When I make it to the town library, I decide that’s as good a place as any to park and rethink my life choices. Or, you know, sit for a few minutes, then drive slowly back to the hotel. At least then I can truthfully tell Lyle I used his car and left the hotel, as he urged me to do.
After a few minutes pass, though, and my heart rate returns to a normal, nonlethal level, I decide it isn’t theworstidea to explore the town some more. On foot, though. Lyle will be so proud of me. And so would Helen and Thad and Matilda and Kimo and Grady, if they were here. That resolves me to do it. I’ve spent my whole life surrounding myself with friends who are much braver than me, hoping at least a little of their courage will rub off on me.
Harmony’s always worn her WWJD (What Would Jesus Do) bracelet proudly. If I could, I’d get one that said WWHTMK&GD. (What Would Helen, Thad, Matilda, Kimo, and Grady Do.) Maybe now, I’ll add an L to that grouping, too, for Lyle.
Be brave, I try to encourage myself, but even to me, my own inner voice isn’t all that persuasive. Instead, I try to summon Matilda’s voice, and it comes briskly and easily:Stop being such a big scaredy-pants. Go do something for once!
Hard to argue with that. So, I force myself to wander.
Not too far from the library is a cute little diner called Daisy’s Nut House. I consider my options. I’m trying to push myself today, but I don’t know if I feel quite courageous enough to sit down at a booth and eat by myself. Maybe if I had a book with me ... ? But since I don’t, I wonder if it would satisfy my inner Matilda for me to go in and order something to go? I listen for any harsh, faintly Russian reprimand. Receiving none, I decide that’s as good as a go-ahead, and I make my way determinedly to the diner’s entrance.
I’m surprised to find how packed it is, especially for a relatively early weekday afternoon. Good thing I’m not hoping to get a table. All the various groups of people make me nervous, even though none of them seem to be paying attentionto me. I’m worried they’ll look up and just know, somehow, that I’m not meant to be here.
As I deliberate backing out of the door, Matilda’s voice berates me.They’re just people, for goodness’ sake! Who cares what they think? I’m sure most of them are idiots anyway.
Wow. A little harsh. These people all seem really nice to me. But weirdly, even though I know it’s only my own brain telling me a maybe-exaggerated version of what my most intimidating friend might say, it does bring me comfort. None of these people know me. No one even seems to have noticed I’m here. Who cares what any of them think?
Taking in a deep breath, I propel myself forward toward the counter, where some of the baked items are on display in a glass case. My stomach instinctively grumbles. Uncle Aaron always insists we start the day with oatmeal—just oatmeal, no cinnamon or brown sugar or cream. But on holidays we get to add some fruit! Throughout the week, we each receive a sugar allotment that we’re not allowed to exceed, so I’ve gotten very good at carefully rationing out my food so I can splurge on Pizookies every Tuesday night with my friends.
But despite myself, the items in the bakery are calling to me. Brownies. Cookies. Pastries. And pie! So much pie. There’s one called a Derby pie that literally has my mouth salivating at the sight of it. Pecans, chocolate, a buttery crust, and it comes with a dollop of homemade cream on top.Yum.
“Can I help you, hon?” asks a pretty older woman behind the counter.
I speak without thinking. “I’d like a slice of the Derby pie, please.”
“Sure thing.”
Almost immediately, guilt sets in. My send-off with my friends was only a few days ago, so eating a slice of this pie will definitely send me over my sugar allotment. But my fear of Uncle Aaron’s disappointment is at war with my people-pleasing anxiety over calling after the woman and telling her I’ve changed my mind. She’s already cut out a hefty slice and set it out on a nice plate. It would be so rude to tell her to put it back.
Now, I don’t have to guess what Matilda might say in this situation—I’ve already heard it from her too many times before:Who cares what your uncle thinks? Why is it any of his business, anyway?
I never know what to say to her, because honestly, I’m not sure what answer I could give. It’s a truth I’ve been warring against for a long time now. Ever since I left my postulancy. I know on some level that all of my uncle’s rules serve a purpose, and that he’s only trying to help us live a better, worthier life. But sometimes sugar and all the other things we’re meant to abstain from don’t seem like they’re so evil. Sometimes, I remember what it was like to have sugar. Sometimes I think about how good sugar made me feel.
My indecision must show on my face, because the woman hesitates before handing the plate to me. “Are you worried about allergies or something?” she asks gently. “I can tell you what’s in it. It was made fresh here, just this morning.”
She’s given me an easy out. I can just pretend to be allergic to one of the ingredients. No harm, no foul. But suddenly, even without the help of my inner Matilda, a new stubbornness takes hold in me. “No, that’s all right. I’ll take it.”
After I pay for the pie, I realize that she’s given me a plate instead of a takeaway box, which means that despite my earlier plans to eat the pie on the curb at the library (I wouldn’t dare risk getting crumbs all over Lyle’s car!), I’ll have to either get a table here or ask her to re-box it.
I’ve already reached my limit of daring today, though, and it really would be too much trouble to ask her to put the slice in a takeaway container. My heart racing, I glance around the room, trying to find the most tucked away, obscure table possible. To my dismay, I see that all the booths are taken. Maybe I can just stand in the corner and hope I don’t spill anything ... ?
“You can come sit with us!” a cheerful voice interrupts my spiraling.
I blink in surprise to see two beautiful and stylish women sitting at one of those booths that wraps three-quarters of the way around the table, so there’s plenty of space to sit. Even so, I hesitate. They’re probably only being nice and don’t actually want me to sit with them.
“That’s okay,” I say, smiling back. “Thank you for the offer.”
“It’s the best you’re gonna get,” the same woman says to me, with a friendly smile. She’s a gorgeous, curvaceous woman, in her late thirties / early forties, who has a no-fuss look about her, even though it’s obvious she takes very good care of herself. Her clothes are simple but stylish, obviously well-made, but practical, too. “Unless you want to take that empty seat at the counter, but I have to warn you, Cletus Winston thinks that’s his seat and he will make you move if he comes in and finds you there.”
“Oh.” I falter, looking to the other woman for guidance. She’s strikingly beautiful but I’d guess a few years younger than the first woman. Her clothing also looks elegant and expensive, with slightly bolder cuts and prints.
When she smiles at me, her face is friendly but sympathetic. I’m used to that look. No matter where I go, something about me seems to broadcast how awkward and out of place I am. I try not to take it too personally when I see other people realize it, but it still doesn’t feel great, becoming someone’s pet project. “Join us,” she echoes. “I’ve been dying to try that pie. You can tell us how good it is.”
They’re both smiling at me so broadly, and they’re both so extraordinarily beautiful, that I have no choice but to take the seat being offered. “Thank you,” I tell them. “I promise I won’t be long.”
“Take your time,” the classically stylish woman encourages me. “And don’t mind us drooling as we watch you eat.”
“I’m Rae, by the way,” the striking woman tells me.
