My stomach does a little flip that I choose to ignore. Seeing her tonight feels… different. She’s still in the overalls she was wearing outside the school plus a denim jacket, and her chestnut hair—the same shade as her brother’s; damn it, why can’t I unnotice that now?—pulled into a messy bun. She looks around the shop and makes a beeline straight for me.
“Faye Rose, you beautiful enigma.” She grabs a hot chocolate from the counter and settles into the chair next to mine—tea isn’t popular tonight. “What did you do to my brother today?”
“I have no idea what you mean.” I take a sip from my mug, hiding my face.
“Come on, what bribe would you accept”—she leans in conspiratorially—“to tell me what Ryder did to piss you off at school?”
“Why would you assume he did something?”
“Because he’s been acting like a properly chastised, subdued good boy since coming out of your classroom.” Her grin widens. “He’s had his tail between his legs all afternoon.”
A warm flutter of vindication curls through my chest. Aha. He should feel awful about the way he acted. Not that the prick even deigned to apologize to me. Just signed the petition and fled like his boots were on fire. But I’m not a snitch. I’ll keep what happened between us.
I shrug, keeping my expression neutral. “We had a misunderstanding. But I’m happy it’s clarified now.”
“A misunderstanding,” Rebecca repeats slowly, like she’s tasting the words for hidden meaning. “Uh-huh. That’s all you’re giving me?”
“It’s all there is to give.”
“You’re no fun.” She smiles as she says it. “Fine. Keep your secrets. But if you ever need help kicking his behind again, I’m your gal.” Becky sighs. “Ryder is a total softie, but sometimes he acts like an ass.”
I certify the “acts like an ass” part. A total softie, not so much—not with all those hard muscles.
“And he is a wonderful dad, even if he didn’t show you that today.” Becky flutters her hands. “He’s just… protective. And stubborn. And occasionally an idiot. But underneath all that, he’s one of the good ones.”
I don’t want to hear about Ryder Evans’s good qualities, or to humanize him beyond the arrogant hothead who stormed into my classroom.
“Ladies!” Rory calls out, saving me from further interrogation. “Let’s get started. I know we’re all dying to discuss that ending.”
The last standing women join the circle of mismatched chairs that Rory has set up in the middle of the shop. Once everyone settles, Hemingway, the bookshop’s orange tabby, drops from his perch on a high shelf, surveys the group like he’s assessing his court, and saunters over to January. He curls in her lap, nudging her hand for scratches she promptly gives.
“Before we start,” Rory continues, “Natalie texted. She’s down with the flu and says to carry on without her.”
A chorus of sympathetic murmurs ripples through the group. I already knew Natalie was sick. She’s my Pilates instructor at Gym and Tonic, and she’s canceled classes for the entire week. My abs haven’t missed the workouts, but I have. Exercise clears my head, but I suck at doing it on my own.
Rory settles into what I’ve come to think of as the moderator’s chair—a wingback with worn velvet upholstery straight off a haunted mansion horror movie set. She crosses her legs and pulls out her copy of this month’s book, annotated and sticky-noted within an inch of its life.
“Let’s talk about this absolute mind-fuck of a novel.” I like how she looks prim in her clothes—a pleated skirt and a light sweater tonight—only to shock you with unexpected savagery. “Starting with the obvious question: did anyone guess the plot twist?”
The conversation flows after that. We dissect the unreliable narrator. Was she untrustworthy from the start, or did she only become unmoored as the story progressed? We argue about the husband’s culpability, the best friend’s betrayal.
I love these women. How we pick apart plots and characters and themes until we’ve squeezed every drop of meaning from the pages. No one asks about my past. No one demands explanations. We’re in the moment, talking about someone else’s story instead of our own. For a few hours, I lose myself in the discussion. I forget about Mr. Cowboy and his fitted Henley.
By the time Rory calls the meeting to a close, the sky outside is dark. Past the bookshop windows, Main Street shines with old-fashioned streetlamps and the glow from other storefronts.
We file out in a slow procession, calling goodnights and see-you-soons as we disperse into the evening. I’m halfway to my car when Becky loops her arm through mine, steering me back toward the small cluster of women gathered on the sidewalk.
“So,” she says, drawing out the word like she’s winding up for an argument she plans to win. “I know I ask every Wednesday, and you always say no. But a great band is playing at the Moonshine this Friday night, and you should come.”
Rise and Moonshine is the dive bar on the edge of town where I made the mistake of going once, back in September, when I was still figuring out how to exist in Blue Crescent Harbor. I lasted thirty minutes before some guy backed me into a corner near the pool table, and I had to spell out what no meant, in a way even he couldn’t miss. Great teaching practice.
I haven’t been back since.
“I don’t know, Becky?—”
“I promise it won’t be like last time,” she rushes on, squeezing my arm. “The bar isn’t always filled with assholes. That was… bad luck. Bad timing. This weekend will be different. The band is local, and they’re fantastic. We’re all going.”
“Even me,” January confirms, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “And I’m not the biggest fan of loud places.”
