Saving Mr. Perfect by Tamara Morgan

Author:Tamara Morgan [Morgan, Tamara]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks, Inc.
Published: 2017-08-01T07:00:00+00:00

22

THE PHOTO

The next day dawns bright and clear—what Jordan would call ideal conditions for scientific experimentation; what Riker would consider a blight on all attempts at secretive reconnaissance.

“Every goddamn person in the city comes out at the first sign of sunshine,” is his most common complaint on days like these. “Don’t they know I’m trying to monitor the deliveryman’s movements?”

I’m not trying to monitor anyone’s movements today—or ever again, apparently—so the world is free to come and go as it pleases. Instead, I find myself elbows deep in a pile of dirt, cursing so loud that even squirrel-hating Harold across the street starts to look worried.

“So that’s where you hide your money. I’ve been wondering.”

A shadow crosses my path, literally and figuratively. I look up, the sun beaming in my eyes, and indulge in one last curse for good measure. There are several people I have no wish to see today, and Tara Lewis is at the top of the list.

“You’ll have to keep wondering, then,” I say, unable to keep the pique out of my voice. “It’s not here. Who would keep millions of dollars under a rhododendron?”

Tara tilts her head. “Is that a rhododendron?”

“Of course it’s a rhododendron.” I rock back on my heels and stab my spade in the dirt. It’s only my second choice for the sharp metal tip, but there are witnesses around. “You’re being contrary on purpose.”

“No, I dated a florist once. I’m pretty sure that’s an azalea.”

“You mean you conned a florist once. I think I know my own garden better than you do.”

“That’s what she said.”

I try not to laugh. I don’t want to laugh. It’s not a good joke, and the last thing I want to do is encourage Tara to stick around. But an hour of hunching in one place and the realization that I couldn’t tell the difference between a rhododendron and an azalea if the fate of the world hung in the balance is enough to tip me over the edge.

“Help me up,” I grumble and take a small amount of satisfaction from slipping my dirt-covered hand into hers. “It’s the least you can do after all the problems you’ve caused.”

She ignores me, staring at her dirty palm in confusion. “Are you really gardening?”

“You can’t tell?” I glance over the small patch of land where I’ve spent the better part of my morning, scraping dirt and pulling weeds, and realize I can’t tell either. Stupid gardening. Why is this even a thing people do? “Damn. I was trying to be normal.”

She laughs outright. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Normal. Ordinary. The kind of person who takes delight in making green things poke up out of the earth.”

“Why?”

That’s a good question, but I don’t have a good answer. Because this is my life now feels as pathetic as it sounds, and because the alternative is to steal someone else’s identity and practice being normal that way has a decidedly disturbing ring to it.

“It’s something I’m trying out,” I say.

“And?”

I sigh. “I’d rather sit inside an empty box for fifteen hours with only a single air hole poked in the side.

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