“No, you’re not.” I don’t know why I’m dying on this hill, but I am. “Match my energy. Yellow shirt.”
“Unfortunately, there can only be one silly goose in town.”
“I’ve created a monster. You’re never going to call me anything other than silly goose.”
Zander licks ice cream from his upper lip, then grins. My heart flutters. “Let’s go, silly goose.”
Chapter Seven
Adelaide
Ipurposefully don’t look up Zander Browning when I get home. I sit and stew about it. I don’t go to The Nook and consult Tabitha or text her for more info. I wait two more days until Zander invites me out again.
Zander
Hey, I’ll be in town tonight. Weekly Saturday dinner with Gran. Do you want to meet up?
I read his words over and over. A seed of doubt has wormed its way into my brain and I hate it.
Nothing has changed between us. He keeps calling me a silly goose and it lights me up every time. We continue to flirt back and forth, getting to know each other through the more trivial details of our lives. Favourite foods (strawberries for me, shepherd’s pie for him), lucky number (4 for me, 21 for him), comfort TV show (Gilmore Girls for me, Ghosts for him), and my errant wonder of any allergies (shellfish for me, shockingly nothing for him). We even asked each other whatour dream jobs were as kids. I remember desperately wanting to be a figure skater, despite never having taken a lesson in my life, followed by years where I swore up and down I’d be a hairdresser. Because that’s what my mom did before she left and took Beaver Creek’s only salon with her. Zander, on the other hand, remembers wanting to be a dinosaur. Which I thought was adorable, but he didn’t look at me when he said it.
It’s odd to think the dinosaur confession is what made me connect some dots, but that’s exactly what it did. So, despite what I’m learning and loving about him, I’m realizing maybe Simon’s right. Thereissomething he’s hiding.
I glance at the unfinished crochet in my lap. I’m making a dress out of granny squares. I should be writing or digging through archives or something, but I’m putting this stupid dress together.
My cousin, Willow, who lives rent free in my house, looks over at me. Her thin eyebrows are raised, lips pressed together. She doesn’t ask any questions, just eyes me suspiciously, one hand poised on the page she’s flipped in her magazine. There’s an animosity between us, one that wasn’t there when we were kids, one born from her “temporary” stay post-graduation turned indefinite. Three years ago. I wouldn’t have minded if she’d asked or talked to me about something other than everything I’m doing wrong in my life. I know she’s waiting until I crack and finally kick her out, so she can run to her dad—who happens to be my mother’s brother—and complain about how unfair it is that I got the house that’s been in the family for years, despite my mother’s absence.
I turn back to my phone. Well, anywhere’s better than here.
Adelaide
I’m on deadline but could probably use a break. What do you have in mind?
Zander
We could write together? Go to Dam Good Coffee or the library?
“Did you make that?” Zander asks when I show up at the café in the granny square dress.
I take his hand, because I can’t help myself, and twirl. Perhaps heavy yarn isn’t the best material to wear in mid-June heat, but at least it’s a tank-dress. It’s an A-line shape, fitted to my body, showing off a healthy dose of cleavage I hadn’t anticipated and the wide curve of my hips I had. The squares are all bordered in white, tying together the dress with the pops of pastel colours on the interior. I feel like the most perfect rainbow burst, just as I’d intended when I started the project two months ago.
“I did!” I say, crashing into his chest.
I knock him slightly off balance and his arms wrap around me as he rights himself. It feelsright. Like I don’t need to question it even though I’ve spent hours questioning him since Simon’s vague confession. We both laugh awkwardly and pull away from each other.
“I’m impressed! Do you make most of your clothes?”
“Not fully. I’ll usually buy something and fix it up, make it a bit more my own. Like adding cute pockets to a dress. You should see my collection of jeans. I’ve embroidered, like, 95% of them.” I hold out my arms and let his eyes rove over my crochet creation. “This is entirely my own creation, though.”
“Granny squares,” he says.
“Yeah. Something your Gran makes?”
He lets out a huffy laugh and shakes his head, which flips his hair into his face. He runs a hand through his piecey bangs, messing them up, making me want to do exactly the same thing.
“No. Though, that would make sense, wouldn’t it? I just know a guy who makes a lot of blankets.”
“Sounds like you’re in the contraband blanket business.”
