Page 73 of Under Pink Skies

Rain came down in droves outside, so I tugged on my rain boots and grabbed my jacket as I packed up my things to head out to the coffee shop. As much as I was glad to be home, I was also going slightly stir crazy.

Everywhere I looked, I saw Connor. I remembered the times he brought me coffee or cooked me breakfast. I remembered the night we fell asleep on the couch together, and the kisses we shared in the kitchen. I couldn’t allow myself to think about the things we shared and confessed.

I damn near had a panic attack when I realized his toothbrush was still in my guest bathroom.

I needed to get out of the house. Kevin was definitely getting a raise for how much he’d stepped up to run the store recently. Most days, I felt like Kevin was doing a better job of running things than me. He seemed to have a passion and drive for it I lacked. During the time I spent working on the festival, Kevin had figured out how to fix many of the physical problems the store was having. He even showed me the research he’d done on growing and maintaining a consumer base. All things I never did when I inherited the store, and I had no intention of doing now.

I felt less guilty about texting him and telling him I needed a few days to get my bearings after my father’s accident. His nineteenth birthday was fast approaching, and he wanted the extra hours so he could take Kyrie on a trip upstate.

As I stepped into Blackbeard’s, I pushed my hood back and wiped my boots on the entry carpet. I smiled when I approached Kyrie at the order counter. I wondered if she’d been by to see Kevin.

“Hey Abbie, what can I get you on this dreary morning?”

She giggled like it was funny, not knowing how accurately the weather outside reflected how I felt.

“Vanilla latte, please. And a chocolate chip croissant, if you have any left.”

“Gotcha,” Kyrie said, tapping away on the tablet before turning it toward me. “I’ll have it up in a few.”

“Thanks.”

I made a beeline for the booth that lined the far wall. I wasn’t in a mood to talk to people more than necessary, and sitting in the front booth—or worse, the one closest to the entrance — would open the conversation to questions I didn’t care to answer.

I pulled out my laptop, along with the manila folder with letters from the IRS and their various requests. I didn’t know where to start with fixing this mess. I tried to read the most recent correspondence, but the black lines blurred against the white paper. I couldn’t focus.

Kyrie called my name, alerting me that my order was ready. I looked up to find that Phillipa was now working the register, and there was a short line. I grabbed my latte at the pick-up counter when Kyrie appeared with my croissant.

“Where’s Connor at today?” Kyrie asked and pushed the croissant toward me. She inclined her head, waiting for the gossip.

“He headed back to his farm.”

“Aw,” Kyrie said with an exaggerated sigh. “Long distance sucks. If you ever need to talk, my sister is in a relationship with this military guy, and they—”

“We’re not together,” I said, more harshly than I intended.

“Oh,” Kyrie said, cheeks reddening. “I’m so sorry for assuming. Let me know if you, um, need anything else.”

She gave me one more smile before turning back toward the espresso machine. I wanted to apologize, but the damage was already done. I added it to my mental list of things I screwed up in the last week.

I felt everyone’s eyes on me as I sat back down at my table. Jamming my headphones into my ears, I turned on my instrumental Taylor Swift playlist to distract myself. I took a sip of my coffee and turned my attention back to the slew of emails I’d been ignoring.

Many of them were from small businesses that wanted to stock their goods in Watford General. There were a few requests for press interviews, a few thank yous, and even one from a social media manager who wanted to help us expand our online presence. On any other day, under normal circumstances, I would have been ecstatic. This is exactly what I set out to do with the Founder’s Day festival. I’d put Watford—and, by extension, the store—back on the map.

It hadn’t mattered.

I’d done everything people had asked of me. I coordinated the festival. I found new vendors to invite to the fair. I re-established community connections. I encouraged people to do things differently. Even business owners that had been doing things the same way for the better part of fifty years had been willing to try.

And I had nothing to show for it.

The store was still going to be in debt. Even with these new initiatives to bring income into the store, it wouldn’t be enough to get us back in compliance with the IRSandthe debt collectors.

The stares of the people standing in line burned into me like a brand. I needed to get out of here.

I grabbed my things and shoved them back into my backpack. I slung my jacket on, pulled my hood over my head, and stepped out into the dreary gray, without so much as a look back at the people who had once supported me through thick and thin, and now looked at me like I was a stranger.

The bell above the front door of Forest Grove Books jingled, and I felt some of the tension leach from my shoulders.

“Hi, Mari,” I said, breathless. “I, um. I was at Blackbeard’s, and people were staring. I just needed some—”

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