“Pinky promise.” Autumn waves her pinky between us.
“Are we teens again?”
“Yes, want to play light as a feather, stiff as a board in the cemetery?”
“Yes,” I reply swiftly, because that sounds amazing.
“Fine, meet me at the cemetery at seven tonight for ladies’ night.”
“You’re serious?” Okay, why does this sound like the best thing to come out of this town so far?
“I never joke over a pinky promise.” Again, she waves her pinky at me. Then this devious human adds on a bargain I can’t refuse. “Why don’t we make it an all-out girls’ sleepover?”
I gasp. “How dare you?” Food forgotten, I give her my pinky and we shake on it.
“To a new beginning.” She looks far too hopeful. “New friendships.”
“Starting with a cemetery walk.” I drop her pinky and go back to my food. Thinking twice, I get up and grab an extra fork to throw at her before I place my lunch between us to share.
Her stomach grumbles its thanks. “You know Paris, right?”
“Snarky little thing.” I nod with a smile because I really like the woman.
“She will give you twenty reasons why her husband died, and she will never give the real reason.”
“I noticed that.”
“He died five years ago on Thanksgiving while she was pregnant.” My fork clatters to the Styrofoam, but Autumn doesn’t have the same qualms I do about carrying on. “While she was in labor.”
“I don’t want to hear this anymore.” I push the food away, my stomach aching in pain for the sweet woman.
“Too bad you asked for it, but I’ll spare you the gory details and just let you know what her husband was like,” she speaks around a mouthful of mashed potatoes before swallowing. “They were high school sweethearts, and they ran Thanksgiving every year. It was his favorite holiday. Now, she hates it. The town is insanely loyal to its citizens, and after that, the holiday just faded into obscurity.”
“That poor woman.”
“Don’t look at her like that.” She waves the fork around my face. “She will know you know, and then I’ll be in deep trouble. I don’t enjoy being in trouble with my friends.” She coughs before looking me dead in the eye and says, “You.”
“Me what?” I question with hesitance while pointing my own fork at me.
“You are now my friend.”
“This conversation is giving me whiplash.” I can’t keep up with Autumn’s moods. She swings from hot to cold in a nanosecond. More so than a teenager.
“That’s why I followed you.”
“Oh, so it isn’t because you were rude the other day?”
“That too, and we did this whole lunch thing.” She swirls her fork in the air between us. “We should do lunch on Fridays.”
That escalated quickly. And it might just be far more socialization than I’m willing to commit to. “Let’s go back a step.”
“Paris, right?” She digs into the mashed potatoes like a starving vagabond.
“Her husband.”
“Yep.”
I wait for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t. Instead, she gets up, tossing a napkin down beside the Styrofoam. “Lunch is on me on Friday.” She saunters out of the break room, calling, “See you at seven,” over her shoulder.
