Adorably? Perfectly? Yeah, I can see where that would stand out. “When you spend so much time subduing yourself so you’ll fit in, why don’t you change the way you dress to fit in better?”
She runs her fingers down the length of her apron—white today, and lace…so much lace. “People hate me because of the things in my head. People don’t hate me for how I dress. And I like dressing like this. So there’s no reason to stop. It’s something…” She hesitates, gives her head a slight shake, and continues, “It’s somethingmethat I’m allowed to be, so I’m going to be it.”
My grip around the wheel tightens. “Anyone who hates you for what’s in your head is an idiot.”
She frees a small laugh. “You sound like Fawn.”
“Fawn is a smart woman.”
“She is.” Publix comes into view, and Mirabelle sinks in the passenger seat of my SUV. “Please, please,pleasejust stay in the car? I won’t be very long. If I take more than twenty minutes—”
“No.”
“But—”
“A lot can happen in twenty minutes.”
“Fifteen?” she asks, voice reedy.
I enter the parking lot, secure a spot, and cut the engine before turning to her. “No.”
“Why are you so stubborn?”
“It comes with the territory.”
Her nose scrunches. “Whatterritory?”
I think for a moment. “Straight white male territory.”
Her lip juts, and she crosses her arms before firmly fixing her attention out her window. “Ew.”
Heaven help me, she issocute when she’s unfiltered. I’m going to have so much to record in my journal later. “Are you ready?” I ask.
Sighing, she twists, reaching into the backseat to get her clipboard and collection of reusable bags. In a last ditch effort, she turns her big blue eyes up to me and says, “Would Cinnamon, Toast, and Crunch approve of this behavior?”
A puff of air leaves my nose as I open my car door. “Yes, absolutely.”
Stepping out into the brusque chill of early October, I take in the picturesque range of mountains dancing beyond the grocery store. While I’m absorbing the view, Mirabelle attempts to dash off into the store alone.
Luckily, I’m paying attention and catch up to her in four steps.
“Curse your legs,” she snaps.
I snort.
She freezes, and I end up ahead of her, so I stop short. “What?”
“Did you just…laugh?”
I arch a brow. “I laugh all the time.” Mostly around her. So she should really know that.
She regains herself, catches up to me, and continues toward the building. “You do not.”
I follow. “Don’t I?”
“This is the first I’ve heard of it.” Entering the first set of automatic doors, she pulls out a cart and sets her clipboard up in the child seat before nestling her bags in the basket. “Glasses,”she states, so I remove them and tuck them in the collar of my black hoodie. She spares me a glance, a sigh, and an,Ugh, before she plows through the other set of doors into the building.
This is…fun.
