“So you weren’t asking?”
“Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad. I just want her to know a few things.” She laughs. “I love you, sweetie. Get some rest before your date this afternoon. You’re going to need your energy for the conversation you two need to have.”
She hangs up before I can respond.
My mom is having lunch with Winnie in a few hours. I rub my eyes, worried I’m dreaming. Whistling for Oreo, we’re back in my truck, heading toward home for that promised nap, when I see Winnie’s car, heading out of town on Route 50.
The ground shifts beneath me and my pulse ceases.
Is she leaving? Running? Did last night scare her off completely?
I watch her taillights disappear around a bend, and for a moment, I’m paralyzed by the fear that I’ve lost her before I even really had her.
37
WINNIE
My bags arein the trunk, packed with clothes I threw in without thinking. Sweaters, jeans, dresses, the gown from last night. My toothbrush. The essentials for running away from my problems like a completely rational adult.
The keys are still in the ignition, the engine ticking as I try to remember what possessed me to flee.
Oh right. Pure terror that loving Patton Cross means watching him run into fires for the rest of his life while I wait at home, wondering if he’ll come back.
My phone buzzes with another text from Mindy asking if I’m okay. I silence it and grab my purse.
This is fine. I’m fine. Everything is completely, totally, absolutely fine.
Grandma Joyce appears on the porch in her bathrobe, coffee mug in hand, looking like she expected this. She taps on my window.
I lower it, attempting a bright smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Good morning! I was just?—”
“Running away?”
My smile falters. “I went for a drive.”
“With a suitcase?”
“It was a long drive … of deliberation.”
She raises one eyebrow—the same look she gives Judy Waples when she’s being ridiculous. “Where were you going, sweetheart?”
“I don’t know. Away.”
“That’s running.”
“Maybe I needed to run.” My voice cracks on the last word, betraying me.
Grandma leans against my car door, unbothered by the cool morning mountain air. “From him or from yourself?”
The question hits like a slap. “What?”
“From Patton or from the part of you that’s terrified of being happy?”
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. “That’s—I’m not?—”
“You are.” She takes a sip of her coffee, maddeningly calm. “You’ve spent your whole life trying to fix everyone else’s problems. The restaurant, your family, this town. But the moment someone wants to help carry your load? You panic.”
“That’s not fair.”
