Page 40 of Heart Check
My stomach twists with guilt. He must be freaked out that I snuck away while he was asleep. Maybe he’s even worried about me. He sure was serious about looking after me at the party.
Warmth floods my cheeks at the memory.
I should pick up, but I can’t. How do I even talk to this guy in the light of day? I must have entered some sort of alternate reality last night.
Except it doesn’t feel like that at all. The solid warmth of his body, the weight of his dark eyes on me across the room, the way he listened to me talk about my business—it all felt so real.
I let the call go to voicemail. Wait to see if he leaves a message.
He doesn’t.
I should be relieved, but I’m not. I kind of wanted to hear his voice. Confirm that I didn’t dream everything.
God, Harper, get a grip. I grab a box of my favorite glass beads, grounding myself the instant my fingers touch the familiar edges. This is who I am, what I do.
With the website closed, the Small Business Santa Fair is the only way I’m going to make any money this holiday season. This is usually the best time of year for me, when everyone’s shopping for gifts for their family and friends, but now my site’s down, half the school is boycotting my very existence, and I’m spending more money on supplies than I’m making on orders. Luckily, I signed up for Sunday’s craft fair to mitigate my losses. It’s the official Hamilton Lakes transition to the holiday season, when the Christmas tree and lights go up downtown. Everyone sets up their booths on the square, and coming right after Thanksgiving, it’s one of the biggest of the year. A nice antidote to the glazed-over scrolling of Black Friday.
But I still have a lot to do. If I want to have enough samples of my most popular pieces ready to go, I have some serious workahead. My favorite pieces are always the ones where I can customize something for a client, building their design to reflect exactly the vibe they want, but there are a few standbys that are classic crowd-pleasers.
For once, I’m glad for the mountain of work. I put on my headphones, start my podcast (is it toxic to listen to stories of girlboss scammers to motivate myself?), and grab my supplies. If I stay busy working, I won’t have any time to think about Dawson.
Because if I let myself think about Dawson, I’m not sure where it’ll end.
After a day of work and a night of questionable sleep, I wake to Sunday dawning bright and blue and cold. It’s one of those Midwest days where it’s so freezing there aren’t even any clouds in the sky. My favorite kind of winter morning, and the perfect vibe for the small business fair.
I grab my warmest black wool coat and throw a ridiculously gigantic cream scarf around my neck. If I’m going to be outside all day, I’ll need all the protection I can get.
Holiday music is already playing in the square, twinkle lights strung between the brick buildings. The air smells like cinnamon and sugar and chocolate, and I feel like I’m being dragged by the nose on a wisp of scent. There’s hot chocolate somewhere. Nothing tastes better than hot chocolate on a cold winter morning.
I can have some after setting up. First, I have work to do.
Gripping my joyless travel tumbler full of coffee, I head past rows of soap makers and bakers and velvet painting makers to my booth. An hour slips by, soundtracked by Mariah Carey,while I lay out all my wares and set up the little signs with pricing. My fingers linger over the placard with my website details… but no, that stays in the box. I’m no closer to figuring out how to get my website back on track after the review bombing, and that’s going to have to wait for another day.
I’m about to turn away to get some of that hot chocolate at last when an elderly Black couple steps up to my booth. The woman is dressed elegantly in a navy coat and trousers, her hair pulled back from her face with a velvet headband; the man has a checkered scarf and wears a dapper cap. I let out the teeniest, tiniest sigh and paste a smile on my face. They look like people of taste. Potential customers. “Welcome to Beads by Braedon! Can I help you?”
The man tips his head to me before turning his eyes back to the woman he’s with. “I’m looking for a little Christmas gift for her. Could you point me to your most popular pieces?”
“Oh, Fred.” The woman shakes her head. “You don’t have to do that. We should be shopping for the girls.”
“But I want to getyousomething,” he insists.
I can’t help melting a little at the softness in his eyes when he looks at her. The way she rollshereyes but clearly gets a thrill out of being spoiled.
My smile’s genuine now. That’s the thing I always love most about making jewelry—the way it helps people connect with the ones they love. Helping people do that is such an honor.
Dawson’s face flashes into my mind’s eye, my phone with its unanswered call suddenly burning in my pocket. I wish it were always as simple as a bracelet.
“Well,” I say, “I’m pretty proud of my new line of wishingnecklaces. You can pick a charm that symbolizes a good wish you have for the owner, and whenever they wear it, it’s like they have a little piece of your good thoughts with them.”
The woman’s face glows, her eyes crinkling at the corners. The man doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes. Let’s take a look at those.”
They leave with three of the necklaces: one for her, one for each of “the girls.” I wave them off, grinning, and they’re immediately replaced by a handful of new customers.
Maybe today will put a dent in the debt I’ve been going into this fall. Maybe I don’t need that stupid website.
For a while, I keep getting pulled out of my flow state whenever I catch a glimpse of broad shoulders through the crowd, or a tousled head of dark curls rising above everyone else’s. It isn’t him, I keep reminding myself. Eventually I sink into focus, attuned to my customers in the way I’ve grown to love. And for a few hours, I’m blessedly, perfectly distracted.
Until, out of the corner of my eye, I see broad shoulders, a Hawks letter jacket,anda head of brown curls trying to escape a beanie—and I look up to lock eyes with the one person I’ve been trying to forget about all weekend.
