Page 111 of One Small Spark
His eyebrows tug tighter together as he frowns at me. Okay, that might have been more enthusiasm than his question warranted. Also, there’s probably no more obvious sign of distress from me than an actual smile. It’s like a giant SOS.
I let it fall right off my face. “Just getting ready to go.”
“I’ll walk out with you.”
A couple of the womenooh, but Rosetta shushes them. Right. Because we’re done with that now. She’s already got somebody lined up to replace me. I thought we were friends, Rosetta.
Out on Ada’s front porch, I gulp in cold air, letting the shock pinch my lungs. Shepherd side-eyes me as we walk down the steps. His focused attention is worse than the room full of staring women. Probably because he’s seen me at my weakest and most vulnerable and knows the signs.
Once we walk far enough away from Ada’s house that nobody could see us if they were watching, he stops on the sidewalk. “I need to talk to you.”
My stomach sinks like the messy center of an under-baked cake. That’s never good, is it?
He holds his brunch leftovers in one hand and rakes the other through his hair. “I did something you might not like. We never really talked about exactly where we stand, and I might have crossed a line?—”
I do not want to have this conversation. I would rather watch Mom and Daniel make out for an hour than endure whatever Shepherd’s about to tell me. AboutLucy. Whoevershe is, I hate her. I hope she gets rocks in her shoes, and her bra strap twists.
“Can we put a pin in that for another time?” I stare at a space just to the side of Shepherd’s head. It’s like eye contact but without the emotional wreckage. “I got a bad headache in there. I just want to go home and lie down.”
Now I’m using the fake headache excuse. I’m as bad as our book group ladies.
He moves closer. “Do you want me to come over and help out? I could?—”
“No!” I lurch backward. “No, you don’t need to. I just want to sleep for a while.”
Like maybe the rest of my life.
He stills, his gaze roving over me like he’s searching for evidence of my symptoms. I look away just in case he finds some. Not of the headache, but of my crazy. Hoo boy, is there a lot of that in here.
“Okay. Text me if you need anything.”
I hate how sad he sounds. But I hate the sadness raging through me more. Somehow, those meddling women at book group were both the rise and downfall of the best moments of my life.
“Will do.” I get in my car, but he just stands there, waiting. Watching.
Maybe this is all for the best. I’m obviously not fit for human interaction. I am a grade F person. And isn’t this what I deserve? I was such a jerk to him for so long, it’s fitting that as soon as I realize just how wrong I was, he has the same revelation about me.
He waves as I pull away from the curb. I wave back, fake smile stuck in place. My little cherry pit heart writhes in my chest like its tethered to him, and any distance between us makes it cry out in agony.
That’s another reason to hate Jane Eyre. The perfect imagery I can’t get out of my head no matter how disgusted I am by the book’s hero.
I drive through Sunshine, punching buttons on my car stereo, looking for a good angry song to sing along with. Of course, I get only ballads and peppy, hopeful music.Everything’s finemusic.Liesmusic. Switching it off again, I slump against the steering wheel as I come to a four-way stop.
I wanted tocarefor once, and this is what happens. But what am I supposed to do? Drive back to Ada’s and beg Shepherd not to go out with Lucy? Confess all my messy feelings? Show him my soft and tender underbelly I keep protected like a wounded armadillo?
That’s not me. I’m not the girl with the big, blubbery emotions.
Am I?
THIRTY-ONE
SHEPHERD
Wren’s a horrible liar.I knew something was up from the second she flashed me her big, fake smile at Ada’s. It was like a teller in a bank trying to look like everything’s fine while a robber has a gun pointed at her.
I can’t figure out what got her so rattled. I’ve sifted through the conversations at book group and can’t come up with what affected her so much. Her comment about cheap imitations of love sure got to me, though.
That’s exactly how I feel, too. Anyone I was interested in before Wren was just a flimsy knock-off version of love. Those were pale, washed-out imitations, but what I feel for her is bright Technicolor. She and I are the real thing. But I haven’t told her in as many words yet. And maybe it’s time.
