Mrs. Abernathy will probably forget I was ever here by lunch.
But sometimes, on the better mornings, she talks to me for ages. About books, about the weather, about people I’ve never met. She smiles like she knows me. Like I make her day easier just by standing there.
She never asks for anything. Doesn’t expect explanations or apologies or answers I haven’t figured out yet.
She just looks at me like I’m enough.
It’s not what I grew up with.
But it’s nice. In a way I try not to think too hard about.
I’m trying.Really.
I am trying to be cheery, but my brain is still stuck on Mrs. Abernathy’s confusion, the way she looked right at me and saw someone else.
And now, standing behind the register at Elliot’s Books & Oddities, I am painfully aware of how empty the store is. I wonder how much longer Mr. Abernathy can keep it going?
Tourist season is tapering off. The regulars browse quietly, lost in their own worlds. Customers don’t come in for conversation. They come in, buy their book, and leave.
Which is fine by me, it means that I don’t need to be friendly.
“Hi!”
I jump back a little. The girl at the counter is smiling at me like we’re best friends.
She’s bright. That’s the first thing I notice. White jeans, a bubblegum-pink sweatshirt, glossy nails painted different colors. Blonde hair tied up in a high ponytail, bouncing slightly when she moves.
“Sorry, I think I wandered around for like, thirty minutes, but I found it!” she says, placing a brand-new romance novel onto the counter. The cover is hot pink with a little illustrated couple kissing under an umbrella.
I glance at it, then at her. This makes sense.
“Good choice,” I say, scanning the barcode.
“Right? I’ve been dying for this one. Fake dating, rivals-to-lovers, a reality TV baking show? It’s like they wrote it just for me.”
Her enthusiasm is weirdly contagious, and I find myself nodding.
“Student ID?” I ask, gesturing to the sign taped next to the register. “Ten percent off with proof of suffering.”
“Oh, yeah!” She pulls her wallet from her purse and hands over her card.
I glance down at the name printed across the front and freeze.
Tara Hawkins.
I snap my eyes back up to her.
Same icy-blue eyes. Same ridiculous golden-blond hair.
“Wait.” My voice comes out flat, slightly horrified. “Do you know Troy Hawkins?”
She laughs immediately, head thrown back like I just said the funniest thing in the world.
“Know him? Oh,honey. I’ve known him my whole life.”
Jesus Christ.
I stare at her, gripping the counter like I need physical support.
