“You’re gonna rub the finish clean off if you keep that up,”Tashasaid softly.
Rose forced a laugh.“GuessI’mrestless.”
“Guess you’re lying.”
The words landed gentle, but firm.Tashahad a way of cutting straight to the truth without raising her voice.
Rose continued to apply the rag to the already clean counter like her life depended on it.Thewood creaked faintly beneath her pressure, her knuckles whitening around the damp cloth.
“Why?”Tashaasked after a moment.“Rose.Whyis she doing this?”
Rose stopped.Therag stilled in her hand.Slowly, she looked up, anguish flickering across her eyes before she could mask it.
“Because she can,” she whispered, her voice sharper than she intended.Sheswallowed hard, tried again.“Becauseshe wantsAcenback and he made it clear to her that he’s not interested.So, the only thing she can think to do is ruin my life because he wants me instead.”
The words hung between them like smoke.Heavy, cloying, impossible to wave away.
She metTasha’ssteady gaze, and for a moment the weight of it almost undid her.Tasha’sbrown eyes were unwavering, calm as a steady current under storm-tossed water.TheyremindedRoseof long summer evenings sitting side by side on the bleachers, or late-night phone calls when heartbreak felt unbearable.Thoseeyes had seen her through everything.Andnow, they saw right through her again.
ButRosepressed her lips together, shook her head, and turned back to the counter.
Because admitting what she suspected.ThatBrianahad started something.Thather oldest secret was suddenly dangling over her head again.Itfelt like handingBrianathe win.
AndRoseMcAlisterdidn’t hand out wins.
The bell over the shop door jingled, scattering the thick silence.Apair of women from church stepped in, their perfume cloying, their polite smiles too sharp.
“Afternoon,”Rosecalled brightly, her voice smooth as honey, though her stomach twisted.Shetucked the rag away and straightened the napkin stack.
The women ordered two cappuccinos and a slice of hummingbird cake, and asRoseprepared them, she felt the weight of their eyes.Notcruel, not even openly suspicious.Justcurious.Curiousin that small-town way that meant their interest wasn’t friendly.
She set the drinks down with her best practiced smile.“Y’allenjoy now.”
They murmured thanks, retreated to a corner booth, and bent close over their cups.Rosedidn’t have to hear the words to know her name was in their mouths.
Tasha came to stand at her side, arms crossed, her shoulder brushingRose’s.“They’renot worth it.”
“Maybe not,”Rosemuttered.“Butthey’ll be here everySundayafter church and sometimes during the week, andI’llfeel it.”
“Then hold your head higher.”Tashasqueezed her arm.“Theycan’t shame what you don’t let ‘em touch.”
Rose wanted to believe that.Lord, she wanted to.Butinside, her secret burned like a coal.Onecareless breath fromBriana, and it could ignite into a blaze she’d never outrun.
That night, after locking the shop,Roselingered alone at one of the tables, staring at the chalkboard menu.Theday’s specials were still scrawled in pastel pink and blue, the neat handwriting looping across the board.Shetried to read the words, but all she saw was the reflection of her own fear.
She poured herself a cup of coffee—lukewarm, bitter—and sat with it until the shadows in the corners of the shop stretched long and heavy.
PickwickBendwas supposed to be her safe place.Afteryears of struggling, of mistakes and rebuilding, this coffee shop was her proof she could stand on her own.She’dcarved out something steady, something good.AndBrianawas trying to rip it from her, not by truth but by suggestion.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE
At her home out in the county, the home where she’d grown up and become bitter about her prospects until she decided to change her own future,Brianaperched at her vanity, painting her lips a glossy red as she hummed along to the radio.
The little house creaked with familiarity, every corner a reminder of the years she had once felt trapped here.Theworn floors bore the scuffs of her restless pacing as a teenager, dreaming of escape.Thefaded floral wallpaper in the hallway still curled at the edges, neglected but stubbornly clinging on—like the town itself, refusing to change no matter how much time passed.Evenher vanity, chipped at the corner and missing a brass pull, had belonged to her mother.Shehad once sworn she would leave this furniture, this town, this life, far behind her.Yethere she sat again, the glossy smear of lipstick on her lips like war paint.
Bitter thoughts occupied her mind.
She’d lied about her reasons for coming back.Liedto anyone who bothered to ask and, perhaps most importantly, lied to herself.Thetruth tasted too much like failure.
