Her mouth hangs open just as she’s about to throw another apple but my way this time. It stays open for some time before she closes it. Not fast enough that I don’t see herlittle pink tongue peeking out for a second. Her throat jerks with a swallow, and I instantly feel like a prick.
My anger deflates as I sigh. “Nora.” My voice is soft.
Her anger only simmers more. She narrows her eyes at me, grabs three apples, throws them into her cart, and moves past me, running the wheel of her cart over my foot. On purpose, I imagine. I bite my tongue to not say something else I’ll regret.
“Nora,” I call firmer.
But she doesn’t reply. Her shoulders take a defiant stance as she squares them back, solidifying her defensive walls. I stand like an idiot in the grocery store, watching her stride away, and it feels like I’m losing something I never had.
Or maybe she just needs a little more time. Maybe I do too. I’ve never chased anyone just so I could explain my actions, and I’m not about to start now.
The next few days are hell. Everywhere I go, I run into her, but she won’t give me the time of day. It’s like she’s perfected the art of acting like I don’t exist, and every time I try to talk to her, she shuts me down before I get two words out.
By my fifth attempt, I stop trying, angry at her and myself for even making it this far. Why the hell am I so convinced I have to explain anything to her? She’s right, I don’t owe her shit. Or anyone for that matter.
24
Nora
Ignoring Jericho turns out to be a hard thing to do. Especially when we both live in a small town with few options for grocery shopping and getting coffee. In our various run-ins, he tries several times to deny what happened, and something within me wants to believe him, but I just can’t shake the feeling of betrayal. The feeling that I have no right to even feel because we aren’t together. Some days I just flat out refuse to speak to him at all. Others I snap at him like a petulant child. Before meeting Jericho Landell, I was sure about my own maturity, but he’s making me question it every single day.
I open my eyes to the alarm—instead of the shrieks of that feathered monstrosity—and feel a sharp chill when my foot pokes out from under the covers. The house is so drafty, I might need to find a contractor to replace windows or figuresomething else out because taping them doesn’t protect from the frigid Maine temperatures anymore.
When I’m brave enough to get out from under the fluffy comforter, I pull the curtain from my window and realize that I’m going to be late for work. A strong wind is blowing an almost solid wall of white around the house, and judging by the snowdrifts against the backyard fence, there’s no way I’m getting out of here without shoveling at least a narrow path for my tires.
The only good thing about this snowstorm is the lack of cock-a-doodling. The little terrorist probably couldn’t come out in all this snow—it looks like it would be taller than him. At least I got those couple extra hours of sleep.
I don’t have time for a shower so I quickly brush my teeth, pull my hair into a low ponytail, apply a layer of lipstick, and run downstairs to get myself a cup of coffee before heading outside to brace for the storm. Grandma’s back from Cheryl’s and still sleeping, so I try to stop the coffee machine before it starts beeping. Somehow, she always knows when the caffeinated drink is being made, and she’ll be up before I can switch the beans to decaf.
Pouring the scorching hot liquid into the travel mug, I keep glancing at the stairs in fear that Grams is coming, and I’ll have to throw it all away so she doesn’t get my extra strong brew. And I don’t think I can take on that mountain of snow without a strong drink.
When the dirty deed is done, I clean the coffee maker, switch the beans, and set the timer for when she wakes up, hoping with a fresh pot ready she’ll be less tempted to look for the caffeinated beans.
I put my extra heavy coat on, along with a hat, scarf, and gloves, open the door, and try to push the storm door open. It gives in only on the second attempt due to the brutal wind. Hiding my face behind my scarf, I walk to the corner of theporch to get the shovel. Then walk back to the stairs. Then pause.
The snow is slashing sideways right into my face, casting a thin layer of white on our clean porch.
Ouralreadyclean porch which has been cleared and salted. I mean, I don’t lick the surface to know it’s salt, but the melting pieces of ice are a clear indication even to my still sleepy brain.
I shift my attention to the little pathway toward the house and I find that clear too. As is the sidewalk next to it. I press my eyes harder and open them again, trying to figure out if I’m not sleeping because there’s no way our driveway, along with the sidewalkandporch would be clear. Ever. The only one who does it around here is me. Cheryl is usually busy shoveling snow around her own house if she’s not working during the storms—a lot of weird stuff tends to happen around here when people are bored inside their houses.
I walk to my truck, still blinking slowly, a shovel tight in my hands in case all of this is a dream. The cold creeps in even through the layers of clothes and my thick jacket, revealing to me that it’s not a dream—my fantasy wouldn’t have icicles slicing my face.
Then Jericho’s door opens, and his giant frame shows up, illuminated by the light from his house. Without noticing me, covered behind a curtain of falling snow, he starts walking to his truck which currently has a plow attached to its front. His cheeks are red, probably from being outside too long in the cold. His eyes are droopy, his shoulders hunched a bit forward while they are usually straight and proud. He looks extremely tired.
The puzzle pieces start connecting. I straighten my shoulders, because it’s easier to swallow my pride this way, and head toward him.
He looks a bit startled when he notices me on his path. After blinking a few times, instead of sendingme on my merry way as I’d been doing the whole week to him, he asks over the sound of the wind, “Are you okay?”
This genuine reaction to seeing me in his driveway in the wee hours makes me feel like a total witch considering my treatment of him. Then I recall the kiss he gave to hisgirlfriendwhen a few days before he was telling me about his sudden love for peaches, and the guilt evaporates in an instant.
“Nora,” he reminds me about the present, stepping closer. “What happened?”
“Did you shovel our driveway?” It comes out as an accusation, and I almost flinch at myself.
His eyes drift behind my back toward my house. “Yeah.” He sounds distant. “I contract for the town for storms.”
“Oh.” My anger deflates at his logical answer till I remember that private driveways are not considered a part of town property to be maintained. “And you just cleared it all?”
