Backstage Romance: An Austen-Inspired Romantic Comedy Box Set Gigi Blume (fantasy books to read .txt) 📖

“Al, Nebraska? Really?”

A moment passed where I bat my eyes at Wyatt innocently and he gave me the I don’t buy it glare.

“Okay,” I caved. “The truth is, I’m terrible with names. So I make stuff up.”

“Seriously? Al has to be the easiest name in the world. There’s only two letters.”

“Yeah, well.” I shrugged. Surely I wasn’t the only one who did that. Wasn’t that normal? “I like to use first names of famous composers. Franz Liszt, Claudio Monteverdi, etcetera. It’s usually only in my head, though.”

The corner of Wyatt’s mouth curled up.

“So what name did you give me?” he asked, eyes twinkling. It was the gold flecks catching the sunlight, probably.

“Wolfgang.”

He nodded, letting that thought bounce around a bit. “Okay. I’m gonna go get the bus tickets. What was the town we need to go to?”

“Avery?”

“Right. Avery. You remember that.”

I smiled proudly. “Oswald Theodore Avery. He’s a founding father. Of course I remember that.”

“Yeeeaaah. I’ll be right back.”

He took off, leaving Reeses with me, and returned a few minutes later, still laughing under his breath. “Wolfgang. Funny.”

If you say so, buddy.

“I’m not gonna call you Wolfie if that’s what you’re thinking. Wyatt is much more interesting.”

He gave me the side-eye. “Not sure if that’s a compliment, but thanks.”

He sipped the last of his coffee and winked. There was something refreshing about him. Perhaps it was his casual charm or the way his flyaway hair caught the sunlight, framing his face with an angelic glow. He was raggedy but confident in his own unique way. And that dimple. Oof.

A cloud of smoke billowed onto the bus platform. Down the way, an old monstrosity of a bus squeaked to a stop with a booming hiss, belching diesel exhaust. Large patches of rust covered most of the roof, corroding its way along the sides where the faded paint once displayed a patriotic red white and blue wave. Passengers piled on through both doors, carrying all sorts of parcels and bags. They certainly weren’t wasting any time.

“Surely that’s not our bus.”

Wyatt smirked at me. “How much do you wanna bet?”

The driver came around the front and manually changed the destination sign to Avery.

“Oh, you gotta be kidding.”

Wyatt tossed his coffee cup in the trash and laughed. “Come on before all the good seats are taken.”

By the time we filed in behind half the population of Nebraska and all their cousins, Wyatt and I couldn’t sit together. It shouldn’t have made a difference to me but it did for some unexplainable reason. The lady occupying the seat next to me held a chicken on her lap. Wyatt had Reeses in that mesh travel bag and had to stand near the back. He had all his bags and the dog and held on tight to the metal bar while the bus lurched forward. I tried to take Reeses at one point but the chicken wasn’t having it, batting its feathers, clucking like a maniac. It was inside a cage, but seemed to smell my fear, those beady eyes staring me down.

Yes, as a matter of fact I did have eggs for breakfast, Chickaletta.

The bus rambled along the highway, clattering with a thunderous roar. One of the windows not too far from me was stuck open, poorly remedied by a square of cardboard and some duct tape. The cold air still seeped through. Among the cornucopia of smells, even rising above the lovely aromatic sulfur of the diesel engine, was the arresting odor of farm animal. Probably goat. I didn’t see any goats, nor did I hear the bleats of a goat, but there was definitely a goat on the bus.

I looked over at Wyatt. He threw me a silly grin trying to keep his balance. Admittedly, this chicken bus had certain advantages over New York’s transportation system. The absence of mysterious sticky pee smelling blotches for starters.

And really, things weren’t so terribly bad. I had a belly full of kielbasa burrito, we were on our way to Avery, it was two days until Christmas, and there was still a chance I’d make it to California by midnight if I could only get to an airport.

An elderly man with a long wiry beard made his way down the aisle at a slow pace, checking tickets. He wore a red tartan trapper hat and had a flush of pink on the end of his nose. He reminded me of a skinny corn-fed and wrinkly Santa Claus. Thirty-five minutes in and he was just now taking tickets. I wondered what he would do if there were any drifters on board. Halt the bus and throw them in the snow?

He approached, took the ticket from Chicken Lady and made a little rip before handing it back. Then he held out his hand to me without even making eye contact.

I pointed back at Wyatt. “My friend has my ticket.”

He frowned and moved on. So he was a skinny, wrinkly, not jolly Santa Claus. Ho ho ho.

Several minutes later, Wyatt’s voice reached my ears. His tone was heightened and agitated. I turned to see Unjolly Santa shaking his head while Wyatt waved his arms around. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it didn’t appear seemly. The old man said something back, pointing out the window.

Oh gosh. He was going to throw us out into the snow. Did Wyatt lose the tickets? Scenes from Polar Express flashed through my head. I pictured myself on the roof of the moving bus, flurries of snow catching in my hair, conversing with a ghostly hobo while drinking coffee from a sock.

Wyatt stumbled over to me biting his lip.

“What’s going on? Did you lose the tickets?”

“No, I have the tickets.” He pulled them from his pocket.

“What’s the problem then?”

He crinkled his nose, knit his eyebrows together, and said with a forced smile, “Funny story.”

10

Georgia

Reeses barked at the rusty old bus as it rumbled its way down the road, leaving us on the outskirts of a small town. At this point, nothing