“Happy fall, y’all,” Ben’s voice chimes from next door.
I glare at him. “Do not greet me with a pillow phrase ever again.” He’s already on thin ice after the conversation he doesn’t know I overheard.
He crosses to the fence separating our yards, his hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans. He’s wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, which should make me nauseated but sends a small shiver through me. “What exactly is a pillow phrase?”
“You know, one of those cheesy sayings white womenhave stitched on throw pillows. ‘Live, laugh, love.’ ‘Home is wherever you are.’ Bullshit like that.” I take a few timid steps in his direction, not wanting to get too close. Forearms plus a whiff of his woodsy scent might be potent enough to send me hurtling through another rip in the space-time continuum.
He chuckles, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Got it. I’ll remember that for the future.”
There’s an awkwardly long pause during which I try not to stare directly at him while I also try to examine his face for any sort of clues as to how he might be feeling. Given how emphatic he was about me and this Noah guy, he’s probably counting down the days until he’s rid of me, until I fall in love with someone else and he gets to go home and never see me again.
“So we’re officially in fall?” The question is clearly redundant, but it’s all I’ve got. “Does this mean it’s time for the pumpkin festival?”
Ben runs a hand through his hair, looking everywhere but at me. “I think it’s the Harvest Festival, actually. But I imagine there will be lots of pumpkins involved.”
“Of course.” Another silence descends upon us. “Well, I should probably get to the bakery. Emma probably has a whole new store of pumpkin recipes for me to learn.”
“Before you go—” Ben takes another step closer, running into the fence. He steps back with a sheepish smile. “Before you go, I just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing?”
I study his deep brown eyes, hoping to discern what kind of response he wants. But they betray nothing, and so I decide to go for an honest one. “I’m feeling a little lost,honestly. I like working at the bakery, but there’s no chance it’s my passion in life. I don’t feel like I’m actually contributing anything worthwhile to the community. And I’ve eliminated sixty-six percent of my love interests over the course of two dates.” I keep my eyes locked on his during that last part, waiting for some kind of sign, but he doesn’t even flinch.
I know I should yell at him for keeping the truth from me, berate him for pretending to be my friend when he’s really only concerned about getting himself home.
But I can’t make myself say the words, as if giving voice to them will make them true.
“Well, I’m going to be working on the Harvest Festival if you want to put in some more hours helping the community.” His cheeks redden, and Mimi’s warning not to get too close echoes in my mind once again.
“I would like that.” And I would, I realize in that moment.
He holds my gaze like he’s attempting to send me some kind of telepathic message, but whatever it is he’s trying to impart, I don’t get it.
“You should probably get to work,” he prods after a few seconds. Apparently, the subliminal message wasgo away.
“Right. See ya later.” I wave over my shoulder, pushing through my front gate and heading down the sidewalk without looking back.
Surprising no one but me, the entire town has undergone its fall transformation. Pumpkins are everywhere, fallen leaves crunch under my boots, even the air smells different. I breathe it in, and the slight chill feels refreshing in my lungs.
It takes me less than five minutes to reach the bakery,and when I let myself in the back door to the kitchen, I’m surprised by thelackthat greets me. No heavenly smells permeating the air. No sounds of bowls and spoons clanking together as Emma pours and mixes. And most noticeably, no Emma.
“Hello?” I call out, even though I can clearly see no one waits for me in the back. I stride through the swinging door to the front of the bakery.
Emma is on the floor behind the counter, knees pulled to her chest, head down.
“Oh shit, Emma, what happened?” I drop down next to her, checking for blood or visible signs of trauma, but nothing seems amiss. Other than the heaving sobs wracking her body.
She cries for a few solid minutes, never once lifting her head or stopping for breath. I rub what I hope are soothing circles on her back, whispering nonsense words of comfort hoping they will spur her into telling me what the hell is going on.
Finally, she manages to raise her head just enough so I can see her tear-filled eyes. Her cheeks are streaked with mascara, and I grab a napkin to wipe away the evidence of her distress.
“Thank you,” she chokes out and somehow those two little words stir another bout of tears.
“Emma, you’re freaking me out. What the fuck is going on?”
Wordlessly, she hands me a piece of paper that’s been wedged in between her thighs. I open it up and read, my ire growing with each passing word.
“This is fucking bullshit.” I’m tempted to crumple theletter in a ball and light it on fire, but I have a feeling we’ll need it. Or at least the information contained in it, because I intend to find the writer of this letter and rip him a new asshole.
“They’re going to take my bakery, Cam.” Emma sniffles, but she seems to be all cried out.
