Chapter 17 #2
I nodded. Well, it’s all I could do really.
She was so close to me and I could see the blue of her eyes, wide and confused, or it might have been mild terror, and the smell around her was all sweet and fragrant, and her hair was loose and free and wild like she’d just gotten out of bed—and I kinda liked it.
Oh, her ballerina prep-school vibe got me as well, but this version of Quinn had me stupider than usual.
“Okay, you two, jump in! We gotta be on our way,” Shayla called from the driver’s seat.
I realized we’d be sitting side by side, and moved back to let her in first. She stepped up and I turned away and took a second to compose myself.
Sitting next to Quinn for the thirty minute ride to Pine Ridge, that was a dream and a nightmare rolled into one, one I hadn’t prepared for.
And having Shayla right there with us wasn’t going to make it easier. I’d probably say totally crazy stuff.
Shayla was talking about her baby, possibly due any minute by the size of her belly—but surely not.
I mean, she wouldn’t be driving to Pine Ridge if the baby was about to come, would she?
I tried to focus on the passing scenery and not listen because I definitely could not contribute anything to that conversation.
And the last thing I wanted to do was embarrass myself by saying something stupid.
But Quinn seemed pretty relaxed, asking questions about baby names and stuff.
With her pale pink colored sweater brushing against my hoodie, I was hyper aware of our closeness.
But while I sat in a dumbstruck state, my brain was frantic, picking out all my flaws and insecurities.
Whereas Quinn was dressed in jeans, her holes were fashionable and deliberate, as opposed to mine which were due to legitimate wear and tear.
I really regretted wearing them now, but Mrs. Hamlin had said I’d be doing the lifting and not dealing with customers and Quinn wasn’t supposed to be here.
Not to mention, the early alarm meant I hadn’t sprayed on any cologne, combed my hair or even looked at my face in the mirror.
What if a pimple had erupted overnight, sitting beneath my nose or on my nose, white and full of pus ready to explode?
I brought a casual hand up to my chin, rough with a few bristles (of course I hadn’t run the razor over it) and I ventured higher, pretending to scratch an itch and then swiping across my forehead like I had an attack of poison ivy.
But phew, no bumps or lesions that I could feel.
Quinn’s head moved slightly, her blue eyes stealing a sideways glance. Geez, I was probably giving off fungal infection vibes. I quickly placed my hand down on my knee just as she half-smiled and adjusted her shoulder so we no longer touched.
‘Loser!’ my brain told me. For the rest of the journey, I tried not to listen to Shayla go on about a birthing plan, whatever that was.
I’d never been to a Farmers Market before—it was hardly Dad’s idea of an outing—but I had this preconceived idea of particular types of people who preferred to shop straight from the food source rather than the grocery store and weren’t opposed to paying higher prices for it.
I expected women in floaty skirts carrying baskets of fresh produce and hipsters in Crocs with their biodegradable coffee cups.
I had a feeling I’d be totally out of place.
But I was wrong. The Farmers Market was a place for everyone, young families and old people with walking frames and everyone in between, all wanting to support local suppliers, sample new products, reduce their carbon footprint, eat healthier and enjoy the community atmosphere.
After setting up the stand, there were a busy couple of hours where Shayla and Quinn served the customers and I restocked the potato bags which were selling like proverbial hotcakes.
When the early rush died down, Shayla bounced on her toes and declared, “I gotta use the restroom! You guys be okay for a few minutes?”
I tried to close my ears as she mentioned the baby and her bladder or some such thing.
“No worries,” Quinn said with a smile at me, prompting me to add, “Yep. All good.”
Not that I’d been handling any sales. I’d been sitting on an upturned crate at the back of the stand, ready to fill potatoes.
And watching Quinn. She was actually confident with customers, had learned about the produce and prices in a matter of minutes and I’d even heard her tell a lady about the differences between Russets and Reds.
And she’d convinced one old man that buying in bulk was a better deal and offered my services to carry the 20 pound bag to his car.
I hadn’t minded though; he’d given me a cookie for my trouble.
I was sorting a crate of loose potatoes by size when a high pitched girl’s voice screeched, “Oh my—are you kidding me? Quinn!”
I looked up to see a girl with long blonde hair standing next to a tall boy with preppy style hair. And by preppy style hair, I mean high maintenance. Probably blow-dried to get that height, parted to perfection and styled with wax and hairspray.
“Quinn Devereaux?” The deep male voice boomed with snide amusement, “So the rumors are true then?”
“Are you working here?” There was no mistaking the snark in the girl’s tone or the superior grin on her face. I leaned forward to hear better.
“Lara, hi.” Quinn’s voice was thin and soft, a shadow of how she’d been speaking to customers all morning, lively, enthusiastic and highly persuasive. “Uh, no...this is...I’m...it’s for a school project.”
“Working a potato stall is a school project?” Lara laughed, as did the boy in his cringe v-neck sweater.
“Did I hear your father’s business went bust?
” The words fell off the boy’s tongue with a smugness that made me immediately hate him.
“Yeah, can’t say I’m shocked,” he carried on louder as if to gain attention.
“Guess there’s not much demand for nasty plastic furniture.
” He jutted his chin, a grin showing off a row of ultra white teeth.
I didn’t move, and I didn’t understand what he meant, but I wanted to smash those perfect teeth to smithereens.
“It...it didn’t...he...he’s moved away.” Quinn spoke with hesitation. “My parents split up.”
Pompous, perfect hair boy picked up a potato from the crate in front of Quinn and inspected it.
“Oh, of course, yeah that’s the story,” he said with a snort of his upper class arrogance, rolling the potato in his palm.
I didn’t like the way he was doing it, touching a Hamlin Farms potato that he hadn’t paid for.
And I didn’t like the tone in which he was talking to Quinn. And I didn’t like him, period.
I leaped up, picked up a ten pound bag of potatoes and strode over. Standing in front of him, I tipped the potatoes into the crate with a thud, hoping the dust would flick all over that pristine cream sweater he was wearing.
“You looking for more potatoes?” I said, my seething voice laced with hostility. Yeah, I surprised me. It was totally out of character for me to engage with a rich prep school kid, let alone challenge one.
The boy’s eyebrows rose a fraction and the potato dropped from his hands like it literally was a hot potato.
He made a flashy show of lightly brushing at the front of his sweater while I stood there with a dark glare, adrenaline pumping through my veins.
I was ready for it, for whatever cruel remark this dude was about to make.
He tilted his head. “Thanks, but I think I’m good,” he said smoothly, managing to belittle me with one wide dismissive grin as he turned to Quinn and winked, pressing his fingers to his lips in a zipping motion.
“Don’t worry, lips are sealed,” he whispered, “I promise I won’t tell anyone you’re selling spuds.
” Lara giggled as they moved off, arm in arm.
Quinn lowered her head and started rearranging the potatoes I’d poured into the crate. I saw her shoulders rise and fall and was about to ask her who the kids were but two women approached the stand.
And just like that, Quinn lifted her head, smiled and cheerfully asked, “Hi, can I help?”
I slunk back to my seat, heart still pounding, kind of in shock that I’d even stepped forward to address the jerk, but more concerned about Quinn. That boy had definitely been mocking her and what did he mean about her father’s business going bust?
Shayla returned and I carried more big bags of potatoes for shoppers and when the flow of customers stopped, Shayla told us to take a break before the ‘brunch’ crowd arrived.
She highly recommended Bree’s Brews for coffee, hot chocolate and cinnamon rolls.
I was uncertain if we’d go together, if Quinn wanted me to tag along with her, but I waited as she untied her apron and put her little crossbody bag over her shoulder.
Another one of those Squishmallow toys was attached to it.
I’d seen it when she jumped into the truck but was too shy to mention it in front of Shayla.
Quinn headed for Bree’s Brews, following Shayla’s directions to go to our left and then turn right where a woman sold fresh eggs.
The coffee cart was right next to it. I followed tentatively, a half step behind because I didn’t know what the heck I was doing, and I stood behind her in the line.
She made a quick glance at me before turning to read the menu.
I wasn’t one for buying coffee, not when you could make a cup at home for a fraction of the price, but I didn’t want to look cheap, and the cinnamon rolls did smell good. I was thinking that I should buy one for Mason when I heard the cashier say sharply, “That’s been declined.”
“Uh...oh, I’ll try again.”
I looked over to see Quinn tapping on the card reader, her face pale and her mouth stuck open like she was frozen.
“No, sorry hon, that hasn’t gone through,” the lady said in a pleasant but subtly stinging voice.