Never Wanted a Valentine

1. Annabelle

Annabelle

Early this morning, I decide I’ve had enough.

Enough of folding myself into the corner of my best friend’s couch, trying not to take up too much space in her life. Enough of carrying my doubts around like a second set of luggage, stuffed with the boxes in my SUV. Enough of scrolling through happy couple photos I should’ve deleted weeks ago.

If moving on were as simple as packing up and driving, I’d already be halfway to Echo Creek. Oh wait, it is. So I go.

I can’t get the keys to my building until tomorrow, but there’s a hotel in town with a room available. I make the reservation, hug Kat goodbye, and point my car north.

Six hours and two pit stops later, I’m standing in the cutest small town I’ve ever seen.

Cedar Street is a runway for cozy, with two-story brick buildings sporting candy-colored trim and windows frosted like they’re in a baking competition.

Strings of warm lights zigzag above me, twinkling in the snowy backdrop.

Apparently here, they leave them up after Christmas, which they totally should.

Any minute now, a man with a bandana-wearing golden retriever is going to hand me a cup of cocoa to welcome me to town.

Everyone is bundled in puffy jackets. It’s starting to snow, soft and sparkly, and I swear I smell cinnamon. I’m going to find the bakery it’s coming from. This is my quest.

I poke in and out of shops until I find The Lovey Dove bakery, which has an overwhelming treat case. I take pictures of everything while I’m in line, loving the pink walls, the aqua blue countertop, and the white gingerbread trim.

Dove herself is behind the counter. She’s older, and overweight in a comfortable way, with mostly gray hair braided in short rows.

She slides me a complimentary cupcake to go with my hot chocolate, chatting about how unexpected it is to see a new face this time of year.

“Once the lake freezes, the town shrinks to its regular size.”

“I guess I’m part of the regular version,” I say. “I’m moving here.”

“Hope you brought a job with you. Winter’s no time to arrive empty-handed.”

“Kind of? I’m working for myself.”

“Photography? I saw how many pictures you took.”

“That was inspiration. I’m a greeting card designer.” I’m trying the words out, and I like how they sound when I say them out loud. “I’ve never seen a bakery this cute,” I tell Dove.

She brushes a hand down her apron. “If you want to make The Lovey Dove famous, go ahead.”

“I don’t know about that, but can I make you a card?”

She points me to an empty table. “You go right ahead, hon. Let me know if you need a refill on that cocoa.”

The cupcake is carrot cake, my favorite. I sit at one of the dainty tables and get a seven-by-ten piece of cardstock out of my bag. I fold it in half and pick out pink and blue pens to match the vibe of the bakery. By the time I’ve finished my snack, the card is done.

Front of card: a cartoon cupcake with a tiny, smiling carrot perched on top, waving hello. The cupcake sits on a pink checkered napkin, surrounded by sparkles and floating coffee beans.

Front caption: The Lovey Dove makes a day extra sweet!

Inside caption: You baked joy into my day.

I sign it: With frosting-level gratitude, Annabelle

Dove is busy with a rush of customers, so I silently pass the card to her and wave goodbye as I head out into the cold.

I’ve got my to-go cup in one hand, my phone in the other, and I’m trying to get the door with my hip when it swings open.

The man holding the door is tall, with broad shoulders, chiseled features, and a bit of stubble on his strong jaw.

He’s wearing jeans and a barn coat. Boots.

A navy-blue beanie. It’s practical and somehow perfect.

He’s perfect, and I find myself looking around for his golden retriever.

No, I tell myself. Hallmark movie fantasies are not good for you. This man doesn’t even have a dog, and besides, I’ve already got a cup of cocoa in my hand.

“I’ve got it,” I say.

“The door?”

“The cocoa.” I’m still in the depths of an unrealistic movie cliché. “I, um, bought this myself.”

“And I hope you enjoy it.” His voice is low and rich. Snow glitters in the streetlights. The flakes kiss his shoulders. I’m still staring.

“Are you going out?” he asks. “Or are you hoping I’ll freeze to death so you can drink mine too?”

“Ope, sorry.” I move out of the doorway, he swoops past me, and just like that, he’s in the bakery and I’m on the sidewalk.

I unzip my coat and fan myself until I cool down. Now that I’m out of his orbit, I can think clearly. I’m new in town. I don’t know anyone. That man is probably married. Or the village idiot. Or has bad breath. Or terrible beliefs.

But I can’t quite convince myself of that. He held the door for me. He had clever comebacks. He smelled clean.

Not that I was smelling him. I wasn’t. He seemed like he could smell clean though.

Married, I decide. Move along, Annabelle.

Snowflakes are falling like powdered sugar, and I can’t waste the photo op.

I attach my camera to my selfie stick and start snapping.

Me holding my cocoa. My cup in front of the bakery’s sign.

My footprints. The lights above the street.

More selfies. I try out different expressions.

Half-smile. Open-mouthed. Looking off to the side.

Which is when I notice the hot guy from the doorway staring at me through the bakery’s window. His expression is half curious, half embarrassed, but it’s the kind where he’s embarrassed for me.

I try to ignore him. I take a few more selfies, then shove my phone back into my tote bag and keep walking. It’s time to find my building.

My new home is on Elk Street in a slightly less—okay, a lot less—adorable part of town.

It’s a two-story brick building on a corner lot.

There are bay windows on the second floor with filigree trim.

The side of the building has a parking lot for eight or ten cars, and around back, I spot a door that must be the entrance to the upstairs apartments.

I peek in the windows of the closed business downstairs. Antique-looking dish sets are displayed around the room, with long tables in the middle holding discreet price signs that I can’t quite make out.

I open FaceTime and call Kat.

“Guess where I am!” I squeal into the camera when she answers.

“You made it,” Kat says. “How is it?”

“Better than I imagined.” I flip the camera. “Look at this.”

“Is that your place?” she asks.

“Yep.” I cross the street so she can see both stories.

“The Break.” Kat reads the sign in the first-floor window. “You’re going to live above a store?”

“Yeah. Neat, isn’t it?”

“Let me see,” says a voice in the background.

Jacqueline York comes into view. She’s a work friend but I didn’t think she was a friend-friend.

Well, maybe she is now. Why not? Jacqueline has freshly done hair and flawless makeup.

Kat does too. They look like they’re going somewhere nice.

“What are you two up to tonight?” I ask.

“It’s just a casual thing,” Kat says. She sends what looks like a warning message to Jacqueline with her eyes. Kat shifts the phone and I recognize her kitchen. “I still can’t believe you moved to the Upper Peninsula in January. Who does that?”

“I do.”

“Tell Jacqueline where it is. It’s near Escanaba, right? Or is it Manistique? God, I love those small-town names.”

“Echo Creek is halfway between those two,” I say.

“Which tells me nothing,” Jacqueline whines. “I’m from Utah.”

“It’s an hour west of the bridge,” I supply.

“What bridge?”

I try not to sigh. A Michigander knows these little Up North towns like the back of her hand—literally.

We all use our hands as maps, pointing out places to each other.

You don’t live in Port Austin, you live in “the thumb.” Or you’ll point to the tip of your pinky finger to indicate that you’re heading to Traverse City for vacation.

I suppose I’ll need my other hand for the Upper Peninsula.

I hold the phone with my right hand and try it with my left.

If I hold it sideways, it kind of looks like the U.P.

“You’re practically in Canada,” Jacqueline exclaims.

“I’m not, though.” I turn the camera back to my face.

My cheeks are pink from the cold, standing out on my pale skin.

Under the brim of my fuzzy winter hat, my blond bangs glisten with snow.

I feel like an ice princess, but I try to imagine what Kat and Jacqueline are seeing.

To them, it probably looks like I’m standing in a blizzard on the edge of the world.

Maybe I am. Maybe this idea was flawed from the start, nothing but a bad decision fueled by a broken heart and unrealistic dreams. But even if Echo Creek doesn’t live up to its first impression, who cares?

It just has to be an affordable place to live while I get on my feet.

And thanks to my dubious inheritance, I’ve got that.

“So you’re at a hotel tonight?” Kat asks.

“I’m at the hotel,” I say. “There’s only one.”

I think I hear Jacqueline say, “eww” but I can’t be sure. The wind is picking up as the sun goes down.

“Does this hotel have a bar?” Kat asks.

“Of course. It’s actually really nice.”

“So here’s the plan.” Kat grins at me. “Go find a hottie in flannel who will make you forget all about Magnus and his designer suits.”

I laugh louder than I should. “That’s not what I’m here for.”

“I just want you to be happy.” Kat’s eyes flick off camera somewhere and then back to me. “We have to go.”

“Me too.” Although I don’t have anywhere I need to be.

We blow each other kisses and hang up, but just before the call disconnects, I hear Jacqueline ask, “What is she there for?”

I put my phone away and shove my hands in my pockets, glad all over again that I bought a down coat for my trip.

Same with my knee-high fuzzy boots. When I tried them on in the store, my feet immediately started sweating, and I thought I’d never need boots this warm, but now I’m grateful for the wise decisions of my past self.

I’m also grateful for the wise decisions of my future self.

I’m going to stop stomping around in the cold and sit myself in a nice warm bar where I can have a grown-up cocktail.

But just one. I have to keep my wits about me and not fall down any romantic rabbit holes, no matter how many hot guys in flannel show up at The Frostline bar tonight.