Page 33 of Sparrow

I jerk to life and rush after him, my mind spinning over the conversation we just had, the abrupt way he changed his plans, and the implications of him deciding to take time off to accompany me into town.

I shouldn’t be as pleased as I am.

I certainly shouldn’t be feeling warmth rushing through my body at the thought that he not only cares where I’m going, but also decided that he was going to come with me instead of working in the garage he treasures.

I know it means nothing. I’ve seen him interact with the townspeople enough to know he treats everyone like this. If people have a problem, he fixes it and does his best to make it look as effortless as possible He doesn’t question anyone or make them feel guilty if they need help. Just listens, nods, and then solves the problem.

And this is no different than that. He knows I need clothes and potentially food, and is making sure that happens. That’s all it is. It’s nothing special.

I’m not unique. I don’t hold any special influence with him. Just another person he’s trying to take care of. Another problem to solve.

And that’s the story I’m going to keep telling myself until I leave, because that’s the only way I’m going to keep myself safe from the emotions threatening to overwhelm me.

When we get to the end of the driveway, Mars turns left, and I look down the street like a kid at Disneyland, a grin stretching across my face. Being in town properly is about 500 times better than looking at it from the window above, and my skin is buzzing with excitement before we even reach the shops. Ahead of us, I see the cafe, the diner, the bakery, and the bookstore, and if I strain my eyes I think I can see a small boutique at the end of the block.

Clothes. Clothes and books and maybe something to drink at the diner in between. And in the meantime...

I stroll down the sidewalk, tagging two steps after Mars as I look around and soak it all in. The buildings are just as colorful down here as I thought they were, and this close I can see that they’ve been hand painted, each of them featuring painted words and advertisements in its windows. All of the doors are open, and they make me think of a row of houses where all the neighbors are best friends, each of them waiting for someone else to stop by and visit.

Gossip.

Ask to borrow a cup of sugar.

Three steps after that thought, a couple of dogs rush out of one of the stores and right toward Mars, barking and jumping at him like he’s the best friend they haven’t seen in years. He laughs and stoops down to pet them, crooning their names like lullabies.

“They missed you,” a man says, leaning against the frame of his shop.

I look up and see that it’s the bookstore, and glance quickly behind the man. I see shelf after shelf there, the covers jewel bright and glossy. Each shelf has a label for the genre, and I take a step toward the shelf.

It’s been months since I had a book to read, and I’ve felt the absence like an actual wound in my soul.

A hand reaches out and grabs me, though, and Mars pulls me back toward him. “I saw them yesterday, Bruce,” he says, his voice full of laughter. “They can’t have missed me that much.”

“They miss you the moment you leave, and you know it,” Bruce says, also laughing. “You’re the only one that feeds them bacon.”

Mars gasps like he’s just heard the most offensive thing possible. “Bacon? I would never.”

Bruce gives him a look that calls the bluff, and I can feel the laughter vibrating down Mars’ arm and into his hand.

“I plead the fifth,” he says solemnly. Then he tugs at my hand again. “Come on, Arden. The bakery.”

“Bakery?” I stutter. “But I need clothes.”

His answer is gruff. “Breakfast first. Clothes after.”

I want to argue. I really do. But the sunshine of the place has gotten under my skin, and I have to admit that if he’s offering breakfast first...

I’m not going to refuse it.

Besides, the bakery is right next to the bookstore, squatting against the sidewalk like a fat little woman, and it’s between us and the store I hope has clothes. So really it’s just logical to stop here first. I look up at the place when we get there and take in the squat building done up in blue and yellow stripes, with a white awning overhead. The sign advertises the bakery in bright blue, fanciful letters, and the lettering on the window promises the best cinnamon rolls in town.

I don’t even have to know that this is Penny’s place. The color scheme looks like her.

And when we step into the place, I realize it feels like her, too. The display cabinet has row after row of croissants, doughnuts, cakes, breads, cookies, and there at the top, the promised cinnamon rolls. It smells sweet and glazed and glorious in here, and everyone at the small, spindly tables is laughing.

No surprise, there. How could anyone feel sad with this much sugar surrounding them?

Penny looks up, spots Mars, and shakes her head. Moments later she’s sliding a plate with a cinnamon roll across the top of the display case. “Your usual,” she says.