Page 60 of Townshipped
My quizzical expression must be enough of an answer.
“It’s our local coffee shop,” Jayme explains. “Their pastries are to die for. If you can tear yourself away from chores for a few hours, we’d love to take you there.”
I consider passing up the offer, but they came all this way to ask, and I really don’t have any reason to stay sequestered out here by myself.
I let Granger out to do his business, put him and his dog bed in the laundry room, grab my coat and join Jayme and Shannon on the front porch.
From what I can tell about myself, I don’t think I’ve ever been shy or reserved. But I barely know these two women, so I don’t chime in on their conversation during the drive into town. My hands repeatedly check my seat belt as I watch the cornfields pass by outside the window, replaying the memories of Gabriela and Natalia.
In the front seat, Jayme and Shannon carry on about local gossip. Most of what they talk about goes over my head.
Shannon finds parking in front of the coffee shop and another coffee shop fills my mind. Was I pulling up in front of it to meet someone?
21
“EM”
In my murky memory, a man waited for me inside a coffee shop. I had shut my door and walked in to see him. He smiled when I arrived at our table.
Shannon gets out of the driver’s seat, sticks her head back into the car and looks over the headrest at me.
“Are you coming in or waiting for curbside service?” she jokes.
“Uh. Yeah. I’m coming.”
As soon as we enter the shop the smell of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods surrounds me. The walls are surfaced with reclaimed wood, not brick like in the other shop that seems to be teasing me like a child playing peek-a-boo from the corners of my memory.
We walk to the register and place our orders. Aiden left a twenty on the kitchen counter with the list of numbers. As much as I don’t like taking anything else from him, I appreciate having the money now so I don’t have to borrow from two near-strangers.
After we get our food and drinks, Shannon says, “Let’s grab a table near the window.”
A table near the window.
Buck.
It was Buck.
I’m engaged to Buck.
“Buck!” I shout from the middle of the coffee shop. My hand holding the plate with a croissant on it jerks and the croissant goes flying off the plate toward a customer seated in a chair a few feet away. The airborne pastry hits her squarely in the back of the head, pings off and bounces to the floor with a defeated thud.
Eyes turn toward me from every spot in the room.
“Buck … Buckaroo!” I shout, as if that makes more sense.
“A buck or two will get you a great cup of coffee!”
Not knowing what else to do, I take a small bow. Maybe the locals will think spontaneous improv theatrical performances are a thing where I come from. I’m the one-woman flash mob of Buckiness. I’m a troubadour of Buck appreciation.
More likely, someone is secretly dialing the psychiatric emergency team to haul me off and give me a cozy padded room for one. I wouldn’t blame them if they did.
Buckaroo?My word.
Nevertheless, I hold my head high.Own it, I tell myself, as I walk toward the front window where Jayme and Shannon sit with more than quizzical looks on their faces.
“You have a deep appreciation for the value of a well-priced coffee,” Shannon says.
Her careful expression is one you’d give a small child who refuses to nap, or a man with a gun and a wild look in his eye. That’s the same look when you come to think of it.
