Beverly leaves and we all get to work, Amy directing the teens to help with painting, bringing in furniture from the main stagingarea, and posting labels on the bookshelves. I shoot Amy a look, and she waggles her eyebrows back at me like,See, it’s working!
“This is low-key kind of fun,” one of the girls says, pausing to take a picture with her friend.
A few hours later, the bookshop part of the theater is fully assembled—or as finished as itcanbe without the actual books and other merchandise.
“All right,” Kendra says, glancing at me with something nearing admiration, which feels so strange coming from her that it takes me a moment to process it. “Let’s get a picture!”
She props her phone up on one of the bookshelves, then runs back to stand with the rest of us. “Smile!”
And we do, just before her flash goes off.
The following Monday, when Amy is back in Denver, I set up the internet satellite just so I can talk to her while I’m doing chores. She sends me a link, and I tap on it, watching as the picture blows up.
I study it—the way Amy’s hand rests possessively on my arm, her bright smile, and, more surprisingly, the way I’m smiling at the camera, too.
Uninhibited. Happier than I thought I ever would be, spending my time in town, around so many people.
Before, I thought it was just because they were young, but now I realize the comfort comes from having Amy there with me. As long as she’s in the room, that social anxiety lessens.
As I’m looking at the picture, a text comes through.
Amy:Very handsome! You should make this your profile picture.
Evan:I don’t have social media.
Amy:We could change that.
Evan:No thanks.
Amy:We’ll call it a work in progress.
I chuckle and tuck my phone into my pocket, getting back to work. As I do, I realize I’m working pretty hard to keep the smile from that picture from slipping back over my face.
CHAPTER 20
AMY
“Okay,” Kirstin says the moment she drops her purse into the spot across from me at the coffee shop and gets a good look at my face. “You’re talking.Rightnow.”
“What?” I say, though I know from years of being sisters with her that it’s pointless.
Growing up, Kirstin knew things about me beforeIdid. She’d ask me what was wrong before I even realized I was upset. Maybe that’s just who she is as a person, or maybe it’s the fact that she’s the oldest daughter, and she had to pull a lot of weight helping to raise me after the divorce.
And then even more after Dad died.
Before I can get caught up in thinking about that, I swallow and meet her eyes, watching her watch me. Kirstin can read me like a book, and I know between the shrillness of my voice and the stupid smile on my face, she already has an idea of what’s going on.
She’ll get me to spill anyway, so we might as well save ten minutes of grilling.
“Okay, fine, but let’s get coffee first, okay?”
“Fine,” she agrees, her eyes darting to the coffee bar and the relatively short line.
Ten minutes later, I’m enjoying a cupid’s arrow latte while Kirstin nurses a plain black with sugar-free vanilla syrup. For some reason, it reminds me of Evan, and I start wondering if he’d like syrup in his coffee. If I asked him, he’d say no, but if I just bought it? Put it on his kitchen counter? I could see him secretly using it, acting like it wasn’t a big deal.
“Okay,” Kirstin says, putting down her mug and pointing at me, one perfectly polished nail like a spotlight. “What isthatface? Did you quit your job and not tell me?”
No. Though I have been doing more and more digging into our acquisitions, and each one leaves me feeling a little sicker than the last. Even in cases where the owners were going to lose their land anyway, it feels predatory to come in and offer them next to nothing for acres of space.
