Page 14 of Back to December
She straightens back up with a smile. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Before I come up with a comeback, Vera’s voice booms through the gym again. Someone really should take that away from her.
“Ethel usually sits as the taste-tester for the Homecoming chili cook-off, but she’s swamped. Do I have a volunteer to take over?”
Every head in the bleachers swivels toward me.
I hold up a hand in protest. “I bake, I don’t know anything?—”
“Holden volunteers as tribute!” Quinn shouts. Then, in a quieter tone, she leans toward me. “It’s practically spicy pastry, Kolache Boy.”
If sarcasm were a sport, Quinn would’ve gone pro years ago.
A few murmurs float through the crowd, a few other voices nominating me.
My mouth flattens into a hard line. “I don’t havetimeto taste chili, Quinn.”
“McKenna would have done the same thing. It’s my duty as her best friend to fill in where I’m needed.”
“I supply your kolaches. You’re really messing with something beyond your ken.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” she says, swirling her iced coffee before taking another sip.
Vera beams, pointing her rhinestone pen at me like a wand. “Wonderful! Thanks, Holden.”
The gym erupts in applause and cheering.
Great.
Sleep is overrated, anyway.
My old truck still has one of her mix CDs jammed in the console—half the songs skip, but I can’t bring myself to toss it. It’s the sound of every summer we never quite let go of.
Before I can sit with my irritation for too long, phone chimes sweep through the bleachers like a technological wave.
Quinn taps her feet excitedly on the bleachers. “Hurry and get your phone out. I smell tea.”
There’s no point in arguing, so I fish my phone back out.
The notification is from Hollow Hub, the town app. It’s not something I ever had on my phone until a couple of months ago, when McKenna installed it. She insisted we needed it for fall, and as much as I hate social media, she wasn’t wrong.
I scroll through the app, noting worthless posts about upcoming Homecoming festivities and pictures ofpumpkins on porches. There’s nothing I can see that would warrant a town-wide push notification.
Until I see a little red dot hovering over the “new posts” icon on the menu.
Quinn gasps when the picture lights up the screen: Ella Taylor and Luke Jackson in an embrace on the sidewalk outside her coffee shop, and the words that make this front page news are in bold black letters:
THEY’RE GETTING MARRIED!
“I missedthatto be here?” she squeals. “I knew something was up when I saw them at breakfast!”
My mind is spinning a million miles a minute, but it’s definitely not for the same reason.
I smile at her weakly. “Consider this karma for your tribute nonsense.”
“You’re probably right.” She bends and gathers her things in her arms. “I’ve got to get back. Someone saw something, and I need all the details.”
“Don’t forget about the gnomes,” I mumble as she jogs down the steps.
