Page 122 of You Fall First

Chapter Thirty-One

Jo

“Awwww, hey there, sad bear.” Maren offers up a pout, and a dent appears on her forehead. “I’d ask how you’re feeling, but your face already sent me a telegram.”

“Telegram?” I prop my phone against a napkin dispenser next to an enormous caramel macchiato. “What are you talking about?”

“Telegram. Telegraph.” She shrugs. “Whatever those old-timey messages are called.”

“I think you mean email,” I snort, ignoring her underlying message, but Maren simply peers beyond my shoulder, ignoring me right back.

“Where are you right now?” she asks.

“Catty’s Coffee.” I scored a sunny window seat, looking out on Maple Street. This FaceTime and the macchiato are supposed to be my rewards for surviving Saturday morning yoga and unpacking my duffel bag. “I’m not a sad bear.”

This is a lie.

I am totally a sad bear. I’m the saddest bear ever to trade in the Appalachian Mountains for downtown Harvest Hollow, and at this point, I’m not sure who I’m trying harder to convince.

Me or Maren.

It’s been one night, and I already miss Noah.

But if I admit how I actually feel, to her or to myself, the shimmer of tears behind my eyes might break the seal.

Crying bear in a Catty’s Coffee window seat? No thanks.

“Oh, come on, Jo.” She wipes her brow with a towel. “You’re usually sporting a nice, sweaty glow after yoga, but today you look like you just watched a full hour of back-to-back dog rescue commercials. The ones with the shivering beagle who’s⁠—”

“Stop!” I throw a hand up before she describes that poor old dog’s tragic, cloudy eyes. “You aren’t helping my mood.”

“Aha!” She lifts a triumphant finger. “So you admit something is wrong.”

“Fine,” I say through gritted teeth. “But it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” She slings the towel over her shoulder and leans in close to the screen. “Is it Dutton?”

“Yes.”

“And Noah?”

I take a beat. “Also yes.”

“Let me guess.” She tips her chin. “You got used to staying over, the three of you had a sweet little family thing going, then your ovaries got stimulated, and now you’re wishing you could move in with Noah permanently.”

“Exactly how long was this face telegram I sent?”

“Email,” she quips. “And very long.”

“You’re ridiculous,” I smirk.

“Maybe.” She drops onto a bench outside the yoga studio. “Do you want me to talk you out of your feelings for Noah? Or talk you in?”

I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t know?”

“Ah. That means you want in.”

“Ugh. I doooo,” I moan.