13. Annabelle
Annabelle
The Driftwood smells like pine, beer, and the faint sweetness of hot cider. The lights are low and unapologetically yellow, reflecting off framed photos of fishing tournament champions and a mural of a moose near a misty lake. The corkboard by the door advertises church bingo and trucks for sale.
I spot my friends at a table in back. Lia looks cozy in a thick cable-knit sweater. June’s in a slouchy beanie and a puffy vest. Sophie’s fleece is zipped to her chin, her thick hair in a high ponytail. They look like they fit right in.
I, on the other hand, do not.
My heels click across the wooden floorboards. They’re too sharp, too loud. Here, people shuffle around in winter boots that squish from melting slush. I unbutton my coat to reveal club attire—a shiny gold top, a short black skirt, tights that I’m regretting because my legs are freezing.
Lia’s eyes widen. Then she snorts. “Annabelle. Honey. No.”
June puts down her drink and covers her mouth. “Were we supposed to dress up?” she asks through her fingers. “Did I misunderstand the assignment?”
I take off my long wool coat and drape it over the back of my chair, trying to do it casually, like my outfit is totally normal for a weeknight at a townie bar.
I sink into the squeaky stool they’ve saved for me, feeling like a cocktail olive dropped into a mug of hot cocoa.
“I thought girls’ night meant something else. ”
“I have an extra sweatshirt in my truck,” Sophie offers. “It might help…you know…tone it down.”
“No need,” I say. This is what a total doofus wears on Thursday nights. I checked my outfit with Kat over FaceTime before I left my apartment. Wrong move. I should have checked with Lia. She’s the one who lives here.
“Don’t listen to them,” June says. “That top is amazing. And check out those shoes. You look important.”
“I’m not,” I say. “At all.”
Sophie turns to Lia. “I thought you said she was famous.”
“Aren’t you?” Lia asks.
“What? No.” I sit up straight. “Why would you think that?”
“Because you’re chronically online, and Robert said you send mail to movie stars.”
“That’s just marketing. I don’t know any movie stars.”
“Weird,” Lia says. She’s halfway out of her seat. “I’m getting another Superior Storm. Should I make it two?”
“What’s a Superior Storm?”
“Local beer. It’s what’s on tap tonight.”
“Sold.” I try to give her cash but she waves it away and heads to the bar.
Blake Neverly is working tonight. Interesting that Lia organized a night out at the place where the “worst Neverly brother” happens to tend bar.
Double interesting that she took one look at my clothes and insisted on being the one to get our drinks.
Lia plants her palms on the bar and starts talking, her expression sharp like she’s scolding Blake.
He keeps pouring beer, peeling his eyes away from Lia just in time to stop before the glass overflows.
He leans toward her wearing a joking expression.
She flashes a credit card at him, but he refuses it and grabs two more beer glasses.
“Have you seen Annabelle’s Insta?” June asks, pulling my attention back to the table. “She has so many fans.”
“It’s impressive,” Sophie says.
“That’s just content,” I tell them. “So I can sell cards. Honestly, I’m hoping the famous people notice me.”
June tilts her head. “Like, the world’s first celebrity greeting card designer?”
“That could be a thing, right?” It would be an awesome thing. A dream-come-true thing. But right now, I’ll settle for a cards-pay-my-bills thing.
June puts a hand to her heart and gives a dramatic sigh. “Until then, you’ll just have to toil in obscurity.”
“Yeah,” Sophie says dryly. “You and your eleven thousand Instagram followers.”
June shakes her head. “I don’t know how you do it. If I don’t actual-pants know someone in real life, I’m not letting them follow me.”
“No, I get it.” Sophie says. “It’s just business.”
“What’s just business?” Lia has returned with our drinks.
“Social media,” I tell her.
“Don’t bother with her,” Sophie says. “She doesn’t have anything. Not even Facebook.”
“I live in a town of two thousand people,” Lia says. “What do I need social media for? I can drop by the Lovey Dove or The Grind and get caught up on the news in ten minutes.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Sophie says. We all do. I didn’t know what to expect from something called Superior Storm, but it’s smooth and welcoming. I like it.
Lia puts down her glass, leans across the table, and lowers her voice. “Like the news of you and Grant.”
“I…what? No, uh, no. There is no…me and Grant? That’s not even—” Where did she get such a ridiculous idea? It’s nonsense.
June puts a hand on my arm. “I see the way you two look at each other.”
“I look at your brother like he’s a pain in my ass.”
“No, that’s how I look at him,” June says. “That’s not how you look at him.”
“I’m his landlord.”
“So?”
I turn to Lia for help. “I’ve been warned not to date Neverly brothers.”
“Wrong,” Lia says. “I told you not to date one particular Neverly brother, although I suppose they’re all problematic in their own ways. Right, Sophie?”
“I used to date Felix,” Sophie explains.
“The April Fool’s guy?” I ask. “What’s he like?”
“I was the foolish one,” she says flatly.
“I’m sorry.”
Sophie tugs the zipper of her sweatshirt, as if making sure it’s still closed. “It was a long time ago.”
I turn back to Lia. “And Blake’s a problem because…”
“I told you. Total player.”
I watch him shake a cocktail. The muscles in his arms flex like they’re performing for their own fan club.
He pours the drink from way up high, throws a garnish on, and slides it to his customer with a graceful half bow.
“Not seeing why that’s a problem,” I say.
“I mean, if Blake can follow through on his promise of—”
“La, la, la, I can’t hear you.” June covers her ears. “These are my brothers you’re talking about.”
I duck my head. “Sorry. I’m an only child so I forget sometimes.”
“Me too.” Lia lets out a breathy whistle. “Four brothers. I can’t imagine.”
June takes a gulp of her drink. “I used to beg my parents to have one more kid, hoping for a sister. Women like you are the closest thing I’ve got.”
“Same,” Sophie says. She lifts her glass. “To sisterhood.”
I add mine a beat too late, not sure if I’m included or not. But as the three of them each make a point to tap their glasses to mine, my insides go all sparkly. Being accepted by a group of girlfriends is the adult equivalent of being chosen first for kickball, and I’m here for it.
“I will also drink to staying away from the Neverly brothers,” Lia adds. She counts on her fingers. “Felix the fool, Blake the player—”
I raise my hand. “I still don’t see why—”
“Can’t hear you!” June plugs her ears.
Lia continues as if we haven’t spoken, still counting off the brothers. “Cole is a locked-room mystery, and Grant? Untouchable.”
I put down my beer. “What does that mean?”
Sophie, June, and Lia exchange awkward glances around the table. We sit in silence as the sound system pumps out some indie rock from ten years ago. Ice clinks in glasses. Chairs scrape. The door opens and closes again.
Sophie shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “We should tell her.”
“Tell me what?”
Sophie turns to June, who makes a go-ahead motion with her hands and gives a dismissive shrug.
Sophie puts both hands on the table. “Grant had a girlfriend in high school. Triss. Everyone thought it was true love. She went to all his football games, but she’d show up for practices, too. It was kind of suspicious how she was always hanging around the gym.”
“That does sound unusual,” I say.
“But people just thought ‘oh, she’s such a devoted girlfriend.’ She talked to the coach a lot—who was also the history teacher—and she’d always be in his classroom at lunch or after school, pretending she needed help with her homework or whatever.”
I’m on high alert now, seeing where this story is going. I hope I’m wrong, though. “Her parents didn’t steer her in a better direction?” I ask. “Friends?”
“No,” Sophie says flatly. “She had Grant. And that’s not all she had.”
“Oh dear,” I say.
“Yeah. She had the quarterback, and she also had a little something on the side.”
“A big something,” Lia says, mimicking a pregnant belly.
“Shit,” I breathe. This explains so much. The hard, unromantic pieces of Grant click into place, making a full picture at last.
“Grant would have married her.” June looks furious. She wanted a sister, but I can tell this isn’t the kind of sister she would welcome. “He would have claimed the baby as his.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“Triss turned eighteen and eloped.”
“With the coach?”
“Yep. They’re living down in Lansing. Mr. Dewitt can’t teach anymore but he’s selling insurance or some derp job like that.”
“Bastard,” I say.
“That’s not the worst part,” June says.
“It gets worse?”
“The US Army saw a big kid with a broken heart and repressed anger. They snatched him right up. Took him away from us for ten years.”
“Damn,” I say. “That sucks.”
“So yeah,” Lia says, sitting back in her chair. “Like I said, Grant’s untouchable. You’re never going to crack that nut.”
“I don’t want to crack that nut,” I say. What does that even mean?
“That’s not what I heard,” Sophie sings. “Callie Frost told me that you two were getting very familiar at The Frostline a few weeks a—”
“How do people date in this town?” I interrupt. I scramble for my phone and hold it out to them. “OkCupid? Bumble? Hinge?”
Sophie blinks at me. “You’re on the apps?”
“Isn’t everyone? It’s not like a suitable person is going to magically enter the room.”
That’s the moment that the door swings open and a gorgeous stranger walks through it.
He’s in his forties, with skin that looks airbrushed, eyes that look photoshopped, and a hundred-dollar haircut.
We all swivel our heads to watch him slide out of his expensive coat.
He approaches the bar with the kind of ease that says he’s never once worried about whether he’s having an impact. He just knows.
We look back at each other and crack up laughing.
“There you go.” Sophie flourishes her hand over my club outfit. “It’s like you knew he was coming.”
“I’m already regretting wearing this,” I tell her. “Don’t make it worse.”
“She’s kidding,” Lia says. “We’d never let you date Ted Ender.”
I watch him make a big show of waving a twenty around before dropping it in the tip jar. “What is he?” I ask. “Lumber baron? Real estate mogul?”
“Evil developer,” June says.
I nod. “Figured it was something like that.”
Sophie tilts her head and squints at him. “Guy like that? You just know he’s selfish in bed.”
“How can you tell?” I mean, I agree, but I’m a bit in awe of Sophie’s radar.
“I just can.” She knocks her shoulder against mine. “But if you want to go talk to him, I mean, dressed like that, he might—”
“No thank you.” I stay firmly planted in my chair. “Been there, done that. Mine was a banker.”
I met Magnus a few months after Nana died, during a period I now like to call my “sad sweater phase.” Seriously, I think I bought four gray sweaters that year. I was existing on low-power mode. No jokes. No art. Nothing but seriousness.
But somehow, Magnus liked that version of me. He praised me for being sensible. For being calm. For being classy. He actually used that word. Classy. What kind of man says that out loud?
It was just as much my fault as his. What was I thinking? I was in the middle of mourning and I decided that was the time to start a relationship? But dammit, I was all alone. My college friends had drifted away, and all I had was Kat, who was more of a work bestie than a ride-or-die.
Magnus came with a huge social circle I thought I could fit into.
He seemed so solid, too, with a proper grown-up career that made my receptionist job look like kids’ play.
He was a compliance officer at a bank. He loved spending his days telling people they were wrong.
That should have been a huge red flag right there, but I was vulnerable, and didn’t know what I wanted, and thought it was him.
As time went on, and I started getting happier, Magnus got less happy with me.
He hated the way I’d give voices to the animals in the park.
Apparently, “This pigeon wants to speak to the manager of bread crumbs,” isn’t a clever joke.
And it’s also not funny when you’re cuddling on the couch and suddenly the blanket becomes a monster that eats you in a thrashing, horror movie take-down.
That’s called, “ruining the show we were watching.” A kiddie pool in the back yard?
Okay to sit next to. Not okay to sit in.
Even if you bring a super photogenic umbrella drink with you and get the most likes you’ve ever gotten on your Instagram page. That was just childish.
In the end, it was a dignified break-up.
Classy, even. Which suited Magnus just fine and left me feeling empty.
I didn’t want drama, but I wanted closure.
Some emotion. Some regret. Some acknowledgement that we were bad for each other and were better off apart.
Which we were. Totally. But it would have been nice to have a conversation instead of a “we should end this” text.
Yep. We broke up over text. Gross.
Also gross that I’d lost so much of myself in that relationship. How could I let myself do that? Putting myself back together again was harder than I thought it would be.
At our table, they’re still talking shit about Ender, who’s sharing cocktails and conversation with two other men at the bar.
I have a flash of the night I met Grant. The men from Solduxe. How Grant took them down a peg without ever interacting with them. How we had our hilarious mime show across the room. How it felt so easy. So natural.
“I wonder if there’s a way to—” I stop myself, feeling my cheeks heat when I realize I’ve spoken out loud. No. There isn’t a way to get back to that moment of ease. Not with the scarred-for-life man who’s renting my building.
“A way to what?” June asks.
“A way to… find someone better,” I say, opening Hinge on my phone.
“Be careful with that,” Sophie says. “You’re new in town. You’re fresh meat.”
“Don’t care,” I say. “The next remotely suitable guy I see? I’m swiping right.”