Chapter 2
Early in my freshman year of college, I went to a party and fell in love.
That’s how it felt anyway. He was very cute and very hot in a coffeehouse-philosopher way. He talked about deep topics, and he acted like I was more interesting and alluring than anyone he’d ever met.
After our first conversation, he got called away by a friend, and I assumed it was over.
I might have been called pretty all my life, but I’ve never been one of the popular girls.
There’s an it factor to popularity that I’ve never had.
So I assumed, when he left me, that one intoxicating conversation was all we’d ever have.
But he returned after a few minutes. He didn’t leave my side the rest of the night. He asked for my number, and he texted before I got back to my dorm room to ask if he could see me the next evening.
I woke up the next day to a whole new world. Messages from my friends asking about the guy and another message from the guy himself, saying he wasn’t falling asleep because he couldn’t stop thinking about me.
Overnight, I’d turned into a girl a hot guy might fall for at first sight. And a blissful future was spilling out for me from that morning on.
It doesn’t take a palm reader to guess what happened next.
After three weeks of heavy wooing—which included my first time having sex—he stopped sending me messages.
He stopped lingering under my dorm window and calling up romantic greetings.
He stopped giving me flowers he picked (against policy) from the campus gardens.
He stopped.
He fell out of love as quickly as he’d fallen into it.
But I still remember the impression I had waking up that first morning. Like the world had reshaped itself as I slept, and everything I’d hoped and dreamed for might finally be coming true.
I feel it again when I wake up the next day after my interactions with Wes went viral.
First thing I do is check my phone.
There are hundreds of thousands of new followers on the Blossom Park social media accounts.
The only public account I have is my Goodreads, but a ridiculous number of people managed to find that and send me friend requests.
I hope Wes’s LinkedIn is getting the same treatment because I can imagine his frustration.
My annoyance fades when I check email and see hundreds more event inquiry forms. The interest in Blossom Park hasn’t faded overnight. It’s intensified.
Yesterday afternoon I was trying not to cry in a DC office building, and this morning we might be saved.
All we need is one really good year that allows us to pay down the debt, and we can go back to hovering between decent income and making do the way we used to.
Maybe Hipster Girl’s playful intrusion into our privacy is what will make the difference.
I’m so excited I jump out of bed, rush through a shower, and climb down from my bedroom in the cottage loft to find Audrey already deep into her reading.
“Can you believe what’s happening?” I ask her, going for the coffeepot.
Audrey has always been an early riser, and she makes the best coffee, so I never have to make it myself when she’s at home.
“Yeah, it’s crazy. Natalie said there’s so much interest we should raise our prices back.”
We’ve had to lower our prices in the past few years to keep our schedule booked at only the bare minimum.
“I was thinking that too. Has she actually scheduled anything yet? What if they’re all busybodies who aren’t serious customers?”
“She said she’s already booked every weekend for the next two months with smaller events, and we’ve already got some weddings for the summer.”
“I can’t believe this.”
“People make decisions for the silliest reasons,” Audrey says, lowering her eyes to her book. “But we might as well take advantage of it.”
“That’s for sure. Where’s Natalie?”
Audrey is already absorbed again in her reading, so her tone is distracted as she replies, “I think she went to Rooster’s.”
Rooster’s is a new coffee shop in the middle of the four blocks of Main Street that makes up our tiny downtown.
It’s a cute place with good coffee drinks, pastries, sandwiches, and a comfortable atmosphere, but it’s always made my gut drop when I see it or walk inside.
Because our coffee shop should have been open years before Rooster’s.
It reminds me of my own failure.
I still go regularly because I’m not a petty person, and any new business in town has the potential for bringing new customers to Blossom Park.
I want Rooster’s to survive. Its failure would do nothing to absolve my own and would be a commercial blow to our small town.
About a third of the tables are taken, and there’s a handful of people in line at the counter when I walk in, which is typical for eight thirty on a weekday.
Natalie waves to me from the small corner table she snagged, and I gesture toward the counter to let her know I’m grabbing my drink first.
My heart and belly are fluttery from excitement (and a little embarrassment since it feels like people are staring at me), so as I wait in line, I debate internally between one of my normal drinks or a complicated sugary concoction.
I compromise on a chai latte with brown-sugar syrup and bring it over to Natalie’s table.
She has her pink MacBook set up on the table and is drinking her normal hot cinnamon tea (decaf with no sweetener). “Can you believe this?” she asks as I sit down. “I’ve already scheduled showings every afternoon and evening for the next two weeks.”
“That’s amazing. Audrey said you’ve booked some events and even weddings?”
“Yeah. So far just from folks who already know us, so they didn’t need to tour our spaces or learn about our services, so at least some of the interest is genuine. What a stroke of luck.”
“I know. I should be embarrassed about being exposed so publicly, but if it gets us out of the red, I’ll take it.”
Natalie has been eyeing me as I sip my latte. “Why didn’t you dress cuter?”
“What?” I frown at my sister, who has always been blunt and straightforward but usually isn’t mean. “Why would I dress cute to hang out here?”
“I don’t know. I just thought… You never know. You didn’t even put on any makeup.”
Because I dressed quickly, I put nothing on my face except moisturizer, and I braided my hair in one thick plait. I’m wearing wide-leg jeans and an oversized cream-colored crocheted sweater Aunt Grace made for me back in high school.
“You think someone is going to film me again?” I laugh out loud. “There’s no one but locals here.”
“One of them might. It’s still going strong on every social media platform. Have you looked?”
“No. I’ve been too scared and embarrassed to peek.”
“Well, it’s taken off to an insane extent. Even Aunt Grace said her online shop is getting bombarded. Everyone wants a sweater like the one you were wearing yesterday or a sweater-vest like the one Wes was wearing.”
That makes me giggle. “Well, she can’t produce those on demand.”
“I know! She has four sweater orders and two vest orders scheduled out for later this year and has sold out all her scarves, shawls, and mittens, so she’s about to close her shop temporarily.”
“People have lost their minds.”
“I’m not sure they ever really had them, but if this works in our favor, I say we should go with it. Actually, I’ve been thinking and I have an idea…” She trails off when her eyes shift over my shoulder to the entrance of the shop.
Since my back is to the door, I have to turn all the way around to look.
When I see who just came in, I gasp and whirl around, leaning slightly to the left in the hopes of being hidden by one of the wood posts scattered through the room.
Natalie snorts. “Was that a cringey attempt to hide from him?”
“No,” I tell her with more gravity than truth. “Why would I hide from Wes?”
“Because you’re embarrassed that the whole world thinks you’re secretly in love. Who wouldn’t be? But he’s got to be embarrassed too, don’t you think?”
“I don’t think so. He doesn’t seem to get embarrassed by anything. He’s too smug and superior for such lesser feelings.”
“Maybe. But I bet he’s just as mortified as you are by the whole thing.”
Hoping to see even the tiniest clue of such a feeling, I glance over my shoulder discreetly to where he’s standing in line.
He’s wearing a version of his normal outfit—brown trousers and a forest-green button-up shirt. He’s focused intently down on his phone, so much so that the older man behind him has to clear his throat loudly before Wes steps forward.
I shake my head with a huff.
He’s definitely too lofty to be caught up in our unexpected virality.
“I wonder what he’s ordering,” Natalie says with a smile in her voice and her eyes angled over my shoulder.
“Black coffee.” I nurse a slow sip of my latte. “That’s what he always gets.”
Natalie’s hazel eyes widen, and I can easily read the gleeful inquiry on her expression.
“He’s always drunk black coffee,” I explain. “From ages ago. I haven’t made special note of it. Anyway, what else would he get? Flavorings and cream are for lesser mortals. Not supreme beings fueled by logic and stoicism.”
“He’s not that bad.”
“That’s your optimism. Not reality. You should’ve heard him yesterday talking about how we need to take all emotion out of the decisions we make about Blossom Park.”
Despite the new, miraculous hope that arose in the past twenty-four hours, the memory of his cold, clipped voice and his stony expression yesterday makes me snarl.
I turn my head to glower in his direction but accidentally meet his eyes as he’s turning from the counter with his coffee mug.
I do what anyone would do in such a situation. I whirl around and then peek back over my shoulder to see if he did indeed catch me staring.
He did.
His mouth is twitching in my direction, and he leans to peer around the wooden column, giving me a sardonic wave.
I fake a smile and wave back with exaggerated enthusiasm, then slump back in my chair, my cheeks blazing.
Why the hell can’t I go through life with any sort of dignity?
I always end up making a fool of myself.