Chapter 11 Sierra #2
“I’d die without my phone,” Sophie muses. “Petey and I have phone sex every night when we’re apart.”
“Sophie. Dear god. Have some compassion for those of us who have no sex at all, phone sex or otherwise. You cruel, heartless wench.”
“Sorry. Sometimes I forget.”
“That we haven’t all met our soulmate and rock ’n’ rolled off into the sunset with him?”
“Well . . . yes?”
“Sadly, I’m coming to think that’s the worst part of losing Kyle. Goodbye, regular sex. And by regular, I do mean regular, as in nothing special, as you know.”
“Hearing about how that man left you unsatisfied keeps me up at night. It’s a travesty.”
“It wasn’t all bad. Sometimes it was . . . adequate.”
Sophie scrunches her nose. “We need to talk about your standards, babe. You are kind and beautiful and fucking funny, and that ass won’t quit. Fuck adequate. No more settling for less than he-made-me-see-stars. That’s your new baseline. Deal?”
“No worries. No boys for the rest of the year, right?”
Sophie frowns. I know she still doesn’t believe I mean that.
Then her whole face lights up. “There’s the house! It’s cute.”
At the quiet two-way intersection up ahead, beyond the waist-high grass along the ditches and the thickets of trees that go ever on, stands a picture-perfect classic farmhouse. A golden light already glows over the front porch to welcome us, even though it’s not quite dusk.
It is cute. If you’re into picturesquely updated rural farmhouses painted pale olive green with cream trim, storybook red shutters, and casually idyllic flowerbeds.
I’m just way too grumpy to admit it.
“This is beyond stupid,” I mutter as we tromp toward the house; this armful of cider is getting heavy.
“I don’t even want to be here, and yet I’m trying to convince a woman who also doesn’t seem to particularly want me here to let me pay her more money so I can stay. Is this the definition of insanity?”
“Then why are you doing it? All week long, all you do is moan about the lack of shopping and sushi restaurants and yoga studios.”
“And coffee bars.”
“Right. How could I forget?”
“I know it probably sounds like I’m just running away.
But I’m not exactly. I was just thinking, since Kyle dumped me and all my plans abruptly fell apart, it kinda blasted a giant hole in my schedule for the rest of the summer.
I don’t have another location locked down after this.
So, maybe extending my lease and staying for a couple more months in Orchard Cove makes sense. The smoothie bar has been doing well.”
“It does make sense when you put it that way.”
“But it’s not a given. I don’t even know if I can convince June.”
“Well, what exactly did she say when you had that chat the other night?”
“I dunno. She called me Cinderella . . . something about throwing too many glass slippers at Kyle? It was weird. Plus, I was high, so there was that.”
“Then our job is to convince her,” Sophie says. We’ve reached the driveway, and we make our way toward the porch. “And what better chance are you gonna get to win over some of the local women?”
Of course, to sociable Sophie, it makes perfect sense to crowdsource support for my cause.
“Uh, they know Mason, though. He lives here. His family is entrenched in the community. And maybe they all like him. Maybe they love him. How do I compete with the gorgeous lumberjack bartender?”
“Like this,” Soph says firmly as we climb the front steps. “Mason can’t come to ladies’ night, right?”
The words are barely out of her mouth when the door opens from inside and Bev—of Bev & Bill’s General Store—appears.
Sophie tells me this woman is a wellspring of town gossip, and while I haven’t spoken with her directly yet, I have seen her and her husband going in and out of the store.
She’s always wearing a plaid shirt and jeans, very similar to her husband’s, with a couple of bobby pins tucking her salt-and-pepper bangs to one side.
Tonight is no different.
I feel way overdressed in my body-con Aritzia dress and cropped blazer.
“Ladies! I’m so glad you could join us!” She welcomes us in with unbridled delight.
“Us, too!” Sophie says. “Thank you for having us.”
“Come in, come in.” Bev waves us in and Soph hugs the woman like they’re old friends. I follow them inside, hugging my cider like a life preserver.
“This is Trish,” Bev says, introducing us to the petite, curly-haired blonde about our age who hops to her feet in the living room. “Trish lives on Honeymoon Lane, too! Right across from the Grants.”
“I grew up with Layne and Mason,” Trish says. “Layne and I went to school together. But don’t come to me for gossip,” she adds in a very gossipy tone. I almost expect her to wink.
“Oh. Okay?” I say.
“The moms are here,” Bev announces.
She heads to the door as a couple of women pile in with wine and food.
After a round of hellos, the fortyish mom wearing a ball cap and cargo pants with a definite “I coach all the kids sports teams” vibe literally gives me a list of the local committees she’s on.
The dark-haired, drop-dead gorgeous mom, thirtyish, gives me and my cider bottles a hug.
Then the two of them hurry into the living room, where the food and drink await.
“I’m on a timeline, ladies,” Power Mom announces as she peruses the food offerings. I’m told her name is Pamela. “I’ve got four boys under twelve at home with Daddy, and something’s getting burned down or broke if I’m not back in three hours.”
Hot Mom is already dumping wine into a large tumbler. Her name is Maria. “Well, I just finished breastfeeding and I haven’t been out in ages. Someone please tell me something good. I’m dying to live vicariously.”
Then everyone in the room, by some strange coincidence, looks at me.
I almost demand, What? Is there a spider in my hair?
“How are you liking Orchard Cove, Sierra?” Trish asks me eagerly.
“And Pier Seven?” Power Mom asks.
“And Mason Grant?” Bev inquires, totally straight-faced.
Hot Mom elbows her in the ribs.
Why do I feel like I’m onstage and they’re all waiting for the show to begin?
I manage to stammer out something like “Good. Fine. Yeah. Are those pickles?”
Those are not, in fact, pickles on the plate in Power Mom’s hands, but cookies that look nothing like pickles. My awkwardness is showing and I can’t even blame it on alcohol yet.
“I should go open this cider,” I say self-consciously, still hugging all three bottles, which Bev did offer to take from me but I held onto.
“I’ll help you,” Sophie says, nudging me toward the kitchen. “Kitchen, Bev?”
“Help yourself,” Bev says. “June should be along soon, too. Then we can begin.”
I follow Sophie into the kitchen, where she immediately puts her tray down and whirls on me. “Just relax, Si. It’s not an interrogation.”
I put the bottles down awkwardly on the counter. “It feels like one.”
“They literally just asked you how you like it here.”
I chew my lip absently. “Do you think they know about me and Mason?”
“There is no you and Mason. Bev’s just fishing.” She picks up a bottle opener, cracks the top off the Rhubarb cider, and pours me a glass. She puts it in my hand. “You’re here to make friends, remember? Win over the local ladies?”
“How? I have nothing in common with these people. Power Mom is way too Type A, even for me, and Hot Mom is wearing hemp.”
“So?”
“I’ve been meeting these small-town people at the smoothie bar all week. They’re outdoorsy. And crafty. And they read cozy mysteries set on farms. They’re actually into camping and DIY and they spend time in nature on purpose. Like, for fun.” I take a big swig of cider, trying to calm my nerves.
“Since when are you so judgmental?” Sophie says.
“I’m not. I’m realistic. I hate camping and hiking and I’ve never even been fishing.
I like modern conveniences like uninterrupted Wi-Fi and an organized calendar that syncs with all my apps and parking meters where I can prepay for my parking with my phone.
” I’m truly panicking now, and making zero sense. I know that.
“No one likes parking meters, Si,” Soph says calmly.
She’s right. And it’s slowly dawning on me why I’m so nervous about this night.
Not because I’m worried people in town might be gossiping about me, or whispering about me and Mason.
Because I’ve somehow gotten myself into a position where I’m vulnerable to a man, caring what he thinks of me. And I’m scared as shit that since he wants me gone, everyone in town will take his side.
It feels all too familiar.
“Also,” Soph says, “who the hell are Power Mom and Hot Mom?”
“It’s obvious.”
“What’s obvious is you’re doing that thing you do where you put labels on people to tuck them into neat little boxes and keep them at a distance. Instead of actually getting to know them. You do it all the time. You did it with me when we met. Remember Retro Rosie?”
“That was a compliment.” I turn and peel the plastic wrap off the sandwich tray and start needlessly rearranging the sandwiches. “You were cool and strong, yet stylish, like Rosie the Riveter.”
“Remember Hottest Bartender in the Universe, who you met recently?”
“It’s just shorthand. In case I forget people’s names.”
“You pretty little liar.”
“Thank you. I think my hair turned out pretty good tonight.” When I glance at her, she’s frowning at me. “Oh. That wasn’t a compliment. I see.”
“You’re looking for reasons to push people away right now.” Sophie cocks her head at me and frowns. “Maybe you’re afraid of getting attached.”
“To Bev?”
“There is literally not one thing wrong with Bev.”
I open my mouth to give her a list, but she pokes me in the ribs. “Ow!”
“You’re standing in her house,” Soph hiss-whispers, “and about to eat her food. Now, act like a grownup!” Then she stuffs a finger sandwich into my mouth and turns, just in time to smile at Bev, who’s come to see if we need any help.
“No help required!” Soph says. “Just saying what a lovely home you have.”
When Sophie and Bev leave me alone in the kitchen, I take a breath, and it hits me, hard. That I have no real friendships anymore except Soph. And this was true long before Kyle came along.
Because the last ten years of my life, I’ve been working my butt off to support myself in the city, then to make a go of my business and support myself .
. . and maybe to prove something to myself.
That I’m not the failure my mom worried I’d be when I moved to the city alone.
That I’m so much more than just the less-successful, less-talented, less-adored of her two daughters.
And so, I’ve made myself unavailable.
It’s a protection mechanism.
And it’s bullshit.
I am ripe for a new group of friends.
Or at least some sense of community. A family who won’t choose my stepsister over me, who won’t abandon me at the first sign of conflict—or the first rubber dick they glimpse in my vicinity.
I down the rest of my Rhubarb cider, pick up the tray, and carry it out into the living room, where I hear Trish telling Sophie, “Oh, he’s been like that ever since his nasty, horrible breakup.”
“I thought you weren’t gossiping, Trish,” Hot Mom says.
“Who are we talking about, ladies?” I ask, setting the tray of sandwiches down on the table, determined to make an effort here. I take a finger sandwich and sink onto the couch next to Sophie, who promptly hands me a tall, cold can of Twisted Tree Ginger Spritz cider.
She gives me a look, like, Prepare yourself for this.
Trish says, “Mason Grant.” Her voice drops dramatically. “He was left at the altar.”
“And this is why we come to ladies’ night,” Sophie murmurs in my ear.