CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT #2
I turned too fast and one of the cups tilted.
Coffee sloshed down the front of my shirt, hot and humiliating.
“Whoa—”
A hand caught mine before I could drop the other cup. I looked up, straight into Teddy’s eyes.
“Still have terrible luck with hot beverages,” he said softly.
A certain memory involving apple cider at Fallfest several years ago drifted to the front of my mind. It just so happened to be the inciting incident for our first kiss. Something stupid and traitorous fluttered in my stomach.
I gaped, annoyed by the color rising to my cheeks. “You—what are you doing here?”
Not exactly the finest example of witty repartee.
He blinked, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Getting coffee. This is the cafe, isn’t it?”
Rachel called his name and handed him a cup over the espresso machine, but not before shooting me a painfully overt wink. I glared at her. Maybe Irish goodbying the entire town wouldn’t have been so bad.
Georgie thrust a stack of napkins between us. “C’mon, this isn’t exactly where we should stand around and have a conversation.”
“Fine,” I muttered, handing her both drinks and dabbing my shirt while Teddy led us outside.
We stood between two trees and out of the walkway, cheeks burning as they watched me go through napkin after napkin. Finally, I crumpled the last one, throwing a wad in the nearby trashcan and accepting my half-emptied cappuccino from Georgie.
“You’re here,” I said, “Just taking photos for fun now?”
Teddy grinned. “It’s always fun. But apparently the newly minted Chamber of Commerce decided the Cove desperately needs better marketing. Socials, a website, the works.”
Georgie sipped her latte, gaze dancing between us.
“So you’re… working for Bluebell Cove?” I asked.
“You’re looking at the new Digital Communications Director.”
An unwelcome smile cracked on my mouth. “And who are you directing?”
“Just me for now,” he said, “Unless you’re looking for work outside of novel writing.”
As if in slow motion, I saw Georgie’s lips part and the wheels begin to turn, and my brain skyrocketed into overdrive. I cleared my throat and nudged her.
“We should get to your booth, right? I’m sure Rhett has something better to do,” I muttered.
She made an odd squeaking noise in response, squinting between us before nodding mechanically and making a beeline to Harbor Street. Teddy caught me by the wrist when I tried to follow.
I slipped my hand away, stomach flip-flopping traitorously at the warmth of his grip. “Did you need something else?” I asked.
“Margot, I—” Teddy hesitated, stepping forward and lowering his voice. “I really need to talk to you—there’s so much I didn’t get to say. I know it’s not a good time, but maybe I could see you tomorrow?”
Whatever flashed in his eyes nearly killed me. For a half-second, I almost said yes and meant it.
I couldn’t do it again. I barely survived that day on Bluebell Point seven years ago, heart in my hands, willing to throw caution to the wind for the boy I’d spent ten years loving.
The lesson I learned was invaluable: if I colored within the lines and refused to step too far from the plan, I never had to be hurt like that again.
I’d never be Georgie or Teddy, drifting from place to place and somehow always managing to land exactly where I wanted. I didn’t function that way.
So what if he suddenly decided that Bluebell Cove was home for him? It was no guarantee of where he’d land next week or next month or next year. I couldn’t risk living outside the bounds. He was a risk.
Even though it crushed me, I gave him a soft smile and replied, “Sure, Teddy.”
When I turned away to catch up with Georgie, my ribs felt like they’d been cracked open and I had to gasp for breath. He’d come looking for me tomorrow. And I’d already be halfway to New York.
I narrowly gathered my senses by the time I reached Georgie’s booth.
The festival was beginning to thrum to life, cinnamon sugar and hay and brine wafting through the air, the band on the corner playing a particularly on-the-nose rendition of “Harvest Moon.” I emptied my cappuccino and tossed it in a trash can, barely keeping myself from storming over and smashing his guitar onto the stage.
Rhett had Georgie’s display mostly set—tiers of pastel mugs, small planters shaped like pumpkins, a crooked chalkboard sign that read Wheeler Pottery: Handmade with Heart.
“Looks amazing,” I said, genuinely impressed despite the hollow feeling in my chest.
I distracted myself studying the tips of my boots when Georgie began to stand — and knocked her head straight into the shelf of mugs.
She hissed and wobbled, nearly falling over if it weren’t for Rhett’s practiced hands shooting out to steady her.
The shelf had no such luck. Upon impact, the display shuddered, the mugs rattling and swaying, until one finally rolled toward the edge.
“Shoot!” Georgie shouted, lunging to catch it and only succeeding in elbowing the corner of the tent.
The three of us watched with varying degrees of surprise as the mug hit the pavement and shattered in a spray of shards and clay dust.
I bent a second later, moving robotically to begin scooping pieces into my palms. “Georgie, please don’t move,” I said, “It’s everywhere, you could get it in the soles of your shoes.”
She blinked at me and slowly lowered to a squat. “Margot, it’s not the end of the world.”
“They’re sharp,” I muttered, eyes burning. “I need to clean this up before—”
“Before what?” Georgie interrupted.
She reached for me and unfurled my fingers around the pieces of ceramic. I paused, watching in latent horror while my hands shook and tiny dots of crimson bloomed where the pieces had jabbed my palm.
“I’m just—” I stopped mid-sentence. My heart hammered far too fast for something so trivial. “I’m just helping.”
Georgie helped me up and had me drop the shards, blood and all, onto her otherwise pristine gingham tablecloth. She pressed a paper towel into my palm and quietly said, “Yeah, but I can withstand a little mess, Margot. That’s what life’s about, isn’t it?”
“I know,” I said automatically, though the lie pressed heavy around my shoulders.
What if I didn’t want the mess? And what if I was missing something in all the chaos and heartbreak and uneven pieces I didn’t want to look at?
All I could hear was the hum of the crowd, the clinking of wind chimes from the next booth over, and the muffled twang of another Neil Young song.
I stepped back and forced a breath. Georgie and Rhett laughed together and worked in tandem to clean up the shambles I somehow made worse.
When it was done, it didn’t look as if nothing had ever happened.
Specks of dark red marked a few white squares on the tablecloth, a thin layer of dust remained like a chalk outline on the asphalt, and she had to add a mismatching mug to the shelf.
None of it was perfect—and yet, in a way, it was.
The frigid wind tossed a lock of hair across my face, and for a moment, I didn’t bother with tucking it back behind my ear.
My phone buzzed. In a daze, I checked it.
Andrew Wade: Camille and I will be at Fallfest later. Can we see you?
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Part of me wanted to bury my phone in the sand, or maybe my head. The other part—smaller, but growing infectiously warm—wanted to see what it felt like to stop being so careful all the time. I replied, I’ll be on Harbor Street.