Chapter Twenty-Two A Setback
Kitty
By the time I made it back to the SnowDrop Inn, the vendor market felt like something that had happened to someone else.
My boots left damp crescents on the entry rug as I kicked them off and lined them up automatically out of habit.
Everything in my body felt heavy in a way that had nothing to do with tired muscles and everything to do with the adrenaline finally letting go.
The lobby was quieter than it had been all day, and I was grateful there was no one to deal with.
I set my bag on the desk and rubbed at my throat, wincing when the skin felt tender beneath my fingers.
It had started as a scratch hours ago. I had ignored it because there was always something more urgent to focus on.
Now it felt raw, like I had been shouting into the cold instead of organizing a town event.
“You did fine,” I told myself quietly, even though no one had asked.
I flipped through the stack of vendor notes I had brought back with me. Follow-ups. Thank-you emails. A reminder to confirm extension cords for the talent show. My handwriting slanted more than usual, letters crowding each other as if they were in a hurry to get off the page.
I was halfway through rewriting a list when Lydia breezed in, cheeks flushed from the cold and excitement, coat half unbuttoned like she had been too busy talking to notice.
“That was incredible,” she announced. “Did you see the candle booth? Or the woman selling hand-knit dog sweaters. I bought one for a dog I don’t even have.”
“I saw,” I said. My voice came out rougher than I expected. I cleared my throat and tried again. “It went well.”
Lydia paused, head tilting. “Are you sick?”
“No,” I said automatically. “Just tired.”
She accepted that answer the way Lydia always did, by immediately moving on to the next thought. She dropped her bag on a chair and leaned against the desk, eyes bright.
“Caleb stopped by my booth earlier,” Lydia mentioned.
I continued writing my list. “Did he?”
“Yes,” she said cheerfully. “We talked about social media stuff.”
“Social media stuff?” I questioned, giving Lydia my full attention. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” Lydia continued, oblivious. “He was asking about monetizing content. Teaching music lessons online. That sort of thing. I assumed you already knew.”
“No,” I softly said.
Lydia frowned. “You didn’t know?”
“I didn’t,” I repeated, because my brain needed the repetition to catch up.
“Well,” she said, waving a hand lightly. “It was just brainstorming. Nothing serious yet. Caleb seemed excited though. You know how people can get when they start imagining possibilities.”
“I suppose so,” I mentioned non-commitally. I was surprised. I had thought Caleb wanted to live a quiet life, not become an internet star.
She smiled. “He would be great at it. It would solve the shop issue without touring, which is obviously the dream. I gave him some basic pointers. He picked it up fast.”
I swallowed, my throat protesting sharply this time. It sounded like Lydia and Caleb had talked a lot if she knew all about his financial issues at the shop. “Of course he did.”
Lydia glanced at me again, slower now. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I said, a little too quickly. “I’m just processing what you said.”
She studied my face for a moment, then shrugged. “If you need help with the talent show stuff tonight, I’m around.”
“Thank you,” I said.
She leaned in and kissed my cheek, already mentally elsewhere. “You’re doing great.”
When she left, I stood there for a long moment, hands braced on the desk, staring at nothing in particular.
I told myself all the reasonable things.
Caleb had been busy. I was busy. This conversation wasn’t a secret, it simply hadn't reached me yet.
I needed to trust that Caleb would tell me what was happening.
I wasn’t jealous. Lydia had done nothing wrong. Caleb had done nothing wrong either, at least not intentionally. The discomfort sat somewhere older and more familiar, pressing against a place I liked to pretend I had grown out of.
Once again Lydia was the bubbly center of attention and I was left out. I rubbed my throat again, harder this time, and winced when my voice cracked as I tried to speak aloud, just to test it.
“Get a grip,” I croaked. The sound startled me. I cleared my throat and tried again. “You’re fine.”
I wasn’t convinced.
I gathered my notes and carried them toward the kitchen, moving on autopilot as I made tea I did not really want and set it on the counter to steep . The steam felt good against my face, warm and grounding, but it did nothing to ease the tight knot in my chest.
I didn’t want to spiral, I reflected. I was very aware that this was an old pattern of mine. I could recognize them now, even if I couldn’t always stop it from happening. I had promised myself I wouldn’t turn every uncomfortable feeling into a catastrophe.
Still, the question lingered.
Why had Caleb talked to Lydia and not me?
The thought followed me as I turned off the kitchen light and headed back toward the lobby, carrying the mug of tea. I was scheduled to look after the lobby tonight until closing and I could do that while reviewing my notes on the upcoming talent show.
A text came from Caleb, asking if we could talk.
Of course we can , I sent back .
Are you at the inn? I can meet you there.
Sounds good , I replied.
Twenty minutes later, Caleb came in through the lobby door, wiping snow from his jacket. He paused when he saw me. “You don’t look well.”
“I’m fine,” I rasped, and immediately regretted it because the words came out like sandpaper.
His brow furrowed as he approached the desk. “You’re not fine.”
I lifted my chin a fraction, stubbornness sparking even though I didn’t have the energy for it. “It’s just a sore throat.”
“It’s more than a sore throat and I hope you get some rest and take care of yourself.” Caleb leaned his elbows on the counter and took my hand in his.
“Once the talent show is done, I can rest,” I promised myself.
“Did you see my former agent Dave today?” Caleb suddenly asked..
The question landed like a sudden cold draft. My stomach tightened. “Why?”
“Eva mentioned that she saw you talking to him outside the rink,” he said carefully.
“Eva,” I repeated. I stared at him, the irritation rising fast, and not just because the topic was Dave.
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he said immediately. “I just… I want to know. We agreed that we wouldn’t have any secrets.”
I felt my throat tighten in a way that had nothing to do with my throat pain. “You’re right, we said no secrets.”
He waited, gaze steady.
I took a breath. “He ambushed me outside the rink. He wanted me to soften you up about the merchandise and convince you to tour. I told him no and I left.”
Caleb exhaled slowly, relief flickering across his face. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I echoed. Maybe it was because I wasn’t feeling well, but I felt suddenly angry. I pulled my hand out of his. “But you don’t get to walk in here and interrogate me like I did something wrong.”
His eyes widened. “That’s not what—”
“It feels like that,” I cut in, then coughed, my throat protesting the sudden strain. I pressed my hand to my chest, annoyed at my body for choosing this moment to betray me.
Caleb’s expression softened instantly. “Kitty.”
I waved him off, stubborn. “I’m fine.”
He didn’t move back. “I’m glad you shut Dave down.”
“Of course I did,” I snapped, and the words came out too sharp because I was tired and my voice was going and I had been holding in my conversation with Lydia all evening and it now refused to stay contained.
His jaw tightened slightly. “Then why are we fighting?”
We weren’t supposed to be. We had chosen honesty. The fact that it still hurt to be questioned made me feel childish and unfair and exactly like the version of myself I hated most.
“Because,” I said, then swallowed, throat burning. “Because you asked Lydia about social media and monetizing your music, and you didn’t tell me.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
“Lydia told you.” Caleb sighed.
“Yes,” I said, my voice quieter now, the anger thinning into something more honest. “Lydia assumed I already knew. I didn’t. And I know it’s not a crime. I know you’re allowed to talk to people. But it felt like—”
I stopped, because the rest of that sentence was the kind that made me sound pathetic if I said it out loud.
Caleb’s expression shifted, guilt and understanding mixing. “I wasn’t hiding it.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, and hated how small the question sounded.
He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “I didn’t want to bring it up until I had something concrete. I didn’t want to get excited and then have it fall apart.”
I stared at him, breath shallow. “You got excited with Lydia.”
“It was a practical conversation,” he replied.
I felt the old thing rise again, the familiar ache of being the sister who left out while other people got invited into the interesting conversations.
I“I know you didn’t mean it,” I said, voice cracking on the last word. “I know this is me being slightly irrational. But it still hurts.”
Caleb’s shoulders lowered, his tone gentler. “I’m sorry.”
I tried to respond, but my throat seized and nothing came out except a thin rasp. I swallowed again, then tried to force the words.
Caleb’s gaze sharpened. “Stop.”
I glared at him.
“No,” he said firmly, moving around the counter. “You’re done. You can be angry later. Right now you need to rest.”
I opened my mouth and coughed, the sound harsh enough that it made my eyes water. When I finally looked up, I was furious at the world for making me fragile on the night I needed to feel strong.
“I can’t,” I whispered.
“You can,” he said quietly. “You just don’t want to.”
That was the worst part. He was right and right now I didn’t want him to be.
Caleb softened then, his hand hovering near my shoulder before he let it settle lightly, careful not to crowd me. “We’ll finish this conversation, but not tonight. Not while you’re hurting.”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to insist I was fine. I wanted to prove I was still capable of holding everything together. Instead, I shook my head, small and helpless, and felt my eyes sting again.
Caleb’s thumb brushed the edge of my sleeve, grounding. “Go upstairs. Have some tea with honey and sleep. If you wake up and you’re still mad, I’ll be available for you to whisper-yell at.”
I tried to smile. It came out crooked. “Let me lock up.”
He stepped back, giving me space, which somehow made it easier to breathe. “Goodnight, Kitty.”
I watched him leave before locking the door and flipping our sign to closed . It was a little early, but I was mentally and emotionally exhausted. As I climbed the stairs, my throat aching and my chest tight, I hated that we had ended the night like this.