9
HE ate dinner outside on the balcony for the rest of the week.
Staring at her house every night before going to bed. Even though they’d pulled all the curtains at the back of their house—he said “they,” he was pretty sure it was Willa. Not wanting him to look into her life. Not wanting him to see her.
Willa never came out except to occasionally put what looked like thin books on the old cart, still sitting unused behind their house. Like it was waiting for Willa’s grandfather to come back. He’d watch her scuttle out, leave the book, then scuttle right back around the brick house. Never looking up. Never acknowledging even for a second that she knew he was out there on his balcony. Watching. And wanting.
But he kept staring anyway.
Like a psycho. What the hell was wrong with him?
Fo
