George taps an agitated rhythm on the counter, probably not used to his generosity being refused multiple times. The sound grates on my nerves, but I’m also perversely proud of myself for pissing him off. Normally, I trip over myself to agree with people. To keep them happy.
Maybe this mutual dislike can help me practice not people-pleasing to my own detriment.
When I think he’s finally accepted my no, I turn away, determined to put George and his tempting offer out of my mind, never to be considered again.
But he’s not done with me.
“We’ll find a time.” His voice is deep and demands I face him again. When our stares meet, they hold. “I’ll work around your schedule.”
Holy hell, Shawn must have laid the mother of all guilt trips on this guy.
I’ve given him the legitimate reasons I have to say no, but George is still pushing for a yes.
Why won’t he take the out?
His refusal to back down means my silly, hopeful heart is searching for a way to agree.
This may be the only chance I get.
Some other emergency might come up in the next few years, making me push all this off again. Maybe Mom will get sick again. MaybeIwill. Maybe all the time I think I have will run out.
As I stand in my Cornfield Diner waitress uniform, clutching tight to my notepad filled with the same orders I’ve been writing down for years, I study a man who, despite thoroughly disliking me, is still offering me the chance to live my dream, even if it’s in the crevices of time wedged among other responsibilities. My days ahead taunt me with long stretches of the same fake smiles, sore feet, and financial anxiety.
Escape with me, George’s offer whispers in the air between us.
In response, my heart asks the question I always avoid.
Could I stand to let my life go by never having tried?
Chapter
4
When I arrivehome from work, I immediately seek out my mom, finding her peeling potatoes beside a massive papier-mâché horse head on the kitchen table.
“Hey.” My eyes take the normal scan of her, from the top of her head with its close-cropped cut, to her bare feet with freshly painted toenails. “How’s it going?”
How are you feeling?Is the question I actually want to ask, but I’ve tried to stop after she told me my constant worrying over her health caused her more anxiety.
Besides, according to her doctors, Charlotte Lundberg has been cancer free for almost a year now.
“Good.” Mom smiles up at me from her seat. “Making mashed potatoes.”
She doesn’t cook when she’s in pain, and I find the slick sound of her peeler cutting through the skin of the spud soothing.
“Where’s Marge?” I ask.
“Fighting with the neighbors,” Mom gravely informs me.
“The squirrels are back?” I sigh the frustrated question on my way to the fridge, where I stow the half a pie Sam wrapped up for me at the end of my shift. The Cornfields are sweet like that, going above and beyond giving me a job. They always try to take care of my family in small ways, like making sure we have dessert.
There was a point in time when they were the only reason we had food on the table at night.
“They are. Grumps was barking at the ceiling.”
Our cocker spaniel came from the shelter with a different name—Digger or something like that—but we wanted to claim him as our own. Day one, he settled himself on the recliner in the living room with a judgmental grumble, then growled at a group of kids who rode their bikes past the front window.
He has the spirit of a grumpy old man, so we dubbed him Grumps.
