Page 2 of Artfully Wild
Right as I am setting the book on the counter, Fran sets my latte next to it. Grabbing for the cash in my back pocket, Fran waves me off.
“It’s on me today, sweetheart.”
I sigh. “Fran, I can’t let you do that.”
She gives me a small, soft smile. “Something tells me you need some good today,” she says, reaching across the counter to pat my hand. “So take it. The coffee and…” she picks up the book I had set in front of her, features changing from soft to surprised. Does this book have magical powers I don’t know about? Why is she looking at it like it’s a long lost relative?
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen this book,” she says in a whisper.
I gesture to the shelf, throwing a thumb over my shoulder. “It was shoved in the back on Henry’s shelf. Almost like someone was trying to hide it.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Her voice is filled with astonishment. In all my twenty eight years on this Earth, I don’t think I have ever seen Fran taken by surprise. In fact, this might be the very first time. This should be documented, framed and put up in a local museum. A display dedicated to the woman who is always a step ahead of everyone else, completely flabbergasted by an old book. I almost make a snarky comment, because that’s what I do, but the look on her face stops me. Tears pool in her eyes as she gently places a hand on the cover of the book.
“Henry loved this book. Sarah did, too. They used to read it together over the summer when she worked here. Half the time, she’d learn baking and coffee with me and the other half she’d spend with Henry on that back couch where Ethan is now, reading this book, taking notes and writing in the margins. I forgot all about it.” She smiles down at the book, lost for a moment in the memories of two loved ones who connected in a way that is rare for some people. “I miss that girl,” she gets out through her tears.
My skin tightens with the uncomfortable sensation that usually follows closely behind social situations where my brain immediately shuts down and wants to abandon ship. And right now, there’s already a life preserver waiting in the water to collect its passenger.
This isn’t a normal part of my routine and while I try to give Fran what I think is a soft look, even after three years, I’m still not really sure what to do when anyone tries to talk to me about Sarah. I open my mouth, trying to get anything to flow, but the only thing I can think to say is, “Me too.”
Fran dabs at her eyes with the end of her apron before sniffling and blinking back her unshed tears. “Anyway,” she says, waving her hand through the air like she’s batting away heremotions. Hmm, that’s familiar. She opens the front cover of the book, closes it and stretches it out to me. “This belongs to you.”
“What?”
“It’s yours. I can’t make you pay for it.”
“What do you mean, it’smine?”
She answers with a soft squeeze of my hand and a wide grin before shuffling to the back room with no further explanation. Through the swinging door, I see a flash of red flannel as my brother kneads a large pile of dough on a flour-coated workbench. A squeal pierces the air followed by soft laughter mixing with Hudson’s words, “You’re not getting away with that, Reid.”
Fran comes back out and I catch a glimpse of Hudson grabbing Avery around the workbench, wrapping his arms around her and smearing a flour-covered kiss to her cheek. The way she turns into him, closing her eyes to savor his touch, is so intimate that I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to have someone like that in my life. How would it feel to have someone to turn to? To have someone who is there to wrap you in their arms whenever you need?
I’m happy Hudson found that. But seeing it up close, witnessing a love story grow from the beginning to now,actuallywitnessing it, hits me in a way that didn’t before. These past few months, I’ve wondered about it more and more. I’ve never felt the love I see in my brother’s eyes when he looks at Avery while she is savoring another one of Fran’s lemon bars or the look my mother gets when she’s helping my father finish his crossword for the thousandth time…or the soft look Elias would give Sarah over Ethan’s head as he rocked him to sleep during family gatherings.
I’ve gone on dates over the last few years, but they would always end with him leaving before dessert to tend to an emergency. Or she would say she had a good time at the end of the night but we were better off as friends. For some reason, whether it be dating or relationship, they never worked out inthe end. It didn’t bother me then. I still have so many years ahead of me, a full future. I have time to find someone to share my life with if that’s what I want. It wasn’t until recently that I wish I did have it.
I retrieve my new used book and coffee from the counter and make my way to the front door to continue my trudge through the snow mirroring the trudge I am currently feeling in my thoughts.
Once I reach the front of my store, I pull out my keys and shove them in the lock, ready to get out of the cold. My black cat, Max, sees me coming from his window seat and is already pawing at the bottom of the door by the time I reach it, eager for me to get in to feed him even though I just fed him this morning. One perk of having a vet for a best friend is easy access to a lot of cat food—necessary at the rate Max inhales it.
As soon as I get the door open, I walk past the front desk to the storage room, placing the book and coffee on the table next to the door. I turn back when my brain catches up to my feet and realizes what I missed.
“Would you mind getting your ass off my front desk?”
“Oh, and here I thought you liked my ass,” Jacob chuckles and hops off, striding over to me, coffee in hand.
I try not to pay attention to his thick-framed glasses, or the way his blond hair swoops to one side. I also definitely don’t think about what it would feel like to run my fingers through that hair. And I have not been thinking about that for the past twelve years. Because if one thing is true, it is that I definitely do not have a crush on my best friend. I never have and I never will. Even if the traitorous butterflies that flap around in my stomach every time I’m around him tell me otherwise.
“I just thought you could use a pick me up,” he says, holding the coffee out to me. “You know, it being the day after Thanksgiving. I know how it is.”
And the truth is, he does know. He’s known for the pastthree years every day after Thanksgiving. While the date of the holiday changes every year, the day after always seems to have a sense of dread hanging over it and while it’s not the exact date Sarah died, this time of year is always the hardest. He of all people knows because this year is the third anniversary of Sarah's death and I have never been one to handle it well.
The rest of my family deals with it a little bit better than I do, and I am usually better off alone today. You come down off the anticipation of a major holiday, excited to spend time with everyone, and then you’re left alone with your own thoughts and feelings. It’s been three years since Sarah died. Three years since a piece ofmedied with her.
I take the coffee from his hand, careful not to touch his fingers, and raise it up in a silent thanks. I take a sip and let out a long sigh, reveling in the sweet taste of vanilla, a perfect blend with the bitter espresso and steamed milk. It’s the same thing I just ordered, but the ones Jacob gets taste better for some reason. Fran is a miracle worker.
“I already grabbed a latte on my way in, but yours are always better,” I say, taking another sip. “Thanks, Jacob. You always know what to do.”
“No,” he responds, softly. “I just know you.” He drags his gaze to mine and smiles, a dimple appearing in the left corner of his lips. Max leaps on top of the desk, brushing up against his arm to pull his focus away from me, making my best friend focus on him instead of me. Jacob breaks his eyes from mine and gently strokes Max’s back. I have never wished I was a cat more than I do in this moment.
