left. Very nice. Very good.”

While Max checks something on the camera, I smooth down the skirt of my flowy pink sundress. Not my usual style, but I’m cute, I must admit.

“Okay, give me pensive,” he instructs. “Good, good.”

In my head, I’m telling him to shut the fuck up.

I’m so over this shit. The courthouse is the sixth location we’ve shot at.

And every spot, from the municipal gardens, Hearts Bakery, the bridal store, cathedral, and ballroom, bystanders have stared at me like I’m insane.

I don’t usually give a damn what anybody thinks, but I’m feeling extra self-conscious today. And I hate it.

“Now stare up at that cotton candy sky.”

I can’t help but burst out laughing at that, but I do as I’m told, and Max seems to like it.

“Alright, we’re almost done, gorgeous. Look off into the distance and think about love.”

Love?

Boy, fuck you and that.

The last time I let myself think about that word with any real weight, I lost four years of my life, my career, and my ass. My literal ass . So no, I won’t be thinking about that.

My mind does drift to Trey, though, and uninvited memories start pushing through…his mouth on my neck. His hands gripping my hips. That low, husky sound he made when he came. His tongue on my p—

“Perfection!” Max smiles for the first time since we started, which leads me to believe he’s bout sick of me. “I think we’re done, but stay where you are.”

I nod, closing my eyes as the sun beats down on my face.

Those memories of what happened a few nights ago, those are just images.

And it was just sex. No love. Of course it wasn’t.

We barely know each other, and both of us were clear on the terms of our night.

No strings. No attachments. Just one night of fun and passion.

And it was definitely both of those things.

I’m not sure why I’m surprised by how good it was. How good he was. Maybe because he didn’t take the openings I gave him. When men aren’t bold, I tend to assume their dick is trash.

Lesson learned.

“Alright, I need one more just like the last one. Look off into the distance and think—“

“About love,” I say, cutting him off. “I got it.”

Just as I’m focusing my eyes on a spot across the lot, I hear footsteps behind me. Someone’s passing by on the sidewalk. A deep voice sounds in my ear.

“Damn,” it says.

“Fine shit,” another one echoes.

I can’t help but glance over my shoulder. Two young men, of course, with their eyes glued to me.

Max glares in their direction. “Keep it moving, kids.”

But I wave it off and say, “It’s fine.”

Because oddly enough, it is. I normally hate being catcalled, but here, in this fake ass town full of painted storefronts and scripted meet cutes, that little moment felt… real . It was unfiltered and annoying, like life often is. The way life should be.

The other night with Trey also fits into that category. What he and I shared was very real. His giant penis was amazingly real, as were the three orgasms he gave me.

But also? The way he kissed me. The way he stared into my eyes. His cockiness. The way he talked to me. The way he handled me. All of it was real. No pretense. No agenda.

I appreciate that.

But it was just one night. I’m glad I have the memory, because that’s all it will ever be.

Later that afternoon, I sit across the table from a couple in their sixties. They look late forties/early fifties, but black don’t crack and all that.

I met them yesterday when I was walking near the hotel. She was speedwalking and he was following her with a large stick. My man was on high alert. It was sweet. Actually sweet, not whatever this cafe has going on.

They picked it, and it’s nice, but it smells like powdered sugar, and it reminds me how sick I am of this town.

Their names are Verna and Orlando, and they’ve been married eight years. After some inane small talk and a shared pastry flight, I turn on my recorder and set it between us, ready to get down to business.

“So how did you meet?” I ask.

“Well.” Verna’s face brightens behind her glasses. “It was a singles skate night. And I know what you’re thinking. ‘What are them old ass people doing teetering around on four little wheels?’”

I chuckle at that, because yeah, I absolutely was wondering why they’re out here willing to break a hip for fake love.

“We were invited,” Verna explains. “And I fell on my ass. I did. But he helped me up.”

Orlando beams. “I’d had two beers and thirty minutes of staring at this beautiful woman. You couldn’t tell me I wasn’t seventeen again.”

That pricks me a little.

It sounds like your typical meet-cute. Very down-to-earth. Very…plausible.

“How long did you date?”

The two exchange glances.

“I don’t even know that I’d call it dating,” Verna says.

“Oh. It was just sex, then?”

“Oh, heavens no!” she says as Orlando laughs. “What I meant was, it always felt like more than dating. At our age, it’s…it’s…”

“Courting,” Orlando chimes in. “That’s what you do when it feels right and you don’t wanna let her get away from you.”

“I didn’t tell him at the time, but I wasn’t going anywhere,” Verna says, a sly smile covering her face. “It felt right to me, too.”

I nod, my pen poised over my notepad. “To what extent do you think the town helped make this happen?”

They think about that for a moment.

“Well,” Orlando says, “I think the town makes it easy to meet your person.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Is it magic, or just aggressive matchmaking?”

“Little bit of both, sweetheart,” Verna says with a wink.

I don’t respond to that nonsense. I jot it down, though, because when I write this up, I need the delusion to be very apparent to the reader.

I’m in the belly of the beast here, so I can practically smell it, but I have to be able to put it on the page in such a way that it jumps off and hits the reader in the face.

I have to say, I was expecting fake and flowery, but the Hudsons were kinda normal, all things considered.

In the Uber on the way back to the hotel, I stare out the window, my frustration palpable. I remind myself that good stories rarely come easy.

We pass familiar storefronts, cafes with chalkboards displaying the day’s offerings along with quotes about soulmates, and the flower shop that only sells romantic arrangements, even this far out from Valentine’s day.

Yeah.

This town is going down.

Then we pass Trey’s office.

It’s closed now, but there it is. I recognize the planter sitting just outside the door, because I bumped into it on my way out the other day. I was telling him the truth when I told him I was clumsy.

Then another memory hits me.

His lips on my lips, both upper and lower.

I squirm in the cloth seat of this SUV that smells like old cigarette smoke, pressing my thighs together to quell the sudden ache.

It’s just physical, this thing between us. That’s all it could ever be.

Because I’m never loving a man again.