Page 68 of Ink Me Three Times
Freddie raises an eyebrow. "What this time?"
"Carol accused Marla of ‘setting the curriculum back ten years’ by letting the third graders do a play about composting. Said it was ‘an attack on traditional values.’"
Mitchell snorts before he catches himself, then returns to his sketchbook.
Karl grins. "Dottie was standing right there. Heard every word. Youknowthat woman’s already written a whole special edition for the Farmers Market flyer. She called it… wait for it… ‘The Muffin Showdown at Granger’s Gulch.’"
Despite myself, I chuckle. Karl always has a story. And half the time, he’s not even exaggerating.
"Anyway, hope the coffee is good. I better get to it. See ya later, okay?"
The door swings shut behind Karl with a softclick.
No one speaks.
For a beat, the only sound is the low hum of the autoclave, the faint buzz of a needle running in the back, and the sharp scratch of Mitchell’s pencil dragging across paper.
Then Mitchell’s hand stills.
I glance up, just a flick of the eyes, and find him already looking at me.
His expression is hard to read. Not angry. Not exactly. Just…sharp. Focused. Like his brain is running through every possible outcome now that Karl’s just reminded us we’re living in a glass house with a hundred open windows.
Across the room, Freddie exhales through his nose. But when his gaze lifts, he meets mine too.
And just like that, all three of us are locked in this wordless standoff.
We don’t say it.
We don’t have to.
Jesse can’t find out.
Not like this.
Not through Dottie’s Facebook group or some overheard whisper at Coyote Cup. Not in the middle of a shift when Penny’s clinging to his shoulders and someone jokes aboutnannies and naughty tattooists.
I’m sure he’s a protective older brother, and it seems like she’s been through enough.
We’re sitting on a damn grenade, and none of us knows who’s going to drop it first.
Mitchell breaks eye contact first, going back to his sketchpad with a scowl and a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before. But he doesn’t pick the pencil back up. He just stares at the half-finished design like it personally betrayed him.
Freddie runs a hand through his hair, mutters something under his breath, and carries on with his work.
And me?
I just sit there.
Pulse steady. Stomach twisted. Heart in my throat.
Because Karl didn’t even mean anything by it. That was just him shooting the shit.
But it was a warning all the same.
People talk.
And if we don’t figure this out, if we don’t stop tiptoeing around like one more step won’t shatter the whole damn thing, Jessewillhear about it. And when he does?
