“Have you been listening to self-help podcasts again?” I grouse, deeply resentful of her too accurate read on me.
“So what if I have? At least I’m trying to be better.” Posey pokes my ribs, and I swat at her hand. “People who don’t adapt, don’t evolve… it’s like an engine. You have to tune it. Check the oil. Listen to what’s happening inside.”
“I know you are not comparing me to a car.”
“No, you’re much more messed up than a car.”
“Rude!” I gape at her.
“I can’t change your oil, Ivy. There’s some things you have to do for yourself.”
“I am perfectly fine, I don’t need an oil change!”
“You might after how much lasagna you ate.”
“Fair,” I say, sighing as I unlock the front door to Sugar & Salt then flip the sign on the inside to sayOpen. “I don’t see how this is all my fault, though.”
“Oh, I don’t think it is,” Rose says, marching over to the counter and scrubbing up to her elbows at the sink. “I think it has to do with all four of us. I think you, however, just need the biggest nudge.”
“Nudge to what?” I fling an arm around at the store, which looks gorgeous and perfect and smells the way a candy shop should — like heaven. “Look at this place! I amfine.”
Rose just gives me a sad little smile, and my chest hurts a little at the thought that maybe I’m not fine, not in any way that matters.
The hours slid by in cozy companionship, with enough sisterly teasing and random walk-ins that we’re all entertained and comfortably tired by the time we make it home for the night.
Nonna supplied us with lunch leftovers, which I promptly put in the fridge when we got home, because absolutely none of us can stomach the idea of eating anymore.
We did sample a lot of fudge and a new sour cherry gummy I’ve been working on, which might also have a little to do with our lack of appetite.
Just a little.
When the rain starts, a patter at first against the diamond glass windows, then in earnest, something shifts besides the barometric pressure.
“Do you feel that?” Rose asks, hand half-outstretched to the kettle on the counter.
“Hazel’s coming,” Posey says from the kitchen door.
“I thought I was the one with visions,” I say.
“Yeah, but I check my cellphone.” She holds her phone up with a grin.
A knock comes at the door, three loud, precise raps that are nothing like what Hazel would do. No, Hazel would simply burst in through the door, full of laughter and then collapse on the rug in front of the fire to wrestle with Gunner and tell us stories.
We look at each other for a split second before we all race from the kitchen to answer the door.
I get there first, nearly swinging the door into myself in my rush to solve whatever problem is knocking that hard on the front door.
Only to find Caleb standing there, Hazel holding on to him for dear life, her foot tucked up under her gingerly.
“Hazel, oh no, what happened?”
“She had a flat tire and slipped trying to carry her spare. By herself,” Caleb answers for her.
“I had it,” Hazel says, beaming up at us. “Or I would have, if I hadn’t you know, twisted my ankle.”
Posey and Rose immediately swoop past me, plucking Hazel from Caleb and frog-marching her through the house in a chorus of concerned mutterings. Water begins to puddle where Hazel’s wet shoes have hit the floor, but the house immediately siphons the liquid away, and I try to block the doorway as much as possible.
Leaving me staring at Caleb.
