Page 15 of One Small Spark
It’s sweet of her to ask when I know she wants to spend time with her man. They both run small businesses and don’t have much free time as it is.
“Not tonight. August’s here.”
“Don’t want to miss out on that.” She pauses. “I wanted to tell you in person…”
I sit up straighter. “Oh my gosh, you’re pregnant!”
“What?” she shrieks. “No, I’m not pregnant!”
In the background, Griffin has a coughing fit.
“Sorry, it sounded important. Wait—are you dumping me as Maid of Honor?”
They’re getting married this winter, but it’s going to be so casual, it’s practically an elopement. Dropping the Best Man/Maid of Honor stuff would be on brand for them.
“No! Stop guessing!” She takes a big breath. “Griffin and I decided not to get a separate apartment while we’re waiting for our house to be built. There’s no reason not to just live here until it’s ready. But that pushes off your plans to move into my place by a few months.”
“Oh.” Compared to my guesses, that’s a lot more realistic. Even if it kind of sucks for me. “I understand. That makes sense.”
“We can go apartment hunting together some weekend, okay?”
“You do not want to see the things I’ve witnessed.” I pull the phone away from my ear to check the time. “I have to go. August’s waiting for me so we can start movie night.”
“Aww. Give him a hug for me.”
“You’d better be talking about August,” Griffin says.
“Oh, and August, too,” she says with a laugh.
Griffin growls something in the background, and Hope squeals.
“Goodnight, you two.” I hang up and toss the phone on my bed. They’re so disgusting.
I hate how much I want that kind of disgustingness for myself.
Downstairs, I snuggle August under a fluffy blanket while he pulls up the animatedRobin Hood. We sink low on the couch, and he rests his head on my shoulder. I almost don’t care that I’m stuck in this house with Mom and her boyfriend for the foreseeable future. At least I’ve got movie nights with my buddy.
I don’t need more than this.
FIVE
SHEPHERD
I don’t often admitit, but I have an addiction. I would join a support group, but I’d probably punch anyone who wanted to join.
Every week, I buy a pie from Blackbird’s. The flavor isn’t important to me as long as Wren’s the one who made it. She also needs to be the one who sells it to me. There’s no point in going to the bakery if she’s not there.
She sometimes comes into my shop to argue about whatever, but I can’t count on her having a reason to. Not as often as I’d like to see her. So here I am like a puppy with attachment issues, needing to be near her. Talk to her. Eat something she poured her time and attention into.
It’s not normal, I know. I also don’t care.
The bell over the door jingles as I walk into the bakery. They walled off part of the space and turned it into Hope Parrish’s gift shop a while back, but what’s left is cheery. Shiny vinyl floor with a subtle purple sunburst pattern, a glimmering white countertop with an extra-large, refrigerated display case, and a couple of pale purple two-top tables in the front windows.
Occasionally, I order a hand pie and eat it here. Wren glaresdaggers at me the whole time. It lights me up, but I know better than to press my luck too much.
Even if, sometimes, going for broke feels like the only logical conclusion to my addiction.
She’s behind the front counter, smiling as she boxes up a pie for an older man. She glances at me, and her smile falters. It only takes her a second to regain her composure, but that brief moment of uncertainty is what I’m here for.
