Chapter 13
FELIX
Every morning Herb, editor-in-chief of the Four-Leaf Gazette and my boss, likes to start the day with a team meeting. Since the Gazette is about as tiny as a paper can be, this consists of eight people crowded around a table not meant for eight people.
The rest of our space isn’t actually that bad. We’re in a little office on Main, the same place the paper has been since its opening. It’s a bit dated, with Berber carpet and dark-paneled walls, but it gets the job done. We’ve updated the things that need to be updated, too; we’re not working on giant, two-ton computers anymore, for example.
But as of yet, we have not splurged on a conference table, and I don’t see it happening any time soon, either.
“All right,” Herb says to the group of us, bobbing at the head of the table that would probably more comfortably seat a family of six. He points at the dry erase board with his marker, his wrinkled hand steady despite his age. “Updates, please.”
Opposite me, Veronda sits upright in her chair, her red lips pursed. She’s been a little cooler toward me since I started working with India, and although I don’t love the drop in temperature, I am grateful that she seems to be losing interest.
We go around the table one by one, each sharing what we’re working on and how our stories are going. When my turn comes, I say, “I’m heading back to one location today to get some better pictures, probably sooner rather than later, and checking out a few more places this week as well.”
Herb nods. “Good, good—tour guide treating you well? I want a well-rounded perspective on these places,” he says, and I nod, too.
“I’ll make sure of it,” I say.
“Well, just let me know if you need Veronda,” Herb says, gesturing to her, “and I’ll see if I can spare her.” He smiles at Veronda, who smiles back.
It’s not convincing, as far as smiles go—slightly brittle, a little empty, kind of like India’s when I asked if she still felt good about her motorcycle—although maybe I’m imagining things. Still, I nod gratefully at Herb and then at Veronda.
“I’ll keep you updated,” I say, “but I’m good for now.”
Herb moves on, but my mind remains on the piece I’m doing—or, more specifically, on the woman helping me with the piece I’m doing.
It’s weird to think that India probably sat at this very same table. Some of the people here might even remember her. It shouldn’t bother me that she never said anything about interning here, but…for some reason, it does.
It just seems strange. Why wouldn’t she mention that she worked here? She’s literally helping me with a project for the paper . Wouldn’t it be normal to tell me?
“And now,” Herb says, and the eagerness in his voice pulls me out of my thoughts and back to the meeting. “I have something very exciting to announce.” He’s practically bouncing, I notice, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, his hands clasped together in front of his rotund belly as he beams around at us. “It is with great pleasure that I am finally able to share…” He pauses, though there’s clearly nothing hesitant about him; judging by the way his gleeful eyes dart around at us, I think he’s just trying to build our anticipation. He finally lets out a booming laugh and goes on, “I can share that the channel twelve news will be running a one-hour special on the Gazette!”
My eyebrows lift in surprise, and I’m not the only one.
“Really?” Bob says from the end of the table, his lined face crinkling as he smiles. “Channel twelve?”
“Really!” Herb confirms. “One month from today. So now is the time for us to start thinking about what we want to showcase, or maybe brainstorm some sort of program—we’ve been given relatively free rein, which is very kind and very trusting of our brothers in media.”
“And sisters,” Veronda pipes up, and Herb nods.
“And sisters,” he agrees. He leans forward and taps the table with one finger. “Everyone start thinking, and proposals can go straight to my desk.” Then he straightens and, still smiling, waves one hand toward the door. “Dismissed!”
We all file out of the room, bottle-necking at the door and returning to our workspaces; I go to my cubicle only to grab my camera. Then, even though there’s a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach when I think about her, I pull my phone out to call India.
I don’t know why that feeling is still there. It’s not a bad feeling, necessarily. Just…weird. Anxious, maybe, or nervous. Yesterday was a hiccup in our emotional routine, an outlier, and even though I tried to behave normally, I’m not sure how well it came across.
Because the truth is…I felt something yesterday. I felt it when she danced closer to me, asking if I ever checked her out—but I felt it even more later, when I tried to let her off the hook and she declined.
She chose to keep hanging out with me, visiting romantic places around Lucky. And she did it while teasing and looking like an adorable fire-haired goddess of sarcasm. It felt…good. Surprisingly good.
But that’s okay. I’m allowed to feel that way. There’s no law saying I can’t at least enjoy myself while hanging out with my best friend’s little sister.
Yeah, I reassure myself as I head into the break room. It’s fine. Stop worrying so much.
So I press the green call button and wait for my goddess of sarcasm to pick up.
Well—not my goddess of sarcasm. Obviously. The goddess of sarcasm.
She makes me wait almost seven rings before answering. “Felicia,” she says in a dry voice, and I grin.
“Good morning, Sunshine,” I say as my smile broadens. I set the phone on the counter and turn it on speaker, the volume on medium. “What has you in such a bright, chipper mood on this fine morning?”
“I’m waiting for my next appointment to show up,” she says as I open the refrigerator door with a lurch. “A Labradoodle who needs a groom.”
“That sounds…fun?” I say, bending down to grab a bottle of water since I left mine at home.
India laughs. “It is, actually,” she says. “He’s a good boy. Anyway,” she goes on, “what’s up?”
I unscrew the cap of the bottle with a click and then down three massive gulps. “Tomorrow evening, you and me,” I say when I’m done. “Crow Point. What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” she says, but I can hear the faint humor in her voice. “Are you going to threaten me with blackmail again if I say no?”
I gasp loudly and let the fridge door swing shut. “I would never.”
“Because I have to say,” she goes on as though I haven’t spoken, “your shenanigans have brought up a wave of fresh trauma about the Pageant Incident.”
“And I do feel terrible about that, really,” I say, screwing the cap back on my water bottle. Then I pick up the phone.
“Are you ever going to tell me how you found out about that?”
I grin, leaning back against the counter. “You want the truth?”
“Of course.”
“I was there,” I say.
“Wait. You were— what? ”
She squawks that last word, and I click the volume down a few notches.
“I was there,” I repeat, my smile widening. “I was interning at the paper and I went to cover the festival.” The entire town turned out for Lucky’s 200th birthday celebration, a huge affair that probably took a year to plan. There were games and local business stalls and, on the painstakingly built stage in the town square, the highlight: a pageant featuring a dramatized history of Lucky, a talent show, and several very busy dance numbers.
I don’t remember much about the rest of the performances, but the number India danced in? I remember that clear as day. It involved animal masks and—unfortunately for India—animal tails that were too easily stepped on, attached to animal costumes that were too easily ripped.
“Well, that’s mortifying,” she says now with an uncomfortable laugh. “But—how did you know it was me?”
“Ah,” I say, taking the phone off speaker and lifting it to my ear. “You have your brother to thank for that.”
She mutters unintelligibly under her breath, and I laugh.
“Don’t worry. Nothing about your little…” I trail off. “Should we call it a mishap?”
“We could,” she says miserably.
“Nothing about that made it into the paper.” I pause. “So back to my question. What do you say? Want to hit up Crow Point with me tomorrow?”
India lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “I suppose,” she says, “if you insist.”
“Excellent. I’ll pick you up around seven.”
“Bring snacks,” she says, and then, despite her promise to develop better phone etiquette, she hangs up.
“Little hooligan,” I mutter—but I’m smiling.
Poppy
Hey! How are things going with India?
You’re doing the article stuff with her, right?
Me
Yeah, I am.
It’s good!
Poppy
It’s good?
What does that mean?
Me
I don’t know? It means what it means. It’s good.
She’s cool. We’re having fun!
Poppy
And you’re not making her fall in love with you and then breaking her heart?
Me
You can’t hear me, but I just snorted.
If anyone in the world is immune to my admittedly EXTENSIVE charms, it’s Sunshine.
And maybe Aurora, but I’m too scared to test that one
Poppy
Aurora would chew you up and spit you out.
Me
Indeed she would.
Also—where are these questions coming from? Are you only asking me this because Cyrus is being a big baby and worrying?
Poppy
Cyrus is currently unaware that you exist. He’s deep in a research hole. I’M the one who’s worried.
India is perfect and I adore her, and I’m worried she’s going to fall for you and you’re going to break her heart—kindly, but break it nonetheless.
Me
You don’t need to worry.
Girls like India don’t fall for guys like me.
Poppy
???
Felix? Come back. Explain.
ME
Gotta go, sorry. Later Poppy!
I wouldn’t say it’s a lie, what I tell Poppy the next evening before I head over to pick up India. India clearly has no problem putting me in my place, and she does seem immune to my many charms.
But…
I guess that wasn’t always the case? What a crazy thing to imagine—a version of India Marigold who likes me.
I shake my head, grinning, and ignore that funny feeling still trying to poke its head up. Then I grab my keys and head out the door. I went back to the Pretty Page yesterday and took some better photos, which I showed to Herb today at work. He liked them a lot, so I’ll do something similar for the rest of the sites we visit. I’m excited to check out Crow Point, partly because I want to make progress on this piece but also because it seems like a cool spot.
I love a good scenic outlook.
It’s a warm evening, more humid than normal, so I roll the window down to get a bit of a breeze as I drive. When I pull up to the house where the Marigold women live, I park in front and call India.
“You here?” she says as soon as she picks up.
“I’m here,” I say. “Which you would know if you were waiting by the door, breathlessly excited to see me, desperate to spend time with the most handsome man you’ve ever met—” I pause at the little click I hear. “India?” Nothing. I blink and hold the phone up in front of me.
She hung up. Unbelievable.
I’m still grinning when she climbs in the car two minutes later.
“You might need a bigger SUV if you keep feeding that ego of yours,” she says conversationally as she pulls the door shut behind her. Her hair is in a high ponytail today, and she’s got on a t-shirt and jean shorts that show off her tanned legs and arms. Her fingernails are black, I notice, and a quick glance at her sandal-clad feet shows me that her toenails match. A warm, faintly spicy scent enters the vehicle with her—her perfume, I think she said when we were taking Betsy to the shop—and I inhale, curious. There’s something floral in there, and something sweet, but with an edge. Cinnamon, maybe, or pepper?
“What are you looking at?” she says, and I startle.
I’ve been staring at her, like a weirdo, lost in thought trying to figure out her perfume.
“You smell good,” I say dumbly. “Sorry. I was trying to figure out what I’m smelling. It’s sweet but—sharp?”
“Good nose,” she says as she buckles. “Yeah, it’s got cinnamon and honey and rose. And some kind of wood, I think?” She shrugs. “Anyway, let’s go.”
I nod and then pass her my phone. “Pick some music for us.”
But she holds the phone back up for me. “Passcode?”
“One, zero, two, eight,” I say.
She types it in and begins scrolling; five seconds later, the Beatles blare to life over the speakers. A smile curls at my lips before I even realize it’s happening.
“A strong start,” I say, throwing a glance at her before turning my attention back to the road. The Beatles are high on my list of favorites, and a faint sense of curiosity blooms somewhere in my chest. What else is she going to play?
We make our way to Crow Point over the course of three Beatles songs, India singing along the entire way—to the western outskirts of Lucky, up into the foothills of the Rockies—and by the time she picks up my phone to find new music, I’m much more interested than I should be. I wait with bated breath as she scrolls, little flicks of her finger, until finally I hear a little “Ooh!” and a second later Steam comes on.
She knows every single word to “Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye.” After that she chooses “Build Me Up Buttercup,” and she knows those words, too.
“I think we might be soulmates,” I say faintly.
“What?” she says, her voice loud over the music. Her speaking voice is a nice reprieve from the singing along—professional vocalist she is not—but I just shake my head, something warm spreading through me. It’s giddy, like building laughter, but deeper than that, too.
“Nothing,” I say. I roll the windows down, because the evening is warm and the music is loud and the mountains are gorgeous and this feeling in my chest—it doesn’t want to stay in my chest or even in my car. So I roll down the windows even more and soak up the sound of her off-key singing, all the way to Crow Point. And I wonder—tonight, as I’m inevitably being kept awake by the songs marching through my head, will it be the Beatles or Steam or the Foundations I hear, echoing through my mind?
Or will it be her?