Sadie
A Ruined Sweater
Seeing Max O’Reilly wasn’t on my bingo card.
Not that it really makes that big of a difference, I didn’t really know him then, and I’m indifferent to knowing him now.
He’s changed physically since the last time I saw him.
Where he used to be tall and a little lanky, he’s now solid muscle—my face still feels like it hit a brick wall.
One thing that hasn’t changed is that panty-dropper grin, he’s had that forever, and I’m sure he still knows how to use it.
Luckily for me, I’m immune to that sort of thing after years spent near a locker room.
I’m not, however, immune to whatever juju Beth put into that letter.
I mean, it’s completely unhinged. I couldn’t have actually seen anything in my coffee, and a few puzzles won't solve anything. When I got home, I shoved it and the book into the bottom of my suitcase, zipped that baby up, and stuffed it into the back of my closet. It can stay there until Beth returns, and she’ll just have to get over me not completing it.
I have important things to do, like finding a way to work without getting caught.
That’s something I can thank Max for, actually.
I internet stalked him—like any normal person—and it turns out that he was still playing hockey until about six months ago.
I found an article from the Mage Hollow Gazette that noted him doing some coaching, and a picture on his social media confirmed it.
The deep dive made me wonder if the team here in Mage Hollow would be interested in having a spotlight player.
My phone buzzes with a text on the yellow-painted nightstand my mom made for me in sixth grade. One leg is a little shorter than the others, but with a stack of magazines under it, you can hardly tell. Dee Dee might not be the strongest craftswoman, but she tried.
Mal
Are you guys coming to the farmer’s market?
I hadn’t planned on doing much other than relaxing at Mom's or maybe the beach, but I guess I could go. I’m not very good at sitting around mindlessly with nothing to do.
I roll out of bed and slip my feet into my slides before making my way downstairs. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and cinnamon rolls beckons me, and my stomach growls.
When I turn the corner and peek into the small, square kitchen, Mom’s head whips around. "There’s my girl." Her face blooms into a genuine smile as the curlers holding up her blonde hair shake lightly. "Your sister has invited us to the farmer’s market."
"I know. She texted me too." I move closer to the mismatched collection of mugs that hang on the wall above a coffee cart and next to an etched wood sign she had made that reads: Dee Dee’s Coffee Delights. "Should we go?"
My mom steps up beside me, moving me out of the way with her hip as she prepares a latte just the way I like it. "Well," she starts. "That depends—"
"On?" I cross my arms and lean back against the faux marble-topped island.
"Are you going to tell me where you went yesterday?" She spins to hand me the drink she made, throwing in a raised eyebrow that’s laced with guilt. When I got home yesterday, I was pretty freaked out and, honestly, annoyed. I’m an adult.
I’ll be thirty in two years. The last thing I need is for someone else to think they can step in and control my life.
So, I holed up in my bedroom like I’m fifteen again—isolating myself.
I groan internally, snatching my drink and sitting down on the wooden stool closest to the pan of warm breakfast pastries.
Quickly dishing one onto a plate, I make a big show of humming over the taste.
It’s not really faking. Dee Dee is a great cook, and these are my favorite.
But I can’t exactly tell her about the coffee situation or what the letter said—she’d think I’d lost my mind.
Maybe I have?
"You can ignore me, but you’re not leaving this room until we talk.
" She moves to the opposite side of the island, so I’m forced to either look directly at her or very obviously avoid eye contact.
"I’ve known you for twenty-eight years, three months, and five days.
You can hardly keep a secret from me, and when you walked in the door yesterday, it was clear something was bothering you. "
I sip my latte, washing down the bite I just swallowed. "Mom, it’s not a big deal. I’m fine. I just went to see Beth."
"I’m sorry. I’m just a mom, and worrying is my job." She picks up my fork and stabs a piece of cinnamon roll, pulling it to her mouth. "Did you go for guilty pleasure pancakes? Shame on you and Beth for not inviting me."
"She wasn’t there."
"Beth?" my mother questions, mouth full of cinnamon goodness.
"Yeah. Josephine said she went to visit their sister."
"Irina? I thought she was still around here." My mom tosses her fork in the sink and spins toward the hallway. "You should shower and change. I told Mal we would meet her in about thirty minutes."
My mouth gapes open. "I didn’t even know she had a sister?"
"You’ve always been a little too focused on your goals to notice the world around you. But her sisters keep to themselves. It’s not a big mystery, darling." She runs a hand over mine, squeezing gently, and then walks out of the kitchen.
I continue chewing on the cinnamon sugar perfection in front of me, while thanking all the powers that be that I had the foresight to shower last night. I only need ten minutes to get changed.
Do I really not notice things?
My mom’s words stick in my brain and churn my stomach. I never thought that being so committed to my goals was a bad thing. I work twice as hard because I have to. Yet here I am, the last to know one of my closest friends has not one but two sisters.
We strolled through the farmer’s market for about an hour until Lily saw a flyer for berry picking and conned my mom and sister into taking the kids.
I drove us uptown, intending to pick up a couple of books from Black Kettle Bindery, not wanting to schlep them plus whatever produce Mom picked out back six blocks.
That turned out to be the perfect excuse not to go on the berry fun adventure, as Magnolia called it—taking two cars would have been impractical when it costs money to park, and Mal only had one seat empty.
Instead of going into the bookstore, there was a local author from Salem, Jules Cohen, selling her books at the farmer’s market.
She was adorable and funny. We talked for a few minutes, and I decided to support her instead by buying both of her books—The Art of Us and The Flavor of You.
They sounded fun, with small-town vibes and a coffee shop—exactly what I need to fill my free time.
I cross the street, waving once again at my new author friend, and step up onto the sidewalk.
I could go back to Mom’s, but I know if I do, I’ll only stress over making a list of things for Levi so that I can make sure all my bases are covered.
Diving into a new book by the coast feels like the perfect way to sort of take his request for balance seriously, and at least I’ll be able to say I’m trying when I talk to him.
The breeze blows stronger with each step I take, and it’s refreshing with the temperatures rising.
The wind curls around me, wicking the sweat from my skin as the soothing, salty scent drifts in with each breath I take.
That’s one thing I miss about being here.
In the city, the air doesn’t feel as crisp or clean.
I trudge through the shifting terrain where a cobblestone walkway turns to rock and sand.
The sea oats sway back and forth as if they're dancing to their own unique beat. There’s a lighthouse up ahead, towering above the horizon, its beacon circling to signal sailboats.
And just before a new path veers off for guests to approach, there’s a soft spot of grass with a bench—the exact spot I was hoping would still be here.
I slip my bag off my shoulder, pulling out the green cardigan I stuffed inside this morning and the first of Jules’ books.
Wadding the sweater up, I place it at the end of the bench, hang my bag on the corner, and lie down.
I might look a little funny, but this feels like the perfect spot to read and the perfect position to do it in.
Stretching my legs out in front of me, I cross my ankles so that passersby don’t get an unsolicited look up my linen shorts.
Holding the book in front of my face, I flip to the acknowledgments. It might seem backward to most, but I appreciate how much time it takes to write a novel and the dedication that the author must have had. Reading the acknowledgments first feels like a way of honoring that effort.
I lose track of how much time has passed, engrossed in the story, but the lyrical sound of an ice cream truck blaring The Entertainer by Scott Joplin as it passes pulls me back to the present.
I need silence when I read. I'm not one of those people who can listen to music while they do it.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull my phone out to pass the time—zero missed calls, zero texts, but worst of all, zero emails.
I lay the book open over my face and groan. "What the hell is wrong with me? And how did my life go from completely on track to off the rails in less than a week?"
"Do you make a habit of asking questions directly into the pages? Or how does this work?" Max’s gravelly voice comes out of nowhere, scaring the shit out of me. I shoot straight up—not realizing he’s hovering above me—and when the book falls to my lap, my forehead smacks him square in the nose.
"Did I say that out lou—"
He yelps, stepping back as blood begins to pour from his face, dripping onto his blue t-shirt and khaki shorts.
"Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Let me help." Jumping up, I grab my cardigan and press it on top of his hand, covering his face. But Max lightly pushes my hand away.
"Jesus fuck." He sucks air through his mouth. "Are you trying to kill me?"
"What?"
"You hit me in the face and then tried to smother me with your cardigan." He laughs now, shaking his head lightly while still pinching his nose. "It’ll stop in a second… it’s just touchy after the, uh, nevermind."
"Oh blow? Or is it called something else now?" I run my hand across my chest, a little shocked that he’d do drugs, but then again, he wouldn’t be the first athlete to try to enhance their performance.
"What?" Now it’s Max’s turn to look confused.
"Does it bleed a lot because you know"—I make a sniffing noise and plug one side of my nose in demonstration—"you do blow, or whatever?" I clarify.
Max lets go of his nose, the dripping now seemingly stopped. "You’re twisted as fuck, you know that, right?"
I take a step back, chewing my lip. It was a legitimate question. I don’t see how that makes me the one with the problem. The ice cream truck passes again, blaring the song that started this catastrophe once more, and making it even harder for me to concentrate.
"Okay, so no drugs? And no, I was not trying to kill you." My mind races with how I can fix this mess. "Sit." I wave my finger, directing him. "On the bench. I’ll be right back."
I grab my bag and run, following a pack of kids coming up from the beach toward the current bane of my existence. When I finally make it to the front of the offensively long line, I order two strawberry shortcake popsicles and a bag of ice.
Smiling, I hand the cashier a twenty. "Keep the change, please. And thanks for the ice."
"Hey, Martin, can you change the song?" Beth’s voice rings out from behind me, and I spin, searching for her in the crowd.
My heart rate increases, and my chest tightens. Goosebumps trail down my arms, and chills race up my spine. Where the hell is she?
"Here you go." I hear the man speaking to me, but I keep scanning the horde of people waiting. "Ma’am, take your stuff. There’s a line!" He shouts.
I turn back around, smiling politely as I grab my items, but when I walk away, the lyrics from A Whisper in the Wind blast from the truck's speakers.
A whisper in the wind is where the fun begins.
You’ve got to be kidding me!