Right, there was another couple walking around this morning. They’re the only other people I’ve seen out here.
I follow their footsteps, shivering and limping and feeling like a sad, wounded animal—a tiny, injured bunny that the bunny colony kicked out because it’s too pitiful and useless.
The footsteps lead to a brick cafe that looks open, and I could almost start crying again, this time in gratitude to this intrepid small business owner who isn’t afraid of a little snowdrift.
I step inside and the heat immediately releases some of the tension the chill caused around my jaw and shoulders. The bready, sugary smell makes my stomach growl, even though I’m not hungry. I stomp off my snow on the mat and limp right upto the smiling woman at the counter. My cheeks tingle as they thaw.
“Didn’t expect to be so busy today,” she says with a smile. I turn back to look at the couple I know will be here, and that’s when I see Oliver.
Great.
He’s talking to the couple, too engrossed to notice me. If not for my ankle, I’d debate taking my order and running.
“What can I get you?” the woman asks. Her name tag reads “Maggie.”
“I’ll take a hot cocoa.”
“I’ll throw in an orange roll for you and the mister,” Maggie whispers with a wink as she runs my credit card.
“The—what, sorry?”
She leans in, like we’re in on some big secret together. “Oh, your boyfriend back there has been telling us how he messed up. But don’t you worry: Pat and Terry are giving him tips for how to fix things with you.”
I don’t know which word to repeat for clarification purposes. None of what she just said made sense. My ankle is staging a mini, stabbing rebellion at me for standing here, talking to the woman.
So I take the plate, two forks, and my cup of cocoa and turn around to see Oliver looking at me almost bashfully. The man at the other table is wearing a smirk, while his wife wears an understanding smile.
Understanding what, exactly?
Oliver jumps up and comes over to take the plate from my hands. “Here, let me help,” he says.
Um, what?
“Okay,” I say, and I’m about to limp after him when I realize I can’t let him know I’m limping. If he sees me limping, he’ll think I’m not safe to drive, and he’ll try to drive, which will be all sortsof impossible for him, and then he won’t be able to react quickly enough when something happens, and when we go off the road, it’ll be my fault.
Everything will be my fault.
So I swallow down the pain, not letting myself yelp as I force myself to walk on my twisted ankle. But I could win at hide-and-seek by hiding behind my own smile. This is nothing.
Fletch pulls a chair out for me, and as I sit down, he whispers, “They think we’re a couple,” which does almost nothing to explain what on earth is happening here.
“I’m Pat,” the woman says, “and this is my husband, Terry. Your boyfriend told us he has a habit of sticking his foot in his mouth when he gets defensive.”
“Only when he gets defensive?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Oliver ducks his head. “I deserve that.”
I blink at him. What in the name of all that is holy is happening here?
“Terry and I were telling Oliver about the big fight that almost split us up.”
“Pat was telling,” Terry says. “I was filling in what she missed.”
I’m surprised to see a smile crack Oliver’s composure.
I try to sip my hot chocolate, but it’s still too hot, so I take a bite of orange roll while I wait for it to cool. It’s warm and sweet, with a hint of tang.
“Our fight was a doozy,” Pat says with all the energy that comes from telling a familiar story.
