I slip out after a quick shower, leaving a note on the coffee pot that says:
Errands. Be back later. — L.
Riot is standing at his fence as I cross to my truck. He blows a low breath at me that sounds suspiciously like a question.
"Don’t worry, I’ll be back for a ride," I tell him.
He flicks an ear, unconvinced.
The drive into town is a blur of pines and dirt roads. But soon, I make it to Main Street. I swear, Hollow Peak is a postcard come to life, with its three blocks of brick and timber storefronts, cinnamon-roll smells from the Switchback Cafe drifting out onto the sidewalk, an old man in suspenders waving at someone across the street, and a woman in a long denim apron watering window boxes outside the bookstore.
I don’t really have any errands.
But I park anyway, and walk, because it’s what I do when I need to think.
Eventually, I duck into a store wedged between the bookstore and an art gallery that I noticed on my first drive through, and the window display is mixing turquoise jewelry with practical wool sweaters and one truly inadvisable pair of leather pants. I push the door open and the air inside smells like dried lavender and old wood.
There's no pretending I came in here for anything specific, but I make a brave attempt at it. I head straight for a rack of flannels and start flipping through them. Buffalo plaid. Smaller buffalo plaid.
"Those just came in last week."
The woman who's appeared next to me is mid-fifties, maybe early sixties, with long wavy gray hair and a turquoise cuff so big it could double as a weapon. She's attractive in that weathered, unbothered way I'd like to be when I’m her age. She's alsolooking at me with a small, knowing smile that has every single hair on my arms standing up.
"They're nice," I say, because what can you say about flannel?
"They're for the tourists." She tips her head toward the back of the store. "Real flannel's in the bin under the window. Pendletons."
"Ah. Thanks."
She doesn't move. Her eyes do that small-town flick I've already learned to recognize—the one that takes inventory of you based on your clothes, hair, and all that.
"You must be the new one I’m hearing about," she says.
The flannel I'm holding suddenly feels very heavy.
"The new what?"
"Beck's new fling."
There it is.
Her tone isn't mean. And that almost makes it worse. It's the same tone you'd use to identify a bird at a feeder.Oh look, a lonely chickadee.Friendly. Faintly amused. Slightly pitying. As if the species is well-known and this particular specimen is just passing through.
"I'm working with his horse," I say.
"Mmhm." She nods as if that confirms something for her. "Well, he's a charmer, that one." She pats my arm gently, as if she’s petting a skittish dog. "You take care of yourself, honey."
She drifts toward the cash register, and I’m reeling.
The new one.
Like there's a list. Like there's been a steady parade of them. Like in a few weeks some other woman will be standing in this exact aisle while this woman says the same thing to her.
I know Beck told me last night, sober and shaking, that he’s not that man anymore, and every cell in my body believed him while we were tucked into wool blankets in front of a fire.
But here, in the cold light of day, that other voice pipes right up.
You’ve been in this situation before, Laurel. Remember?
