Chapter 2
Chapter Two
OSCAR
Jesus fucking Christ, I do not need this shit.
I thought my days waiting around for Freya Malcolm were over but I guess I’m not that lucky.
Half of me wants to give up and head back to my truck, but unfortunately I’ve always been a fucking momma’s boy. I sigh, scrolling idly on my phone as I try to get out of the wind. I’ll give it ten minutes before I get the hell out of here.
I’m not stupid. I know exactly why I’ve been sent, and it has little to do with my mom needing three more balls of a very specific yarn. It’s because six months ago I made the mistake of asking a follow-up question when she mentioned Freya moving back to town.
I was just surprised, is all. I was so sure I’d never see her again after she moved away. I managed to pack everything else away a long time ago.
Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.
Eleven minutes later, I’m pocketing my phone and turning back toward the street, so tired I can practically feel the pillow against my cheek, when a flash of green catches my eye.
Freya hurries my way, talking into her phone before she hangs up and pockets the device.
She hasn’t noticed me, and doesn’t acknowledge me waiting until I step further onto the sidewalk and draw up to my full height.
My heart gives a kick at the sight of her, like a reflex after all this time.
Shit. There she is.
But as I study her features, there’s nothing. No recognition, not even a flicker. I try not to fixate on why that bothers me so much.
I frown, the headache that’s been pawing at the edges of my awareness starting to feel like a drill at my temple.
When Freya finally sees me, her eyes widen in surprise, cheeks flushing just enough for me to catch before she ducks her head.
That flash of blue has my gut clenching and I almost have to turn away.
Get a goddamn grip.
“I’m so sorry,” she hurries to say, fumbling with the keys as she slides past me to unlock the door. “Please, come in.”
I follow her, taking in the space I’ve only ever seen stuffed with flowers. I was in here a lot when I was a kid, trailing after my dad as he picked up gigantic bouquets of peonies to surprise Mom with, but it’s been years. I have to shake the memory away.
Freya walks in fast steps around the desk, her hard soles clicking against the wooden floor as she drops her purse by the chair and takes off her coat, revealing a blue dress that ties at the waist and flares out all floaty around her knees.
She doesn’t say anything and I almost want to push, to try getting something, anything out of her.
It’s as if she’s in a different world as she shuffles things around.
She opens a drawer and pulls out a notepad and pen before pressing a button to wake up the screen of her computer.
Her movements are brisk, a little on edge.
My mouth feels dry. Having Freya in front of me after all this time, with apparently no clue as to who I am, has me so off-balance that I can’t come up with a single sensible thing to say.
“Thought you opened at noon on Wednesdays?” I settle on.
She looks up, wide-eyed, mouth opening and closing as she tries to form an answer.
I give her a questioning look. Her eyes barely scan my face before she glances back down.
I don’t know why I hate it so much, why I’m desperate for her to give me a sign that she doesn’t think I’m just some random schmuck off the street.
“We do.” Her voice is soft. Warm, but tired round the edges.
“But not today?” I don’t mean for it to come out so caustic, but I can hardly think around this headache, particularly not with her soft jasmine scent invading my senses.
“There was someone in my space,” she murmurs distractedly.
I frown, not understanding.
“The one outside Becca’s.” She nods over my shoulder and I follow her gaze out the large front windows of the store to where Becca’s Diner sits across the street, the space in question currently occupied by my truck.
“That’s a public parking spot.”
“It’s where I park on Wednesdays.” She says it like I should be following.
I cross my arms over my chest, biting the inside of my lip as I wait for her to continue.
“I have to be at the library in the mornings, so I park there after. I couldn’t find a space so I had to drive home and walk here. It made me late.”
“I see.”
“Which I’m sorry about,” she adds. “Being late, that is.”
I study her, finally getting a good look at her face. It’s a hell of a face; big hazel eyes, high cheekbones, full lips painted in a glossy red. She’s not the little girl I used to watch across the playground blacktop. But that spray of freckles across her nose hasn’t changed a bit.
“It’s no problem,” I grumble out, chest tight. I turn away and start to look through the carefully organized shelves. I walk slowly along the back wall, inspecting each ball to check that it meets my mother’s exacting requirements.
Does Freya really have no idea? I’ve definitely grown up, filled out more than anybody had been expecting when I was such a scrawny kid, but I don’t think I’m unrecognizable? Maybe it’s just that the events of fifteen years ago weren’t as memorable for her as they were for me.
I rub my fist against my sternum, trying to ease the tension there. I almost got kicked out of school for that, when I knocked Jamie Riley’s front tooth in after he threw mud in her hair. She hasn’t got a clue, though.
The pounding in my skull reaches jackhammer levels by the time I track down what I’m looking for.
At least, it had better be the right thing.
I quickly gather three balls, adding a fourth after realizing Mom would have asked for too little (probably as an excuse to send me back) and turn to the register.
As I do, I slam my thigh into the corner of a large wooden table. A sharp stabbing pain rockets up my leg and I grunt, the collision scooting the table an inch across the floor.
“Fucking hell!” I hiss, knowing it’ll be one hell of a bruise tomorrow.
Christ, that hurt worse than the time the crew turned while holding a ladder and clocked me round the back of the head.
I bend down to grab the ball of yarn that I dropped, but as I do, another hits the hardwood next to me.
Then another. Then another. I glance over my shoulder to see the pyramid of yarn, neatly stacked in rainbow order, starting to slide to the left.
One by one, balls roll off the table, scattering across the floor until there’s nothing left but mayhem. I straighten, digging my fist into my leg and praying the pain dissipates, and meet Freya’s blue eyes, frozen in shock as the display falls apart.
There’s a long silence, both of us looking at each other before she snaps out of whatever stupor she’s in and launches herself out from behind the desk. “Oh God, are you okay?”
I blink a few times, trying to keep calm. “Fine,” I grumble.
“Do you need an ice pack or something?” She’s hovering in the middle of the shop floor, looking around like a solution’s gonna appear from behind a shelf.
“No. Fuck,” I mutter as I take a step, feeling like I’ve been stabbed. “The hell is that made of?”
“I think it’s an antique,” Freya says quietly.
“Yeah, I can see that.” I’m too tired and in too much pain to keep my irritation in check. “You shouldn’t have it so close to the shelves.”
“What?” she says, bewildered.
“It doesn’t matter.” I huff and collect my purchases, limping toward the register.
“No, tell me,” she presses, following until she slips past me and we’re staring each other down over the register.
“It’s nothing,” I all but growl.
“If there’s something wrong with the store, then I’d like to know.” She straightens her spine, but I see the way her knuckles bleach white as she grips the back of her chair, how her jaw clenches like she’s bracing for something.
“I’m just saying,” I relent, trying to keep my tone even, “that there is no way I’m the first person who’s walked into that.”
“You are.”
“You don’t get kids in here? That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen,” I snap, hating myself for it the second I let the words fly. I’m just so tired, I shouldn’t be allowed around people when I’m like this. But that doesn’t make me feel any less shitty about the look in her eyes.
It’s not angry like I deserve. It’s resigned, as though she’s been expecting someone to barge in and list off all the things she’s been doing wrong. I catch a hint of glassiness clinging to her lower lash line and I want to punch myself in the kidney.
“Frey—”
“Did you find what you were looking for?” She doesn’t let me finish. She pushes her shoulders back, lips a hard line.
“Yeah.” I sigh, handing over the yarn. “Look, I—”
“That’s twenty-eight forty,” she interrupts. “Do you need a bag?” Her voice shakes and it kills me. My first time in a room with her in thirteen years, and I manage to fuck it up this badly.
She doesn’t wait for me to answer, already sliding the balls into a paper bag. “Freya.”
“Have a nice day,” she says curtly, not looking up at me as she runs my card and hands it back.
“Do you want me to…” I trail off, gesturing at the mess.
“No, thank you.”
I sigh, nodding once as I turn to leave the store. I know how to leave well enough alone. I’ve done enough damage here. My twelve-year-old self would be ashamed of me right now.
I just made Freya Malcolm cry.