She relaxes and looks up at me, “I’m really not. Next question.”
Hmmm. I decide to move on. For now.
“Okay, next question then. Is it dyslexia?”
Her eyes go wide.
“Sorry, you may have noticed, I’m very direct.”
I’m happy to hear her chuckle slightly. She says, “I don’t know. I didn’t know thatyouknew.”
“I barely notice, but I wondered if the bullying you mentioned…if that’s why you are so shy.”
She nods, “I don’t know if it’s a diagnosable thing. My brain just moves quickly and my mouth doesn’t keep up, so the wrong words come out.” I wait, studying her. “My gran was the bully. She lived with us. She was awful to my mother who was awful to me. They wanted everything to always look perfect, be perfect, so they hated it, how I’d mix up words, say the wrong phrases. I’d get screamed at, slapped…I just gave up. Just stopped talking.”
“Period?” I can’t hide my shock.
“Yip…ugh,” she exhales.
“See, I’m a very intelligent bloke and I knew you meant yup.” I pop the p to try and get a smile out of her. I do.Aha! Brilliant.
“Yup,”she says. “I was so scarred from when I was little, I stayed mute for a few years.”
“And now you have to talk to customers all day,” I say in dismay.
She lifts a shoulder, “It’s been good for me. Always was. Dad had me working in the shop with him since I was little, definitely not legal.”
“So, do you enjoy the baking?”
She cocks her head for a second then answers, “Yes, I do.”
“And you enjoy running the shop?”
She sighs, “Isn’t it my turn to ask a question?”
“No, my birthday, my rules. Do you like the shop?” She shakes her head. “Care to elaborate? For my birthday.”
I get a cute little eye roll for that, then she speaks up at the pink-purple sky on an exhale, “It’s just too much. All day, every day, inventory, employees, socials, reviews...” She trails off.
“But you love this town then?”
“What number was that?” She smirks over at me. I don’t answer. She finally says, “It’s home.”
I stop walking and after a couple paces she stops as well. I step up into her space and get to my point. “Why, swee—Harper.Why do you stay?”
Her feet start to move as she talks, clearly having this answer locked away and ready to go. “Because someone has to! Dad’s here, his shop is here, and every one else left! What else am I supposed to do?”
“You could—”
She reaches the hood of an old pick up truck and turns, holding up a hand, “No, I’m choosing to be positive about where God has me. To be grateful and put down roots. Bloom where I’m potted rather than wishing for a different pot. Everyone doesn’t get their dream life, so you have to make the life you’ve gotintoa dream.”
I stare at her when she stops at the end of her rant and looks back. The breeze blows her fiery hair around. Her huge green eyes are glistening. Hell, she’s so damn beautiful I thinkmyeyes might be watering. But I can’t look away.
Her brow scrunches again, “You think I’m stupid.”
“I think you’re incredible,” I stalk up to meet her. “Absolutely brilliant and lovely and too bloody wonderful to be stuck somewhere you don’t want to be,” I say quickly, meaning it. She makes another gasp sound and I look at her sweet mouth.
Be her friend. HER FRIEND.
