Page 16 of The Knotheads Next Door
"I can't help it if my nose can smell compatibility from a mile away, that's just the way I was made. It's a gift and a curse," Lala says solemnly, then brightens. "But enough about me! Tell us everything about you. Where are you from? What brings you to our little slice of heaven? How are you handling the three-headed alpha monster so far?"
There's something disarming about her enthusiasm, but I still feel my guard rising. Living in the city taught me that friendly questions often mask ulterior motives.
"Heraford, job change, and they've been... accommodating," I answer, keeping it vague.
"Heraford!" Avianna perks up. "I love Heraford. Which neighborhood?"
"Frog Hollow," I lie. I actually lived in a tiny studio in Parkville, but the less specific information I give, the better.
"What kind of work did you do there?" Billie asks, her tone genuinely curious rather than probing.
"Accounting," I say, which is technically true even if my last position was more "glorified data entry with occasional spreadsheet manipulation" than actual accounting.
"And now?" Lala presses.
"Now I'm figuring things out," I say carefully. "Starting fresh. Actually, Crystal just offered me some hours here at the shop."
"Trial basis," Crystal clarifies from where she's resumed her arrangement. "She hasn't even filled out paperwork yet."
"Perfect!" Lala claps her hands. "That means you'll be right here in the square with us. We can have lunch breaks together and I can keep you supplied with scones."
"She's trying to fatten up the entire town," Avianna stage-whispers. "It's her villainous master plan."
Something warm and unexpected unfurls in my chest—a feeling I haven't had in weeks. Maybe months. It takes me a moment to recognize it as a tentative sense of belonging.
These women don't know me. They have no reason to welcome me with such immediate acceptance. And yet here they are, folding me into their circle like it's the most natural thing in the world.
It's strange. And nice. And slightly terrifying.
"So, the practical details," Crystal says, cutting through the chatter. "Can you start tomorrow? Ten to four, Wednesday through Saturday. We'll try it for two weeks and see how it goes."
"Absolutely," I nod eagerly. "Thank you. I really appreciate the opportunity."
"Don't thank me yet," she warns, but there's no real bite to it. "You might run screaming after you see the festival order book."
As Crystal walks me through some basics of the job, Lala, Avianna, and Billie browse the shop, occasionally chiming in with comments or questions directed my way. They're nosy, but in that small-town way that seems born more of genuine interest than malice.
Still, I carefully deflect the more personal inquiries, keeping the conversation focused on Vineyard Groves and my new job. The years of being different—of doctors' visits and confused looks from people when I couldn't tell them what I was—have taught me to keep my guards up.
By the time I leave the shop an hour later, I have a job, a small boxed arrangement Crystal insisted on giving me as a "welcome gift" ("Every home needs flowers, especially that bachelor cave you've moved into"), and three new contacts in my phone thanks to Avianna's insistence that I "might need local friends who aren't testosterone factories."
Standing in the town square, flowers in hand and autumn sunlight warming my face, I feel something I haven't felt in a long time: hope. Maybe this crazy, impulsive move wasn't the disaster my rational brain keeps insisting it is.
I pull out my phone, thumbs hovering over a text to Pops that I've been drafting and deleting for three hours.
I'm okay. Found a place. Found a job. Don't worry.
I stare at it, then delete it again. I'm not ready. Not yet.
This is my fresh start, my chance to figure out who I am outside of their expectations, outside of the medical mystery that's defined so much of my life. For once, I want to be just Rowan. Not the ‘late bloomer’. Not ‘the undetermined one’. Just me.
As I turn to head back to the house, my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
Rowan, it's Mom. Please call me. I know you're upset, but there are things you need to know. Things about James, about your condition. Please, bunny. I'm worried about you.
My throat tightens. How did she get this number? I changed it after I left. Must have been one of the Dads.
I shove the phone back in my pocket, ignoring the tremor in my hands.
