Chapter 20
Daisy
Dating is grocery shopping:
you know what you should be looking for,
but all bets are off when you
see something delicious and bad for you.
~ Unknown
I wake with memories of the chili cook-off flitting through my brain. And the wisp of a dream. Patrick. Staring into my eyes. Two straws in a cup between us. His lips hover just there. Then the cup disappears like mist. He smiles before kissing me softly, drawing me in, heat swirling between us.
I bolt out of bed as if it’s on fire!
In what world do I dream of kissing the enemy?
I practically dash to the shower, turning on the tap in hopes the water will wash me clean of the memories of that insane dream. Who am I kidding? Forget a shower—I need an exorcism!
On the way into work I’m still rattled. I crank the radio and belt out the lyrics.
I know just what I need to purge myself of all insanity about my infuriating neighbor. I park in the lot and stride right to my office. Popping the door open with more force than necessary, I settle into my office chair and power my desktop computer to life.
Is this what my life has been reduced to?
Going weak in the knees over the thought of a DM from a man who I don’t even know in real life?
I sigh. Yes. I am pathetic. There’s no DM, so I click over to my emails.
All thoughts of chili and dreams I shouldn’t be dreaming disappear when I see his name in the sender column. I click the email too eagerly:
Dear M&M,
I don’t even know if you like pineapple on pizza.
That’s a pretty significant detail in a friendship, don’t you agree?
Do you run indoors at the first sign of rain, or step out the door just to smell that indescribable smell and watch the raindrops fall …
Does it rain often where you live? My town gets a decent amount of rain.
And I’m obviously typing this late at night when my brain is in that unfiltered state. Forgive me for rambling. For some reason, I know you will.
I had a full day and now I’m home—in the quiet that is the other half of my life.
I’m thinking of this cabin I’ve rented on vacations over the years.
Sometimes I’ve taken a group of guys there.
Other times I’ve gone alone. It’s peaceful …
fire glowing in the hearth, no schedule for the days I’m there, a stack of books to keep me company and trails to run or hike when I want to get out into nature.
Do you have a place like that in your life?
Okay. I’d better quit before I really ramble and say something I’ll regret.
- BTTP
Winona’s with a customer at the counter—their voices carry through the office door—so I click the browser shut.
I’ll answer BTTP later. This is by far his most non-bookish email or DM ever.
What does it mean? We’re still not going to meet face-to-face.
He’s made it clear how deeply he needs his anonymity.
What if we met up and things went south?
He can’t risk that. His podcast is on the line.
Even with that awareness, throughout the day I picture him in that cabin he mentioned in his email, relaxing by the fire with a book. And the smile on my face returns. It remains so unnaturally full that Winona confronts me as soon as we have a lull between customers.
“What’s wrong?” Her brow scrunches, eyes narrowing. She pops her hands on her hips while she scrutinizes me.
“What do you mean, What’s wrong? Nothing’s wrong … I mean, unless you factor in our monthly sales and the fact that the O’Connell family is playing a game of Monopoly and they just landed on the square next to mine.” Still, I smile.
“But you’re smiling.” She squints and her lips thin.
“Is that a crime? Did I miss a town-hall vote banning smiles in public?”
“What’s going on?” Winona demands.
“Okay. Okay. I had a nice exchange with someone.”
“Oh my gosh! Oh! A phone call! With Chet?” She makes jazz hands and wobbles her head side to side excitedly. “What did he say?”
“No.” I walk over to the display of books on the table near the entry.
“No? What do you mean, no?”
“It wasn’t Chet. It’s just … nothing.”
“That smile wasn’t nothing.”
I’m so tempted to tell Winona about the host of BTTP, but something inside me wants to keep our exchanges private—especially because there’s a ninety-nine percent chance that we’ll never be more than online friends.
“Just tell me,” Winona begs. “You know you’re going to cave eventually and you don’t want to spend this day with me pestering you left and right.” She smiles a smile of self-satisfaction.
“I will—if this becomes anything to tell. Okay? It’s nothing for now. I just … can’t. But you’re one of my best friends. You have my word. If there’s a development between me and anyone, you’ll be the one of the first to know.”
“The first,” she clarifies.
“I’ll tell my best friends. You’re up at the top of the list.” I cross my heart, like we did as kids.
She watches the movement and nods, knowing how seriously we take that gesture, even in our twenties.
I’m floating on my own personal cloud for hours.
Nothing gets me down. Not when customers mention the development with looks of grave concern on their faces.
Not even when I’m in the office, crunching numbers and trying to squeeze blood from a turnip.
Not when Waylon knocks on the office door, his face wary and his hands clasped.
“What’s up, Waylon? You look like someone died.” He doesn’t smile and I wonder if I just put my foot in my mouth. “Did someone die?”
“No. No one died. I just … Well, I got another job. Full time. In town. At Simply Thrifted.”
“You’re leaving?” I swallow the shock.
“Not leaving. I’ll still be in town. I know you’ve struggled to cover payroll. I love Moss and Maple. I just need more hours. And I …”
I cut him off. “It’s okay, Waylon. I understand. Of course. You need to make a living. And you’re welcome back here, or even if you want to pick up extra hours … You’re leaving on good terms.”
I say all the right things. And I mean them.
Waylon’s leaving?
“They want me to start as soon as I’m able, but I’ll stick out my two weeks here.”
“No. I appreciate that, but you should start as soon as you want. We’ll be fine here.”
It’s not like customers are banging down the doors. Effie’s always offering to put in extra time if I need her. She’s retired and only works here for fun and a little pocket money.
“Are you sure?” His face is a mask of worry.
“I’m sure. You caught me off guard at first. But I’m very sure.”
“Thanks, Daisy.”
“Thank you, Waylon. You’ve added a lot to the shop while you were here.”
I know it’s not the O’Connells’ fault that my business ebbs and flows. They aren’t responsible for my overhead or the costs of keeping the doors open. Still, I can’t help the way Patrick and his family loom in my mind after Waylon shuts the office door behind himself.
My spirits sag toward the end of the day when we’re all hugging Waylon goodbye. After a little more discussion, he and I agreed this would be his last day at the shop.
“You’ll be missed,” Winona says.
“It’s not like I’m being deployed,” he teases.
“I expect your employee discount at the thrift shop to be extended to family,” Winona says. “And by family, I mean me.”
Waylon chuckles and we all step out of the shop together. I lock the door, wondering if this is the beginning of the end.
Despite my souring mood, I agree to meet my friends at Carli’s ranch. We had already planned a girls’ night, and as soon as Cass heard about Waylon quitting, she insisted on picking me up to drive me out here.
We’re all sitting around the small living room in Carli’s private house on her family’s ranch property. You can’t even see the main house from out here—just acres and acres of open land surrounding the small cabin she calls home.
“I was at the Five and Dime this afternoon, picking up a few things, when Mr. O’Connell came in,” Cass says.
“Can we please not discuss the O’Connells?” I practically whine.
“Or that moment you shared with Patrick over chili?” Carli teases.
“I was on fire!” I defend.
“I’ll say!” Cass teases. “You both were on fire. That whole moment was incendiary.”
“Ugh.” I groan. “If anything ignites around Patrick O’Connell, trust me, I’ll need a defense attorney, not a justice of the peace.”
My friends laugh.
“Anyway,” Cass continues. “I think Mr. O’Connell is canvassing the small business owners. Who knows what he’s telling them or promising. All I know is it looked like a whole lot of logrolling to me.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him to trade favors for votes,” I say. “What can I do?”
“I don’t think you can do anything,” Cass says in her typical matter-of-fact tone.
“Don’t worry,” Winona interjects. “Waterford hates big businesses and box stores. We’re all about local mom-and-pop shops. You don’t need to stress.”
“I wish I had your optimism,” I say.
“Nothing’s over til it’s over,” Carli says.
“Can we talk about something else?” I ask.
“Of course. Of course,” Winona says. Then she quickly turns the subject to the Fall Festival and what she’s planning to wear for her costume.
Thankfully, we abandon the subject of the O’Connells and their nefarious invasion into our town and my life.
I’m helping Carli in the kitchen while the rest of our friends chat in the other room toward the end of the night.
“Looks like a storm’s blowin’ in,” I say, staring out her kitchen window.
It’s pitch dark out, but the moonlight illuminates the gathering clouds.
Carli follows my gaze and nods. “Not tonight, but yeah. We’re due.” She grabs the plate I just rinsed from me and says, “Sorry ’bout your date with Chet.”
“He was nice. No harm, no foul.”
I don’t know what comes over me, I promised Winona I’d tell her.
And I will. But Carli’s Carli—objective, loyal, the best of all of us at keeping a secret.
I look over my shoulder to make sure everyone’s good and occupied in the other room.
They’re laughing at something Winona said, so I turn back to Carli.
I need to tell someone, but I don’t want to tell everyone—not yet.
Lowering my voice, I say, “There’s this guy …”
Her eyes go wide and she sets down the platter she’s about to rinse on the counter.
“He’s not from around here … I don’t think.”
“You don’t think?” Her brow scrunches in confusion.
“He runs a podcast—about books.”
To her credit, Carli remains silent, waiting for me to divulge everything. And I do. I tell her about my first email with the host of Burning Through the Pages and all our messages since.
When I finish, she says, “No wonder you haven’t been excited when we’ve fixed you up on dates.”
“That’s not the only reason.”
“I know.” Her eyes soften with unspoken compassion.
“What about you?” I ask Carli. “Why isn’t everyone fixing you up? Do I have an invisible sign on my back that says, Matchmake me, please?”
“No. And I don’t know. I think my standards are impossibly high.” She sighs. “I’m stuck.”
“I know what you mean.”
She has no idea. The last man on earth I’d ever kiss is invading my dreams. I’ve gone on two dates that only served to highlight my hopelessness of ever finding someone in the local dating pool. And my online idol is messaging me, but we’ll never meet in person.
Stuck doesn’t even come close to describing my love life.