Chapter 9 #2
The cashier was Pat’s grandson, Mickey. But of course, Wren didn’t know that. Which meant she also didn’t know that Mickey wouldn’t have the faintest idea what basil pesto was, much less any brand names.
“What’s that?”
Exactly.
To Wren’s credit, she was very patient. “Well,” she said, “it’s a sauce. It’s made from basil, garlic, pine nuts. Looks green in color, almost like a paste.”
“That sounds pretty good,” Mickey replied, and I almost thought I hadn’t heard him properly.
“Oh, it’s great!” Wren said. “Very popular in New York.”
“You’re from New York!?” Mickey sounded very impressed by this, and I was still surprised he was engaging this much with a customer; I’d never heard him say more than three sentences prior to tonight.
“Yes.” She blushed.
“Is it true that New Yorkers will push people off the sidewalks because they’re in such a hurry?”
“Well, we only push tourists off the sidewalks,” she replied with a wry grin.
She walked away for a moment, gathering ingredients. “I used to make my own,” she smiled, handing me the produce. “Give that a go.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. But the way she was smiling warmed me from somewhere deep inside.
“You’ll have to show me,” Wren added brightly, and I was momentarily confused. “You know,” she said, “take a picture when you make it?”
“Oh, yeah,” I replied. “I’ll send it to you.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket and held it out to her. “Put your number in.”
There was a flash of something in her eyes—curiosity, or maybe even hesitation—but whatever it was, it passed quickly, and she took my phone, typing her number in.
“Perfect,” I said, feeling heat rush to my cheeks. I must have been grinning like an idiot, but I couldn’t help it.
Wren’s eyes lingered on me for a moment, a flicker of something playful in her expression. “Don’t let me down. I want to see that masterpiece.”
“I’ll try my best,” I said, which made her laugh.
She gave me a small wave and started down the next aisle, leaving me standing there with a basket full of ingredients and a faint, unexpected sense of warmth.
Let’s just say, I was glad I ended up going to the grocery store.
After dinner, I poured a glass of wine, curled up on the couch, and flicked on the TV.
The soft glow bathed the room as I scrolled mindlessly through Netflix, skipping past rom-coms about small-town love, runaway brides, and broken-hearted widowers.
As my mind wandered, it went to Wren. I smiled, remembering her at the grocery store in denim overalls speckled with paint, one strap undone, a Smashing Pumpkins T-shirt underneath.
The way she’d been so concerned about whether I had pesto for my dinner had been almost painfully adorable.
I wrestled with the urge to text her. She was probably busy.
Or maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she’d been thinking about texting me.
Or maybe she wasn’t thinking about me at all.
I sighed dramatically, resisting the urge to scream into my large sofa pillows at my own ridiculousness.
I was a grown woman. I could text Wren. Right?
I took a deep breath, unlocked my phone, and brought up Wren’s contact.
Doing anything interesting tonight? I typed and then immediately erased it. Cringe.
It was so lovely to see you! I tried again…and erased it again. Absolute cringe.
I tried once more: Hey there, just watching some TV, any recommendations? I erased this, too, and groaned to myself. That was the worst of them all.
My thumb hovered over the keys, wondering why I had suddenly lost all my ability to formulate words. I took another sip of wine, and then typed:
You know I forgot to ask you an important question…
I hit send and put the phone down a little too forcefully.
I shouldn’t have texted. I barely knew her.
Wren barely knew me. She was going to think I was some sort of weird reporter creep with mommy issues.
Half true, none of it entirely my fault.
(Throwing dog poop while intoxicated on live television, completely my fault.) And yet my phone lit up with a reply almost immediately.
Oh?
What were all the apples for!?
The horse next door…
I grinned.
Really?
Yes, really! His name is Mr. Patches
And he enjoys apples?
He loves them
I swiped to find the photo of the pesto I’d made for dinner and sent it to Wren.
You weren’t wrong. Homemade pesto is infinitely better.
Wren reacted to the photo with a love heart. I don’t know why, but seeing the little heart appear on my screen made me smile into my wineglass.
Wow. I’m impressed. Do you take orders?
There I went, smiling into my wineglass again.
So do you actually enjoy chicken pot pie or were you being polite?
I really do love chicken pot pie
Tbh I’ve never had Winnie’s pie I guess I need to thank you for my invite
Don’t thank me until we know it’s actually good :)
Fair point :) I can at least thank you for the pesto ingredients! Do you like to cook?
I love cooking, my mom taught me It was something we always did together
I paused for a moment, trying to imagine what that would have looked like, or felt like. For my own mother to have taught me to cook, or to have at least been around to sit at the dinner table on a normal evening.
My phone buzzed again.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up my relationship with my own mom
You don’t need to apologize. Just because I didn’t have a good mom doesn’t mean you can’t talk about yours
Do you miss her?
How to even answer that.
I miss what she could have been Do you miss Lucy?
Every day
I couldn’t help but feel like I was intruding. How could I even be entertaining the idea of flirting with Wren, when it was clear she was still in love with her fiancée?
I should let you get back to the apples and Mr. Patches
He’s asleep, why aren’t you?
I struggle to sleep sometimes
Me too
The thing was: I didn’t want to stop talking to her.
I lied before
About what?
My mom. I don’t miss her in the way most people would miss their mom if she died. It’s hard for me. She was never really part of my life to begin with
I understand. How can you miss someone who never took the time to know you?
Exactly. It’s hard for me to admit, because the whole town loved her
Just because their memory of her is different, doesn’t mean yours isn’t true
She started typing something and the dots flashed across the screen. They disappeared and then reappeared, and disappeared again. Finally, Wren texted:
Do you think people deserve second chances?
For forgiveness?
For love
I think everybody deserves to find love again
That was the end of our conversation, and I can’t tell you how many times I replayed it over and over in my head.