By the time my last furry client walks out the door on Thursday afternoon with a little less fur, I’m exhausted. Word about my upcoming nuptials—and how is my wedding only two days away?—has gotten around and leaked into my refuge from the world.
Every human who walked into Pampered Pets Grooming today congratulated me. I appreciate the well-wishes, even the clumsily disguised attempts at digging for fresh gossip, but every reminder twisted the knot of anxiety and guilt in my stomach.
I want to go home, climb into bed and pull the covers over my head, but Gin sends me a text letting me know we’re out of butter. That’s her way of asking me to stop at the market on my way home without actually asking me for a favor, and I’m tempted to pretend I didn’t see it. I don’t know what she’s making for dinner tonight, though, and I assume it’s something that tastes better with butter because what doesn’t?
It should have added two minutes to my walk, but a line has formed while Shawna and a customer debate whether the discounted price of a buy-two special applies if a person only buys one of the item in question. But even while Shawna argues the entire point of a buy-two special is that the customer buys two, I can see her gaze flicking to me.
Shawna—who is about Gin’s age—is a notorious gossip. Since almost everybody in Sumac Falls makes at least one trip through the market each week, she has the perfect job for collecting tidbits of information and piecing them together like a puzzle.
By the time I set the tub of butter—along with the chips and the package of candy bars I’m splurging on—down on the belt, she’s practically glowing. “You’re the talk of the town this week. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. I’m very excited,” I say for the sixth or seventh time today, trying not to sound like I really don’t want to hear it.
“And I hear there was a family dinner? I thought there was a better chance of me winning the lottery than Colleen Reilly and Gin Gamble sitting down at the same table to share a meal.” She’s quiet for a moment, and then chuckles. “There was a time we thought only one of them was going to make it out of high school.”
This is my opportunity to get a little more insight into the grudge that feels deeper than an old family feud. Most of her attention is on the groceries she’s scanning, so it shouldn’t be hard to keep her talking.
“My mom doesn’t talk about high school a lot,” I say casually. “So she and Colleen really hated each other, huh?”
“I’ve never seen two people hate each other more. It all started with a boy, of course. They both had crushes on a new kid in school—I don’t even remember his name because he wasn’t here very long before his dad got a better job and they moved again. They were never friends, but both of them wanting that boy turned them mean. I remember there being an accident with Gin’s science fair project.” She actually stops scanning to put air quotes around the word.
“Mom’s a tyrant about good grades. That must have set her off.”
Shawna sighs and her mouth turns down slightly at the corners before she ducks her head back to the task, clearly uncomfortable. “One day in…I guess it was sophomore year, Colleen got her period and bled through her pants in Algebra II class. Pretty badly, I heard, and she was wearing light pink pants, too.”
I wince in sympathy. I don’t miss worrying about that in class, and I know it’s traumatic for every girl it happens to. And you know it was bad when even the town’s most notorious gossip isn’t comfortable talking about it.
“Later on during lunch, Gin found a can somewhere and went around the cafeteria and hallways, asking for donations for Colleen, saying the Reilly family was too poor to buy tampons for her.”
I actually gasp out loud, and my cheeks burn even though it’s not my shame to bear. I know teen girls can be as hostile as feral cats sometimes and Gin certainly has a mean streak she didn’t totally outgrow, but it’s painful to hear my mother was capable of being so cruel.
Shawna seems to shake off the memories and gives me the kind of smile that says she’s trying too hard. “But that was a long time ago, and it’s all water under a very old bridge. Now you’ll all be one big happy family.”
To my credit, I don’t laugh in her face—or burst into tears. Either was a possibility, really, but I paste on a big smile and nod with a lot more enthusiasm than I feel.
As soon as the machine says my transaction’s approved and I can have my card back, I slide it in my back pocket and grab my bag. I give Shawna a big, fake smile when she says she hopes I’ll have pictures next time I come in and then make my escape. But as I walk through the exit door, I lock eyes with Aaron Reilly, who’s on his way in. I’m so over this day.
Aaron stops in his tracks.
There’s a very awkward moment—usually Gambles pretend Reillys are invisible and vice versa—and then we both seem to remember we’re about to be in-laws and smile at the same time.
“Thank you again for hosting dinner,” I say as we step out of the way of other customers. “And I’m sorry about the whole pickle thing.”
When he grins, he looks a lot like his brother. “Hey, those pickles are amazing. I’ll deny it to the grave if you tell my mother, but I would have given them a blue ribbon if I was judging them at the fair.”
“Your secret is safe with me. Trust me, the last thing I want in my life is more drama.”
“For two people who don’t want drama, you and Hayden really know how to stir it up.”
Just wait until we get divorced, I think, but I don’t say it out loud, of course. “I’m glad I ran into you so I could thank you again, but my mom’s waiting for this butter, so I’d better go.”
“It was our pleasure, and I’ll see you on Saturday, I guess.”
I’m afraid if I open my mouth some truly unhinged laughter will come out, so I just smile and nod and start walking. Luckily, I make it home without running into anybody else who wants to talk about the Gamble-Reilly wedding, which gives me a few minutes to center myself before seeing my mom.
After changing my clothes in the garage, I take the butter out of the bag before stowing my chips and candy behind an old box of who-knows-what. Maybe it’s petty and there’s a good chance I’ll end up sharing with my mom anyway, but for right now, I want to keep the treats all to myself.
Gin’s just setting pork chops and white rice down on the table when I walk in, and I’m glad I stopped at the market. I don’t love plain rice. I really don’t love it dry. But at least we have some homemade chunky applesauce to go with it, left over from Gin and Sherry’s last canning kick.
