“Yeah…okay,” I stammer, swiping some hair out of my face and aiming my gaze at the floorboards in front of me.
“Happy Birthday, Dessy,” he says, a smile laced in his tone.
When the guest room door clicks shut, I finally allow myself to breathe.
“That went well,” Emy yells from the kitchen.
I grunt and stick my middle finger in the air. Of course, when I finally break my no-swearing rule, no one can see it. “I’m sticking a certain appendage high in the air that implies I hate you.”
“Aww. Proud of you, boo.”
* * *
“I really don’t thinkit’s the big deal you’re making it out to be.” Emy grabs a fry slathered in gravy. Chatter swirls around us in a mix of French-Canadian twang and a word now and then of English. Chez LaBranche, the local diner that caters to the second and third-generation Franco-Americans in Chawton Falls, is my comfort food place. After this morning, I needed the fix that only fries, cheese curds, and brown gravy could supply.
God bless Poutine.
“He bolted.” I glare, twiddling my fork between my fingers. Emy’s too nonchalant about this situation, considering it was her fault.
I’m not sure when Jack left the house, but he wasn’t there when I finally gathered enough courage to knock on his door.
A simple “Had to grab a few things. Happy Birthday again” text from him sat on my phone, and that was it.
No acknowledgment of the debacle that transpired that morning.
Our waitress, Delia, a former classmate—like everyone in the service industry here—refills my water for the fifth time.
“Thirsty today, are we?” she asks.
“Something like that.” I nervously laugh, taking a sip.
Delia smirks and leans in conspiratorially. “I would be too if I spent that much time with Jack Parker. Good for you.”
I choke, and Emy giggles, hanging out her first for Delia to bump.
“I always liked her,” Emy says as she sashays to another table.
“No, you didn’t. You threatened to fight her on the dirt road multiple times.”
Emy frowns, stealing another fry. “When?”
“Let’s see. There was the time she spread the rumor I was stuffing because I kept changing in the stalls in the locker room. Or the time she spread the rumor I was pregnant because I was having issues with bloating.” I’m still having issues, and the “congratulations,” and “when are your due,” conversations still sting, but when Delia spread that rumor—well, high school bodies are hard enough to love.
“Sounds like you should have been the one challenging her on the dirt road.” Emy shakes her head. She’s right. I’m terrible at sticking up for myself and always have been.
I’d never admit it to Emy because the stink-eye would be unbearable, but I tutored Delia on the side in French while she was bullying me at school, too.
I don’t know why I have such a problem. Maybe it’s because I hate being lonely, and I find myself with that hollow feeling far too often.
Or maybe it’s because my Memere firmly believed and drilled into me that a woman should approach every situation with kindness above anything else. That was true classiness. Even when the people on the receiving end of your kindness don’t deserve it.
Whatever the reason, I can’t shake the feeling that I got something wrong. Maybe kindness, much like people, needs a balancing partner to it.
“There’s probably a statute of limitations on the whole challenging someone to a fight thing, huh?” I ask, picking up my fork and sinking it into the fluffy buttermilk pancakes before me.
“Might appear a big unhinged if you did it now. But I’d totally support you.” A twinkle of mischief flashes in Emy’s deep brown eyes. And I believe her. She’s always been my biggest cheerleader.
Which is why something has been itching at me since this morning.
