Chapter 7 #2
I’d looked for Bonnie this afternoon during practice, wondered if she might stop by on her way out again, say hi to the kids. But I hadn’t caught sight of her. Maybe I’d missed her, or maybe she hadn’t left work until after practice wrapped up.
I wondered if she’d really come to the girls’ game this weekend.
Had that been one of those empty promises that adults made to kids sometimes?
Ways to smooth over awkwardness or questions you didn’t want to answer.
I couldn’t see Bonnie doing that, though.
Something told me she lied only about herself and only to keep from hurting other people.
I didn’t know what would happen the next time we saw one another. I wasn’t sure what to expect after texting someone in the middle of the night. Falling asleep with them on the other end of the line.
Everything about us felt like a secret. And Brady had confirmed it earlier when he’d asked if she and I were friends. I’d kept the truth to myself, wrapped it up warm and safe, and tucked it away in my pocket. Something just for me.
Despite my initial awkwardness with Brady, things smoothed out over the next hour or so. Mostly because of him. He was just good with people, whether they were my employees he happened to know or a random stranger two seats down at the bar. He put people at ease, and that went for me, too.
I relaxed and we chatted in between customers, talked sports and Kirby Falls politics.
He invited me to the business owners’ association meeting tomorrow, assuring me the snacks would be excellent because he was making brownies.
I’d laughed, not promising anything because I didn’t really do small-town involvement.
“I don’t know if you know this,” he’d said, “but you’re on their radar now, Coach. There will be no more hiding behind this here leafer bar.”
Brady stayed for one more beer before he’d said he was meeting Mac for dinner down the street at Apollo’s.
He’d invited me to go if I could get away from the bar for a minute.
Said Bonnie would be there too. He hadn’t given me a sly look or paused to gauge my reaction to that bit of information, but maybe I’d been looking for it too hard—expecting him to assume something.
Maybe to warn me off his future sister-in-law, with me being from the wrong side of the tracks.
Later that night, after I’d closed down the bar and locked up, I pulled my phone out of my pocket as I walked up the stairs to my apartment.
There was an email notification and one new text message.
I made myself read the email first. Like I was saving the text message, holding on to it, drawing it out. The last piece of candy from my Christmas stocking, wrapped in a bow, going soft and melty in my hand.
Then I sighed because Brady had been right.
The email was from Eloise Carter, the current head of the Kirby Falls Business Owners’ Association, with a reminder for tomorrow’s meeting.
I briefly entertained the idea of attending.
I was supposed to have the night off, my first one in a while. And there would be brownies.
Standing on the top stair, I swallowed and then switched apps.
Clyde: Brady yapped about practice all through dinner. I’m guessing it went well with the girls today?
I checked the time. 12:43 a.m.
Me: Yeah. He was a big help, and the girls loved him.
She replied before I could unlock my front door.
Clyde: Good. I’m glad it worked out.
Smirking, I typed, Should I say thank you again? What is the appropriate number of thank yous to fully express my gratitude?
My smile widened when her response came through, fast and sharp like I knew it would.
Clyde: Well, if you were actually grateful, you’d follow up with a baked good.
Me: Oh yeah? Something like . . . blueberry muffins?
Clyde: No, that would be redundant. You can’t gift back the same thing you were already gifted.
Laughing, I paused.
Me: Right. They would probably cancel each other out.
Clyde: Exactly. Then you’d have to start all over again.
I gave in and just lowered myself to the top step rather than take the time to get inside my apartment.
Me: What would you recommend?
Clyde: Well, my three favorite baked goods are Pop-Tarts, caramel cake, and pumpkin scones. Unfortunately, they all contain self-flagellation, and I know you’re allergic.
I snorted. God, she was in a sassy mood.
Me: Oh, I’m sorry. Did you think I was aiming to thank YOU? No, these baked goods would be for Brady.
Her reply was a GIF of some celebrity giving the camera a glare and a slow blink.
I chuckled again.
Me: I feel like we need to address the Pop-Tart thing. Those are not baked goods.
Clyde: Um, I heat them in the toaster.
Clyde: Usually.
Clyde: Sometimes I just raw dog them and eat them right out of the package.
I laughed so hard that I nearly dropped my phone.
Clyde: I cannot believe I just said that.
Clyde: Please ignore me.
Clyde: Pretend I did not just use “raw dog” in polite conversation.
It took me a moment to compose myself.
Me: I’m sorry. I cannot. I screenshot it for posterity.
She replied with the same glaring GIF.
Clyde: Okay, what are your three favorite baked goods?
Her embarrassment and misery were palpable, even over text.
She was typing fast over there to change the subject.
And I’d let her. Mostly because I didn’t want her to freak out and stop messaging me.
I liked having her here, like this. Right at my fingertips.
Even if I should be keeping my hands to myself.
With my grin far from fading, I responded, Blueberry lemon scones, sourdough bread . . .
I let the answer hang there, knowing she’d fill the silence with her curiosity.
Clyde: And?
Me: And your blueberry muffins.
The Kirby Falls Business Association meeting was being held in the library’s meeting room. It had a podium at the front and probably ten rows of chairs with a narrow central aisle.
I stood in the back near the refreshment table.
The library hadn’t really been on my radar growing up, which was ironic considering how much I read now, as an adult.
I didn’t have fond, paperback-scented memories of story time or library programs. There hadn’t been summer reading events to keep me busy in middle school.
Instead, I’d found trouble more often than not.
I caught sight of several local business owners, sitting and chatting in their seats. Margaret Mahroney from the flower shop downtown. The lady who always wore a bright caftan and owned Paperback Writer, the bookstore and gift shop I frequented.
I spied the Clark bunch in the front row.
Bonnie was sitting beside a woman who looked like an older version of herself.
I knew her parents were involved in the day-to-day running of Grandpappy’s and assumed the person next to her was her mother.
Maggie Clark sat on the woman’s other side.
She was my sourdough supplier and we were well acquainted.
Two empty seats remained at the end of their row, and I wondered briefly if they were for Brady Judd and his girlfriend.
I didn’t have to wonder long because a moment later, Brady breezed through the door I was thinking about escaping through.
“Hey, Jack. You made it.”
I thought he was going in for a handshake, but instead, he thrust a large Tupperware container into my hands.
He grinned. “Take a few before the vultures descend. They’re delicious.”
MacKenzie Clark gave me a brief smile over Brady’s shoulder before saying, “Bring me one of those. I’m going to sit down.” Then Brady jumped like he’d been pinched on the backside.
If he minded, he didn’t show it. Instead, his ultrabright smile widened. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You want to sit with us?” Brady asked me as he popped the top off the storage container. “I can grab a chair from the back.”
“No, that’s alright,” I replied, accepting the swirled brownie he passed me in a napkin. “I might have to take off early.”
“I hear you. These things can get boring.”
Just then, a throat cleared from behind him.
We turned to see Eloise Carter dressed in one of her uptight skirt suits, holding a file folder, likely containing the contents of tonight’s agenda.
Unbothered, Brady greeted the elderly woman like he hadn’t just been saying how terrible her meetings were. “Well, hello there, Ms. Carter. Would you like a brownie? I made them myself.”
She sniffed. “No, thank you. I have a boring meeting to get started.”
Eloise clipped away on her heels.
Brady and I shared a look.
“Smooth,” I offered.
Brady chuckled. “Ah, well. She’s never liked me. I kicked a soccer ball into her award-winning roses when I was ten. She’s been holding it against me ever since.”
“That feels on brand.”
“Well, I’d better get up there.” His hands were full of brownies wrapped in napkins. “See you, Jack.”
Eloise Carter was just tapping the microphone on the podium when Brady slid into his seat. I watched him pass out his baked goods, noting that Bonnie shook her head, declining the offer before facing forward.
I guess if it wasn’t a Pop-Tart, she didn’t want it.
The meeting passed slowly. It was basically a rundown of sponsorship, fundraising, and volunteer opportunities for the fourth quarter.
The Orchard Festival was over, but there would be plenty of events for local business owners to participate in between now and the first of the year, the Holiday Jamboree encompassing a lot of that.
“And next month,” Eloise said succinctly, “we have trick-or-treating on Main Street. Candy donations are needed.”
The woman made sudden, meaningful eye contact with me in the back of the room. If she thought her steely glare was going to faze me, she was mistaken.
I ignored her. I was still in the middle of the last thing she’d strong-armed me into.
Luckily, Bonnie piped up from the front row. “I can do that. I’ll make sure to get options for kids with dietary restrictions.”
“Thank you, Bonnie,” Eloise said, her tone superior.