I beam at him, waiting for the appreciation. The laugh. The “that’s clever, city girl.”
Instead, Tiddy’s face goes completely still.
Then red. A deep, mottled crimson that starts at his collar and works its way up to his receding hairline.
“What,” he says, his voice dangerously quiet, “is that supposed to mean?”
The first flicker of doubt hits me. “It’s… it’s a play on words? Because the name is Tiddy, and there’s the, um, the other meaning, so?—”
“The other meaning.”
“You know.” I’m floundering now, the confidence draining out of me like syrup from a cracked pitcher. “Like… the slang? For?—”
“I know what the slang is.” Tiddy’s hands are flat on the bar now, and he’s leaning toward me with an expression that makes me want to disappear into my barstool. “This bar is named after my grandmother, Rose Tiddy, who opened this establishment in 1962 and ran it until she passed in 1998. My father was Tiddy. My uncles are all Tiddy, too.”
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
“I didn’t—” I start.
“And you want to put her name on a sign that makes it sound like some kind of…” He can’t even finish the sentence. “In sixty years of this bar existing, nobody has ever… My grandmother?—”
The door opens behind me, and I hear boots on the wooden floor, followed by the clank of a dolly coming in.
“Got your eggs and the milk, Tiddy. Molly says she’ll have the chicken order ready by—” Alex Bedd stops mid-sentence, clearly reading the tension in the room. “Everything okay?”
Tiddy straightens, his jaw set. “Fine. Just having a conversation about marketing with Ms. Storm here.”
Alex’s eyes dart to me, then to my phone still displaying the horrible, horrible slogan. I watch him read it. His eyebrows climb toward his hairline. He winces with his entire body. “I see,” he says carefully.
“She thought it was clever.” Tiddy spits the word as if its spoiled milk.
“I’m so sorry.” Thoughts tumble out of me. “I didn’t know… I should have asked… I just assumed?—”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Tiddy’s voice has gone from angry to something worse: tired. Disappointed. “You city folks come in here with your phones and your hashtags and your big ideas, and you don’t bother to learn anything about the place first. You just assume you know better.”
My face burns. My eyes burn. Everything is burning, and I want to sink through the floor and never resurface. “I didn’t mean any disrespect to your grandmother,” I manage. “Truly. I made a mistake.”
“Mm.” Tiddy picks up his rag and starts wiping the bar again, deliberately not looking at me. “Maybe stick to sheep videos.”
The dismissal is clear. I gather what’s left of my dignity—it fits in a very small container—and slide off the barstool.
Alex is still standing by the kitchen entrance, crate of eggs and milk by his side, looking like he wishes he’d arrived five minutes later. Our eyes meet, and I see sympathy there, but also something else.
He’s going to tell Molly. Who will tell Gran. Who will tell Lia. Who will probably tell Asher, because bad news travels through Fork Lick faster than Baabara escapes her pen. By tonight, everyone will know that Eva Storm tried to turn a dead woman’s legacy into a boob joke.
“I really am sorry,” I say to the owner’s back.
He doesn’t respond.
I push through the door and out into the afternoon sun, which feels obscenely cheerful given that I’ve just committed social suicide in my new hometown.
The drive to Pierce Acres feels endless in my humiliation. By the time I get home, I’ve relived the conversation approximately seventy-three times, each replay worse than the last. What was I thinking?
I wasn’t thinking. I saw an opportunity to be useful, to prove myself, and I charged in without doing any research. Without asking questions. Without listening.
I collapse onto my porch steps and bury my face in my hands. Maybe Tiddy’s right. Maybe I should stick to sheep videos. Maybe I don’t know this place at all.
