“So, she’s holding a bake-off to determine who gets the place.”
“Okay?”
“Oh my gosh, do I have to spell it out for you using mini-muffins?” Charlie shakes her head in exasperation. “You should enter the bake-off! The winner will be announced at Lonesome Day.”
That would only work if I’m staying in Lonesome. And right now, I don’t know that I am. I didn’t come here with a purpose. I came to lick my wounds. Beyond that, I don’t have a plan.
“I’m flattered you have such confidence in my baking ability, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Charlie makes an annoyed sound with her lips. “Just think about it. What else are you doing with your time?”
“Helping my grandma.”
“Oh. Right. Okay, well, besides that?”
Does lying on my bed feeling sorry for myself count? If so, that takes up a lot of my time.
“Speaking of my grandma,” I say pointedly. “I’m supposed to be running errands for her. We stopped for breakfast because someone was forced to eat carrot muffins this morning.” I glance at Brady, and he smiles that same smug grin from earlier.
Charlie takes the hint and slides from the booth.
Merch and Charlie both hug me goodbye, then shake hands with Brady. They make their way back to their booth, and Brady and I walk outside. We don’t make it more than three feet before the door opens behind us and someone yells, “Hey!”
We whip around. Our server is standing there, her hand on her hip, a piece of paper dangling from her outstretched fist.
“Oh, shit,” Brady groans, but there’s a little laughter in the sound, and he reaches into his back pocket. “We weren’t skipping out on you. I promise.” He pulls three twenties from his wallet, and even without looking at the check, I know that’s probably more than twice the amount of the total. He presses the cash into her waiting palm, and she smiles at him.
“Usually it’s the teenagers I have to watch closely,” she says, joking now that she knows we didn’t mean to pull a dine-and-dash.
Brady laughs and she retreats through the open door.
He slips his wallet into the pocket of his jeans and looks at me. His eyes are wide, his expression one of humorous disbelief.
I can’t help it. I laugh like I haven’t laughed in a long time.
Like his hand on mine earlier, the laughter feels good.
And also so, so bad.
9
Brady
I’m bare-naked,and Addison is fully dressed. Figuratively speaking, anyway.
We’ve managed to get through her list of errands without her telling me a thing about why she left Chicago for Lonesome.
I can tell it’s been weighing on her. Our trips to the grocery and hardware stores weren’t as comfortable as our time at the restaurant. She stiffened when I opened her door at the last stop and placed my hand on the small of her back. It wasn’t a conscious choice. My fingers drifted toward her like there wasn’t any other place they were supposed to be. I hadn’t even realized it was happening until I felt her go rigid. We weren’t supposed to be apologizing anymore today, so I let my eyes convey my apology. She looked away after our gazes brief meeting, but I know she got my message.
After we left the restaurant, I’d hoped we’d broken through a few of our barriers. The dine-and-dash incident had Addison howling with laughter, a deep, rich sound that until then I hadn’t imagined could come from her. Her whole face had lit up, and she looked like the opposite of the person who yelled at me in the Chicago airport.
Now she’s back to being the Addison I’ve come to expect: guarded and aloof. But there’s something else now. A sadness. Her eyes look heavy, as if her soul is burdened.
I know it’s whatever she hasn’t told me. And when she tells me, she’ll feel naked too.
We pull into the detached garage at Sweet Escape. It’s tidy and organized, cabinets lining one side with pegboards running the length of the wall above the cabinets. Screwdrivers and other small tools hang in order of size from the pegboards. Lawn maintenance tools hang from hooks on the opposite wall. Obviously Louisa takes pride in her home and her business. And her car, which is old but in good shape. Although I don’t know how she even drives the thing. Without power steering, it must be damn near impossible for her to turn. The muscles in Addison’s forearm flexed every time she turned, and I can’t imagine the effort it takes Louisa.
I get out of the Jeep and reach into the back, grabbing a handful of grocery bags. “Next time, will you let me drive?” I’d offered when we left the restaurant, but Addison had already descended into her current mood, and I’d known better than to push it.
