Page 10 of Forget Me Not
Syve shook her head, mentally chastising herself for not paying attention. In her defense, the man had been preternaturally still as he leaned against the counter, and she had been so caught up in digging out her book that it was a miracle she noticed him at all.
Curling down into the sofa, she sneaked a glance back at the pick-up counter. The man was no longer waiting for his order, but trying to figure out how to get a deli bag into his hoodie pocket without destroying the contents.
She hadn’t noticed how tall he was before when he was slouched down, nor had she noticed how broad he was. Based on how he towered over the display counter, he had to be at least a head taller than she was.
How she hadn’t spotted the living billboard before smelling him would forever baffle her—and smell him she had.
Where most men carried hints of sandalwood, vetiver, tobacco, or leather, he smelled of pine and sweat—the kind of smell you’d expect from somebody who worked hard—and surprisingly, it wasn’t unpleasant.
Syve continued to watch as he made his way to the exit. Having given up on pocketing his food, he held the paper bag between his distractingly perfect white teeth to free a hand for the door.
He hesitated with one foot across the threshold, glancing over his shoulder to where she sat, and their eyes locked again. The thought flitted about the back of her mind, thatshe should look away, but she didn’t. She held his unblinking gaze until he turned and strode out into the snow.
There was something,familiar,about him that she just couldn’t place.
“He’s hot,” Aimi stated nonchalantly, setting two mugs on the table before flopping on the couch next to Syve. “You probably haven’t seen him before, have you? He doesn’t usually come in this late, and he works for Hal.” she gestured with her thumb over her shoulder. That made sense. Syve knew who Hal was, but as a vegetarian she had no reason to ever visit his butcher shop. Anytime he needed any mending he always came to her. “You know, he might be single—”
“Would you look at the time? Is lunch really over already?” Syve deflected, jumping to her feet.
It didn’t matter if he was single. Just the thought of going to dinner with a man that was not Erhard made her stomach churn—and lord knows Gunther had asked. A lot. If she let her, Aimi would insist she entertain the idea of dating again.
“Oh, sit the fuck down, I’ll drop it! We still have fifteen minutes, and I’d rather talk shit about Tyler than waste my time telling youwhyyou need to get under someone when we both know you’re not going to do it.”
Syve only hesitated a second before slipping back down onto the couch.
“Tyler is trash. Cam deserves so much better.”
Aimi grunted, jumping in an attempt to knock a box off the top of the cabinets while Toni, the only other employee of The Glass, finished up the closing duties. Dropping her paper onto the coffee table with an exaggerated stretch, Syve huffed in amusement at her friend’s antics. There was a step stool literally right next to her.
Syve had gone back to the shop to finish out her day, the only trouble being another visit from Gunther and his incessant griping about the heat. After managing to excuse herself from yet another meaty dinner invitation, she returned to The Glass with her sketch-filled notebook and laptop, fully intending to set up camp on her little sofa and research the average cost of men’s shirts.
But when Syve pulled her notebook from her bag, she immediately knew she made a mistake. Groaning, she made a mental note to stash all of her mother’s journals back in the closet when she got home—if she kept mixing them up with hers, she was going to lose her mind.
Aside from the few lines she’d read when she first found them, Syve hadn’t dared glance at Isla Balko’s neatly penned letters. Waxing her entire body sounded more enjoyable than ripping off the metaphorical band-aid of opening that book.
Oh, but curiosity is a fickle thing.
It was not a full minute later, the journal lay open on the table, her mother’s steady script beckoning to her.
Dearest Oisín,
I’ve been writing in these journals for as long as I can remember, never knowing who they were for—until now. The rest of my words will all be for you. I guess that is, if you ever WANT to read them. I’m probably putting the cart ahead of the horse again—your father and I only got the news this morning—pregnant! With you!
I’ve wanted nothing more than to be a mom for as long as I can remember.
I can’t wait to meet you, my little fawn.
More than all the stars in the sky,
Mom
Syve wiped a tear as she remembered the way her mom used to snuggle up and read to her before bed, always kissing her head and telling her, “I love you, my little fawn, more than all the stars in the sky.” Reading these journals was going to be more difficult than she anticipated. She read a few more entries. “DearestOisín, you won’t let me eat chicken nuggets.”, “DearestOisín, we heard your heartbeat today…”, “DearestOisín…” She paused when the greeting changed.
Dearest Syve,
Girl.
A girl.
