29. Alice
ALICE
My ponytail brushes the back of my neck as I walk home, Wilson tennis bag slung over my shoulder.
It’s been three years since I’ve played, but this morning I answered the court’s siren song.
As the sun rose over the pines, I tossed to myself, practicing forehands before moving on to backhands.
Both were rusty, but I was surprised how quickly I started hitting with topspin.
To anyone who might’ve been watching, I must have looked like a maniac, smiling the way I was.
My muscles worked with a familiar burn, and a sheen of sweat tingled across my skin despite the morning chill.
The sport returned to me slowly, hesitantly, wary of how I’d cursed it years prior.
But in the light of a new day, with the memory of Colt in my bed, tennis felt different.
It felt decidedly mine. My parents’ stern voices were replaced by Colt’s encouraging one.
And then, by the end of the hour, it was my own voice I heard, gently correcting my swing or praising a ball well-placed.
I’m wondering if next time I might bring a hitting partner when I round the corner and find Colt lounging on the porch in—heaven help me—gray sweatpants. When he spots me, he shakes his head and raises a white piece of paper.
“Ms. Sinclair.” His voice is a playful rumble. “Do you make a habit of leaving men in your bed with only a note to explain your absence?”
I rush up the stairs and through the front door, cupping the side of my face to hide from his chastising.
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Colt follows me inside and scoops me around the middle, drawing me flush against him.
My tennis bag flops to the floor, already forgotten.
He buries his face in the crook of my neck.
“You need a shower,” he mumbles against my skin.
It’s an invitation, one I would happily accept if I weren’t pressed for time.
I’m relieved that we’re touching. That we’re playing. After sleeping together, I’d worried things would be awkward between us. I’d woken before the sun was up, nervous energy coursing through me, demanding release, which thankfully I’d achieved on the court.
As Colt finds my ear, biting gently, kissing the sensitive skin there, my mind buzzes right back to last night.
Specifically, that authoritative tone he used.
A tone so different from the gentleness he typically reserves for me.
I know there’s a strong, lethal man beneath the kindness, and my god how I liked submitting to it.
And feeling it.
“I have another festival meeting.” My eyes slip closed under the press of his lips.
“That’s a negative, Sinclair.” Colt’s hands slide down to grip my ass.
My head falls back with laughter, and Colt takes every opportunity of the exposed skin. His lips, his teeth, they trail down my neck. Almost immediately, I am wet, aching between my thighs where I want him, need him. But I made a commitment to this town, and I have to see it through.
I manage to squirm out of Colt’s grasp and start backing up the stairs, pointing a warning finger in his direction. He slinks after me, eyes predatory, a smirk playing on his lips.
“I thought we were just letting off steam last night.” I giggle when he matches every escape step I take.
“I have more steam to give,” he says.
He lunges, diving toward me with a mock growl. I squeal and scramble up the remaining stairs to change. Elation rings through me, because I wasn’t sure it was possible to be this happy.
An hour later, this morning’s bliss feels like a distant memory. I stand in the Holly River Elementary School cafeteria, facing the volunteers who agreed to decorate our festival attraction.
The space is filled with bench-style tables, currently covered in our crafting materials, and the air smells like—I breathe in—cheeseburgers? Overhead, maple leaves dangle from rafters, painted by children who are eighty-two minutes away from storming our workspace.
“Alice, dear, do you really think we need this many stringed lights?” Mrs. Devonshire asks, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose. “Because my hands are starting to cramp and maybe we can—”
“Where do we file for reimbursement?” Harold interjects. “Do we submit receipts as we get them, or should we wait until we’ve purchased everything? Because I had twenty dozen paper lanterns show up at my house, and I’ve got—”
Another woman, Georgia, saunters over to inquire whether I want her to tie the pumpkins together now, or wait until we’re riverside. At the same time, her college freshman son, home for fall break, raises a glittery glass ball and asks, “Like this?”
I look at Maggie and June for help, but Maggie is untangling yet another ball of lights, and June is…
Where is June?
I spot her talking to the lunch staff. She’s pointing out trays of ingredients, speaking quickly and wearing an inquisitive expression.
“June,” I call out, my voice pleading.
She spins and smiles. “Coming! They have the most fascinating method for batch cooking and—”
“Alice?” Harold presses, waving a stack of receipts.
“I…I’m not sure,” I answer honestly, finding it hard to breathe. “I’ll have to ask Roxanne.”
“Roxanne isn’t here,” someone pipes up from a bench. “Just tell us what you think.”
The questions keep coming as my mind spins—
Should there be more lanterns, or more pumpkins?
Why are we adding glass ornaments if it’s a fall festival?
How will we keep all these strands lit, and won’t this be a fire hazard?
My head begins to pound and my heart races.
I have so much to do back at my bookshop and these questions are making me feel like I should be here, every second, until the Fall Festival arrives to ensure it goes smoothly.
I’m suddenly in awe of Roxanne. She’s carried this weight alone for years.
Her mother did the same before that. They’re saints, I realize. Both of them.
Despite the chaos, we make solid progress, and by the time the double doors swing open to a stampede of children, we’re packing up the final, stray materials. The kids barrel toward the food line, dressed in burnt orange t-shirts that read:
Holly River Elementary Fall Field Day
Several of the kids beam, strutting around with plastic medals draped around their necks. A few even have three or four clinking together.
“Okay, everyone,” I announce over the din of sneakers on linoleum. “Thanks for your hard work this morning. Tomorrow, let’s meet by the river behind the Hall at seven. We’ll install what we’ve got, film some footage to share online, and then remove it until the big day.”
As June, Maggie, and I head for the exit, I spot a little girl sitting alone, not bothering to line up for lunch. Her face is red and splotchy, her bottom lip trembling. I set my bin of craft supplies down and kneel beside her.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Are you okay? You want me to grab your teacher?”
The girl looks up, sniffling. “I didn’t get any medals,” she says, tears rolling down her cheeks. “And I tried as hard as I could. I ran so fast.”
My heart cracks down the middle. I glance up at my friends and see that Maggie has her hand over her chest, frowning.
“Well, that simply won’t do.” I rummage through the bin and find a sheet of cardstock.
Pulling out my scissors, I cut long strips and then staple the ends together.
Maggie catches on, reaching into her own bin for a yellow zinnia.
She grabs the hot-glue gun, still warm, and attaches the silk flower to the paper necklace I created.
“By the power vested in the Fall Festival Decoration Committee,” I smile, looping the makeshift lanyard around her neck. “We award you the spirit medal and declare you Field Day Queen. May you wield your power fairly.”
June sneakily offers the girl a monster cookie from her refreshments box. Right before she hands it to her, she asks, “Any allergies, your majesty?”
The girl shakes her head, a radiant smile breaking through the tears.
June hands it over as a boisterous boy stomps toward us. He’s a head taller than the girl and wears four shiny medals.
“Hey! That’s not fair,” he whines, pointing at the girl. “She didn’t win anything. Why’s she getting that?”
Maggie bends at the waist, going eye to eye with the boy. “Get lost, kid.” She plucks a tater tot off his tray and pops it into her mouth.
“Maggie,” I snort, pulling her away before we’re banned from using the cafeteria for life.
As I walk back through downtown, I’m ticking through what needs to be accomplished before the bookshop’s soft opening, a mere four days away. I’m also thinking about what I’m still missing for the festival attraction—specifically, an electric boat—as I pass Clover Patch Market.
The door swings open, and Travis steps out, a bag of groceries tucked under one arm. I hurry my pace, hoping he doesn't see me, but his voice rings out.
“Hey! Alice, wait up.” Travis skirts past a group of locals and a mildly terrifying scarecrow mounted outside Magnolia Antiques. Falling into step beside me, he asks, “How’s the bookshop coming along?”
A flash of irritation fires through me. This man has the audacity to behave as if we’re old friends.
He teased me mercilessly in high school, then acted surprised when I broke up with him.
He tried to win me back, and when I refused him, he practically encouraged half the school to ostracize me.
He’s also derailed my construction progress, twice, and here he is—still shooting his shot.
I’ve held my tongue in an attempt to avoid more conflict, but after last night with Colt, I’m done pretending.
I stop short on the sidewalk, turning to face him. “What do you want, Travis?”
Travis blinks, his smile faltering. “Whoa, okay. I think your Mama and Daddy taught you better manners than that, Ali. I’m just asking how you’re doing.
” He actually has the nerve to look hurt, jutting his bottom lip out slightly.
He shifts his groceries to the other arm and reaches for my plastic bin. “Here, let me carry that for you.”
“I’ve got it.”
“Come on.” He reached for the handles. “I’m trying to be a gentleman here.”
He tugs. I hold on. He tugs again, harder this time, and the handle snaps. The bin hits the sidewalk with a clatter. Glue sticks, cardstock, and spools of fishing wire go skittering across the concrete. A jar of orange glitter shatters, sending a shimmering cloud into the October breeze.
“Oh, man.” Travis kneels down, gathering what fell. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… I just know how hard you’ve been working. And I wanted to help.”
I don’t say a word, too afraid that if I start speaking, I won’t be able to stop. My jaw clenches as I snatch the fishing wire before it rolls into the gutter. People are walking past us, coats buttoned against the chill, boots crunching on fallen leaves.
“Maybe I could take you to dinner tonight,” Travis chances, oblivious to my silence. “I was happy to hear you moved back to Holly River, but I feel like I kept missing you all summer. You were always so busy at the cafe, and now with this bookstore thing…”
We’re both still crouched, grabbing the last of the supplies, when Travis takes my hand in his.
That’s it.
I shoot to my feet, clutching the broken bin to my chest.
“Travis. Stop.” My voice is loud enough that a couple of passersby turn to look. “I don’t want to date you. Why would I? You teased me in high school. And when your friends targeted me, you just stood by and watched. It was like you were showing me what happens to a girl who rejects you.”
Travis stands, face turning red. “Alice, that was years ago—”
“And you haven’t changed!” I continue. “You’re trying to get in the way of my bookshop so that my parents end up selling it. You just want more real estate. More power in this town. And for what?”
I take a deep breath, softening my tone.
“I know you must be a good man somewhere deep down, Travis. But the way you act…it pushes people away. It pushed me away. I’m certain you can behave better than you have been.
And once you do, I’m sure someone wonderful will embrace you. But that person won’t be me.”
“Alice.” Travis reaches for my arm, but I jerk away.
“You tried to force me into that bathroom,” I hiss, leaning in. “I was yelling for you to stop but you kept—”
Travis holds his hands up. “I wasn’t going to do anything, Alice. Jesus. I was sixteen.”
“And I was fifteen!” I’m shaking, because now that I’ve said it aloud, I remember it so vividly.
How Travis found me after tennis practice, before my parents had arrived to pick me up.
The lights in the hallway were dim, and we were alone.
I’d seen him and tried to turn in the other direction, but he caught up with me.
Thank god the janitor had appeared.
The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. “I’m with Colt now, anyway.” I don’t know if that’s exactly true, but I want it to be. Especially while standing before Travis, remembering that day.
Travis’s face scrunches up like what I just said is revolting. “Didn’t that dude live with you?” he asks. “What, were y’all messing around back then, too?”
“Travis.” I shake my head, my body drained from this conversation. “It may have been years ago, but you… You called me a whore. I’ll never forget that.”
“Yeah, well,” Travis says simply, “maybe you were.”
I drop my head, his words cutting through me, even though nothing he says should bother me anymore. When I raise my eyes, I say only, “I meant what I said. You could be a good man, if you chose to be.”
I start walking. After a few steps, I glance back, worried he might follow me. But he isn’t. He’s just standing there, fuming. The look on his face sends a shiver down my spine, so I hurry my steps home, clutching the broken bin to my chest.