Chapter 11
11
Sybil
Emi nodded toward their tiny garage up the street, her regular signal for “let’s sprint the rest of the way.” My best friend had missed the memo that Des Moines, Iowa, in February was too damn cold to be running outside.
As a gust of wind kicked up, forcing me to close my eyes against the blistering cold, I shook my head. “It’s too cold. I’m stopping here.” I sucked in a breath. “I can make a new home here. My legs are on strike.”
She would scold me about my whining if she could hear it over the music streaming through her earbuds. Anyone passing us might assume the petite, chipper-looking Emi was listening to Top 40 or show tunes. She looked like a person whose Spotify Wrapped would definitely include Taylor Swift and Disney-based bops in a one-to-one ratio. I knew she was humming along to the loudest, angriest metal I’d ever heard. Except for the music and flatulent pit bull, Emi’s life was a study in politeness, organization, and order.
“Come on, slowpoke,” she teased, her pace keeping time with whatever song had come up next on her playlist.
“Fine,” I said, my acquiescence lost to the gusts of wind as we hustled toward the tiny bungalow my three best friends shared on the east side of the city. Around the sagging porch, they’d strung white lights that we’d never taken down after Christmas.
“Welcome back, you masochists.” Marcus was at the stove when we pushed through the back door, Emi wiping her brow and me resting my hands on my knees, debating whether breathing again was my number one priority or if keeling over was the inevitable end to this early morning. He held a spatula in his hand and glanced between us. “How was the run?”
“It’s so cold,” I huffed.
“It’s not that cold,” Emi said over her shoulder, hanging up her coat on the hook by the door before stretching. “It’s over zero.”
Marcus shot me a knowing look and handed me a plate of French toast and eggs. If I wasn’t one hundred percent certain he was half in love with Emi, I would have married him just for the breakfasts.
“Dear God,” I said, taking a bite, my cheeks flushing at the realization of how I’d said the same thing in the donut shop before being interrupted. The eggs were so good, though, that I worked through the embarrassment. “Marcus, you should be paid for these cooking skills.” I thought back to my meager checking account. “Not by me, of course,” I added, savoring another bite before moving on to the French toast. “But by the world at large.”
“That’s what I keep telling him,” Emi said, grabbing fruit to make a smoothie. Much like he assumed I’d want a plate, he knew she was going straight for the healthy green options. “Everyone will want him.”
I caught the longing on his face, just for a flash. Sadly, Emi was not counted among the everyone who would want him, but I held up my fork in salute to him. He was a good-looking guy, and I wished he’d find someone else to shower with this attention that was lost on Emi.
Marcus laughed, joining me at the table with his own plate. “That’s fine, but no one is hiring someone with zero experience.”
“Is this lemon?” I took another bite of the French toast.
“Not to change the subject,” Emi said, approaching the table where we sat with a dark, purple-colored concoction in her hands. “But what was with your text last night?”
An embarrassment that wasn’t so easy to erase with eggs warmed my face, and I looked down at my plate. We were all struggling somehow—none of my friends were living large yet. Hell, most of us were gazing longingly into the distance toward medium, but if there was a ranking for these things, I was clearly in last place. Marcus dreamed of cooking but worked in an office job that provided health insurance. Emi had engineering and design degrees with a goal of designing high-end watches but was in a manufacturing job she hated. I watched her swipe a piece of spinach from her cup and pop it in her mouth. And then there was Deacon, who bounced from bartending job to cater-waiter position and driving for Uber to whatever other job he could find and charm his way into. He never talked about his time in the military, but he had started a psychology program in January with his GI Bill benefits. And then there was me.
“Things are bad at your mom’s place?” Marcus chewed after asking, some flavor combination being evaluated.
“Lemon, right?” I ran a finger along the side of the plate, where the remnants of the syrup were begging to be finished, and I thought about the lemon and blueberry donut Kieran had handed me.
“Stop changing the subject,” Emi demanded. “But let me taste.” She swiped a finger over my plate before I could blink. “Oh, yeah. Definitely lemon. That so good.”
Reprieve! I reminded myself of yet another reason to marry Marcus—excellent eggs and subject-changing homemade syrup with hints of lemon.
“So…” Marcus ignored our praise as always. “Something going on with your mom?”
“No,” I said with a sigh. “But it’s like I can’t ever get things together, and she and Paul always seem to notice. Do you know my whole family was convinced I’d bring someone regrettable to Grace’s wedding? Like, they’re already planning on that being a joke. They told story after story of my dating screwups until I told them I was seeing someone.” I made a swirling pattern in the syrup. “Sometimes it feels like my whole life is a joke.”
“Oh, honey,” Emi said, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “Your sense of humor is mid, at best. There’s no way you’re a joke.”
We both laughed, the sides of our heads together, and Marcus cleared our dishes. Reason number three.
“But I get it,” Emi added. “And you can crash here, but there’s not much room. Are you sure you want to move out of your mom’s place, where you kind of have your own little suite?”
I didn’t. Well, my first choice would be to have my own place again, but landlords like getting rent paid on time, and the electric company got all in their feels about that, too. “I got flustered and told Warren I was moving out, so I kind of backed myself into a corner because I can’t afford a security deposit.” I paused my fork midway to my mouth. “I’ll kick in for rent and it won’t be for long,” I added.
“Works for me.” Marcus nodded and gave an added hum of acknowledgment. “Wouldn’t life be easy if we could all just win the lottery?”
I laughed but dropped my head into my hands. “I should buy another ticket.”
Marcus spoke over his shoulder. “You’d look good as a millionaire. Any idea where you lost it?”
The memory of Kieran on his knees, my fingers in his hair, and the scent of the donut shop washed over me. “I don’t know. Probably on the street or something.”
I was saved from having to explain further when the screen door crashed open, earning half a bark from Cupcake, who lost interest almost immediately when she saw it was Deacon, whose face was red from the cold and who was, inexplicably, wearing shorts. “Why aren’t any of you answering my texts?” He ran what had to be a frozen hand through his long hair. I’d seen photos of him in the air force. His hair buzzed and jawline visible. That had been abandoned almost immediately.
“Did you see it?” Deacon stood between Emi and me at the table, holding out his phone. “This is everywhere! I couldn’t believe it, but it’s about you, Syb. It was posted last night.”
Deacon hit play on the video, inching up the volume. I recognized the influencer who had shared the video—he was a minor celebrity in town, connected everywhere and always in the thick of things. Briefly, I’d looked into that influencer life for myself, but I’d given up on it quickly. It wasn’t Stewie Haynes on the screen, though, when I looked back a few seconds later. It was Kieran. Donut Kieran. My Kieran.
He looked uncomfortable in front of the camera but still somehow so at ease with himself, the apron hanging from his neck and the baseball cap, the same one from the other night, sitting backward on his head. He glanced off camera for a moment before staring into the phone. “Our family business was robbed and vandalized last night,” he said, looking around. “My grandfather opened Joe’s Donuts on Grand Avenue forty years ago and, uh, he’s been ill, so this comes at a really bad time.”
I remembered, running out that night, I’d flipped the lock open on the front door. The blood drained from my face as I watched. Surely he’d locked it behind me. Right? I searched my memory for some indication he knew I was leaving. I missed the next thing he said on the video, but on the screen, he held up a piece of paper.
“The thieves missed a few things, though, and I found this winning ticket,” he said without preamble, “but it’s not mine.”
I stared at the screen, immediately recognizing the blue ink bleeding through the back of the paper.
“A girl…” He glanced off-screen for a moment. “A woman left it here last night. She signed it and everything but left it here. I hope she’ll…come back in to see me, I mean, see us.” He looked adorably flustered; his ears were pink, or maybe they were just reflecting the donut poster behind him. “I want to find her to give her the ticket.” He held it up again. “Her name is Sybil and she’s about this tall,” he said, holding his hand to his shoulder. I thought about how he could estimate my height because we’d been pressed up against each other, and I flushed.
Stewie turned the phone to himself. “Three things. One, it’s a great time of year to shop locally. Once Joe’s Donuts reopens, come in. I also started a crowdfunding page to help them. We’re a strong community and need to support our local businesses. Check the link in my bio. But finally,” he said, turning the camera back to Kieran. “Tell us more about the woman who left the ticket.”
“Um, she has curly hair, big brown eyes, and she was really…” He looked to the side again. “She had a great smile. She smiled a lot, and it was the kind of smile that made you…you know, made you want to smile, too. Like a sunny day. She made the shop feel brighter. She’s beautiful. I think that’s the best way to describe her. Really…beautiful. She said she was a lucky person, and I guess she was right. So, if you know a Sybil who fits that description…please have her come back to see me.”
He glanced away, maybe at the person holding the phone, but then back into the camera, so it felt like his eyes were right on me. “I hope she comes back. I’d love to see her again.”
The video ended, and I looked up at my three best friends, all staring wide-eyed at me, the words coming out of our mouths at the same time.
“Holy shit.”