Page 21 of Blame it on the Bet
“I’ve been wondering, where does all the snow go?” he asks me.
“I…I…” I stammer, caught off guard by his sudden change in direction. “What do you mean? It’s on the ground, all around us,” I reply, gesturing to the snow-walled sidewalks.
“No, no, I mean, the snow that’s plowed? I realize there’s a lot of it that ends up here on the sidelines, but surely this is a small portion of the snow you get. Where do the plows take it?”
I’m not sure why I find his question so disarming. Maybe it’s because he seems so earnest.
“Uh…well,” I begin while we continue walking, “it’s relocated. Some of it gets pushed into big parking lots—like at the high school. If there’s a lot of it, it’s loaded up and trucked to other towns with room to hold it until it melts down.”
“Right, right,” he says, nodding as if this makes perfect sense. “Because, really, it could just sit around here for months before it’s warm enough to melt. And then there could be more snow on top of that.”
“Yes, exactly,” I say drily, trying to discourage him from further conversation starters.
“You know…I thought it was pretty unappealing when I pulled into town yesterday. But since we got that dusting of snow last night, everything is so…” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Sparkly. It’s like the snow twinkles, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah…I do,” I agree slowly, unsure if he might be setting me up for some insult about Mayhem and the weather. But none comes.
“Seriously,” he continues as we make our way down Main Street. “I didn’t expect much from such a tiny town, but it’s got some serious character. I really like that. It’s such a contrast to the high-rise buildings and ridiculous traffic I see every day. And the people…my God! Everyone’s in such a hurry to get to…I don’t even know where. It’s like you need to get to wherever it is you’re going to as fast as you can, looking as perfect as you can, so you can impress as many people as you can.”
This impromptu little confession about his feelings for L.A. takes me by surprise.
“Well, it’s your home field isn’t it?”
Next to me, he shrugs, still looking straight ahead, and I’m struck by the simple, genuine sincerity of the action. He’s not feeding me a line. He’s being totally candid—something I hadn’t anticipated.
“I suppose so. But not by choice, really. It’s just the best
place for me to conduct my business right now.”
“Aren’t you happy there?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Crap, Hennessy! What do you care if this guy is happy or not?
This time he shoots me a sidelong glance, and I catch a hint of a smile. But it’s not one that I’ve seen from him before, not placating or snarky or superior. If anything, it’s a little bit…sad? Is that possible? Hell. Maybe he’s trying to play on my sympathies. This has got to be the weirdest approach I’ve ever seen—in or out of the courtroom.
“Sorry,” I mutter, hoping to cut him off at the pass. “That’s none of my business…”
“No, no. It’s actually very…kind of you to ask. Thank you,” he replies, the smile morphing from sad to grateful. “And, well, honestly… No, I can’t say I’m particularly happy there. But I’m probably about as happy there as I’d be anywhere else. So…it’ll do for now.”
He stops short, and I’ve walked a few paces before I realize I’ve left him behind me.
“But this,” he begins, gesturing to the storefronts around us, the snow on the ground and the clear blue sky above us. “This is something special you have here. I know you think I’m out to destroy America’s heartland, but the truth is that I’m actually drawn to it. I could invest in property in the south or the mid-Atlantic or any number of other places. But there’s something about the Midwest and the people who live here…”
“If you really feel that way, then why are you doing this?”
The words come out as a harsh hiss that surprises both of us. Bryan Truitt stares at me for a long moment, looks down at the ground, and then looks up again—with no trace of the wistful softness that was there just a moment ago.
“Miss O’Halloran, I’m not the bad guy here. I’m not doing anything but trying to buy a parcel of land. And, as much as you’d like to cast me as the villain to your damsel in distress, I’m not the one who tied you to the train tracks. I’m the one trying to cut you loose as the train barrels closer and closer.”
I have no response for this ridiculous analogy—and I refuse to give it another second’s consideration. Because if I do, I might have to acknowledge that he’s right. Bryan Truitt isn’t the person who put my sisters and me in this position. But I’m not going to admit to that or anything else right now. I can’t. I won’t.
Without another word, I start to pick up my pace, hoping he’ll get the hint and hang back. He doesn’t. And, before long, we look as if we’re in a speed walking race. By the time we’re in front of the bank, I’m breathing heavy and sweating inside my down parka. Bryan Truitt, on the other hand, looks as calm and put-together as he did three blocks ago. He smiles at me as he opens the door to the bank and holds it for me.
“After you, Miss O’Halloran.”
I don’t know what makes me do it, but I growl at him. Literally.
I mean, it’s not like a dog growl or anything. It’s much softer and comes from the back of my throat. Under my breath. But it’s there. No one else can hear it but me. And him. “Point taken,” he says with a soft chuckle as I roughly push past him and walk into the bank in search of my salvation.
