Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GRIFFIN
The air is so freaking cold Thursday morning that my breath makes big, puffy clouds in front of my face as I walk down Whether Street.
It’s barely seven o’clock, but I’ve learned that’s the best time to get fresh donuts in this town.
I’m clutching a white paper bag from Fox Creamery to my chest like it’s a precious treasure—which it is; their sugar donuts are chef’s kiss—and the warmth of the donuts is the only thing keeping my hands from freezing off.
Since it’s not quite October yet, this does not bode well for my perpetually chilly ass.
“Morning, Griffin,” Mrs. Chen calls from the post office steps. The office isn’t open yet, but she’s already busy, arranging a display of autumn gourds that must violate, like, seventeen safety codes but looks charming as hell.
I lift a hand in a cautious greeting. In New York, we walk fast and never make eye contact—it’s a point of pride. Here, it’s the polar opposite. I’m still not used to this whole… gratuitous friendliness thing. Especially not at this hour.
Case in point, a fire truck rumbles past, and Robbie calls, “S’up, Griffin!” from the driver’s seat, which makes me jump.
At this rate, I’ll get acclimated just as I’m ready to move on. The thought makes my stomach twist.
“Griffin! Hey! Hey, Griffin!”
This time when I’m aggressively waved at, I manage not to startle. The guy who emceed the Wild Gherkin Chase jogs across the street to meet me. Judging by the big white grin on his tan face, the “Captain Fun” moniker wasn’t a one-day thing but his entire personality.
“Perfect timing!” he says, slightly out of breath. “We haven’t officially met yet. I’m Ry Marek. I teach fourth grade at the Proctor School.”
“Nice to meet you.” I shift my donuts so I can return his handshake.
“I heard you’re thinking about infrastructure improvements if you’re crowned Big Dill. That true?”
I nod. “Among other things.”
“Fantastic! See, I’ve been advocating for a crosswalk near Proctor School for ages. The kids have to dodge traffic every morning.” He wipes his sweaty brow. “If you want, I can show you the exact spot I was thinking?”
“Maybe another time? I promised to help Ada with her window display again today.” I gesture down the street toward the Pickle Jar.
That’s code for Ada’s “teaching me to win Big Dill” while I do unpaid physical labor and she eats donuts. I like to imagine it’s a sort of wax-on, wax-off, Karate Kid–type situation, except that my Mr. Miyagi has a bouffant.
“Sure! Thanks for being open to it.” Ry grins. “I appreciate that you want to hear about the town’s needs instead of assuming you know what’s what.”
“Oh, I’d never assume that,” I say dryly. “Believe me.”
And if I ever tried, Beckett would set me straight.
As we say goodbye and I keep walking, I replay my video call with Milo last night. He’d been glowing about his wellness retreat—connections he’d made with some major supplement brands, talk of a collab.
I’d almost hated to bring the vibe down by catching him up on my news, but I’d known he’d be pissed if I didn’t.
“Wait, hold up,” Milo had said, his face pixelating slightly on my laptop screen. “You broke into the Pickle Turret and learned Mushroom Jim’s not just a stealth bestselling author, he’s also your biological father? Oh, my sweet baby boy! That’s it, I’m leaving tonight—”
“Milo, no. Absolutely not.”
“Um, absolutely yes! This is huge. Life-changing! Your emotionally constipated self needs someone to help you process. You shouldn’t have been alone! I blame myself.”
“I… wasn’t. Alone, I mean. Beckett came over. I called him after the, ah, FaceTime with my moms. And he helped.”
And by “helped,” I’d meant “he made me orgasm so hard, my brain tilted sideways and allllll my thoughts slid off, so I slept like a rock.”
There’d been a moment of silence so charged it had literally lifted the hairs on my arms.
But when Milo spoke, it was only to say a breathy “Well. Well, well, well.”
“Milo,” I’d groaned.
“Don’t you Milo me, Griffin Alexander Mercer,” he’d said, pulling out my full name like my mothers when I’m in trouble. “You slept with him, didn’t you? That’s how he ‘helped.’ He helped you with his big lumberjack penis!”
“No! I mean, yes. I mean… We fooled around twice. Possibly two and a half times? Irrelevant.” I’d waved a hand. “I called, and he came over. It was… nice.” I’d cleared my throat. “Hey, tell me more about these collab opportunities, huh? They sound amazing.”
Milo had sat there frozen for so long I’d wondered if the internet had cut out.
Then he’d exploded.
“Who the fuck are you right now, Griffin? I’m not talking about the hookups—you wanna tonsil tango with your flannel-wearing nemesis?
Great. I’ve been hoping for that since day one.
You wanna touch his dick—two and a half times?
Here for it. You wanna take him and his big dick on a woodland adventure and prison-break your locked treehouse?
Weird, but okay. But you going mushy as a black banana for a guy you’ve known less than two weeks? Ha! Fuck no. Not on my watch.”
“Who said I’m mushy? I’m not mushy,” I’d protested, but even as I said it, I’d known it wasn’t entirely true. I might not be mushy, but I was definitely… overripe.
“Griffin. You don’t tell people when you need them.
You only told me about your billboard situation when I saw it on TikTok, and I’m your best friend!
But you called the Angry Lumberjack and asked him to come over?
” He hesitated, then added, “Look, I don’t wanna be that guy, babe, I really don’t, but…
how do we know Beckett isn’t getting in your pants so he can get in your head?
Sweeten you up so you stop fighting about the easement?
I’m just saying… you gotta think. Enjoy the dick without getting dick-stracted from your goal. ”
Coming on the heels of my chilly interaction with Beckett at the farmer’s market yesterday, in which he’d only seemed interested in whether I was selling Jim’s land, Milo’s outburst had been the ice-cold reality shower I’d needed to wake me up.
He’s right that I don’t trust people easily. You can’t make it in the corporate world wearing your heart on your sleeve, and recent events have reinforced those trust issues.
So why’d I reach out to Beckett? Why was my first thought, when Beckett blew me off at the farmer’s market, to worry about him?
It’s perilously close to mushy behavior, which is the last thing I need.
I don’t think Beckett’s deliberately using sex to “dick-stract” me from my Big Dill run. But he’s still my Big Dill rival. His priorities are directly in conflict with mine. We’re not on the same side.
I need to put him out of my head—and shower fantasies—for good.
I push through the door of the Pickle Jar and immediately get assaulted by the scents of old wood, lavender sachets, and the dill-scented pickle candles Ada sells.
You’re taught early in marketing that there’s a buyer for every product, if you know how to pitch it, and this store crammed with antiques and pickle-themed tourist tchotchkes is proof.
Fancy walnut grandfather clocks tick beside a display of T-shirts with slogans like “I Got that Big Dill Energy” and “In a Pickle? Head to Winsome!” and “I got pickled at the Brine and Dandy in Winsome, Vermont,” which features a pickle with a monocle, a top hat, and a shot glass.
But like so many weird things in this town, the combo works.
“Griffin, is that you?” Ada calls. “I smell donuts! Bring ’em here!”
I follow her voice through the maze and find her in the back room, surrounded by cardboard boxes full of what appear to be old Brine posters, and her judgmental tortoiseshell cat, Bathsheba.
The cat twines itself around my leg twice before jumping on a nearby shelf to give herself a bath, which according to Ada means Bathsheba likes me.
“Found these beauties in my cellar,” she says, pointing at the boxes. “Thought you could incorporate them into the window display.”
I set the donut bag on the table, shuck my fleece, and take a closer look. The posters span decades of festivals, with artwork ranging from hand-drawn illustrations yellowed with age to clip-art computer graphics from twenty years ago.
“These are perfect. We could do a Winsome Through the Ages thing?” I suggest.
Ada beams, her bright red lips already covered in cinnamon sugar. “Exactly what I was thinking. You have a real knack for this stuff. Winsome’s been needing someone with your skills.”
I chuckle. A knack. Also a business degree and over seven years’ experience working on demanding, high-profile accounts, but okay.
“Winsome only has me for another couple months,” I remind her. “Until the end of the year at the most.”
She waves this away with a hand covered in jewelry and sugar. “You keep saying that, but a girl can dream.”
Chuckling, I gather up an armload of posters and head to the front window.
Ada chatters about strategy while I work, but I’m only half listening as I arrange the display. But just after I’ve gotten out the stepladder to string up some bunting, one of the posters catches my eye, and I freeze.
Come see JG Flummery, Author of The Whispers!
There’s a small author photo in the corner of a man with gray hair that sticks up in tufts just like mine, grinning at the camera in what looks like the 1990s. Jim.
“Oh, now that’s a good one,” Ada says, noticing where I’m staring. “Your uncle Jim was quite the local celebrity.”
I swallow hard.
This week, I’ve tackled a bunch of things that needed to be done regarding Jim’s estate, like emailing his attorney to ask whether the intellectual rights mentioned in the trust include a series of kids’ books I’ve never read.
I’ve managed my moms’ increasingly worried texts.
And I’ve sat and stared at the cover of the Whispers book on my coffee table for hours, like it’s the ancient grimoire of curses Beckett joked about.