She nods, sharp. It’s done. “Fine. One month. Starting now, since you’re here with your fake screw emergency.”
I pick up the screws. They’re feather-light, but the look Maddie gives me is the real weight: wary, annoyed, but something else alive behind it, maybe the spark of a smile.
“See you tomorrow,” I say, headed for the door.
“Jordan.”
I stop. Don’t turn.
“Thanks. For… caring. About the store.”
I nod, just once, because if I look back I’ll say something reckless, and we’ve used up our quota of honesty today. The bell rings. Sunlight slams into me outside, and I walk to my truck clutching a pointless box of screws and a month to prove something I’m not even sure I believe myself. It’s daunting, and it’s right, in the way that things with Maddie Weiz are always both.
I don’t claim to be honest. But sometimes it happens anyway, sneaks up and knocks you flat.
One month.
I can work with that.
Chapter 3
Mornings used to be a kind of punishment for me. Now, thanks to the shop, they’re routine, not that I’d ever call it a gift—it feels more like a curse, especially today. The second I’m conscious, my brain is already queuing up yesterday’s conversation with Jordan on a relentless, crystal-clear loop. “One month,” their voice echoes. I stare up at the ceiling—the same plain white that’s hung over my head for decades, even before I was born. There’s still that little crack by the light fixture; I’ve been meaning to fix it for two years, but it never seems urgent. Drew would have patched it the same day, like it was nothing.
I throw off the duvet and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My hair’s doing its usual morning firework impression: white-blonde, wild, all awkward angles and post-electric-storm energy. One swipe of my hand just shifts a fleck of dried paint from my temple to my palm. Blue. Ultramarine, pretty sure, straight from the half-done canvas in the studio—the one that’s been giving me nothing but attitude lately.
The mirror catches me as I shuffle past. There’s the usual: a woman in her mid-thirties, not enough sleep, a chronic case of existential fatigue. I stick out my tongue. My reflection returns the favor. Can’t blame her.
The dress is waiting where I left it, draped over the closet door—a vintage wrap, florals bright against soft cotton, one of my comfort uniforms for summer heat. I pull it on, cinch the tie, then step into my white sneakers, the battered, paint-splattered ones that refuse to quit. There’s a spot of cerulean on the left toe,courtesy of forgotten ambitions and a March project I’d rather not talk about. I think about cleaning it, but honestly, what’s the point?
“Good morning,” I say to my reflection—and to the empty room. “Today, you are a project. Congratulations.”
Reflection: unmoved.
It takes eight minutes to reach the store if I meander, six if I cut through the alley behind the bank. Today I take the long way. Maybe I need the fresh air; maybe I just want to avoid the moment when Jordan’s words catch up to me. “Give me one month,” they’d said, already certain of the future. The town is sleepy, just waking up: a couple of delivery trucks, the coffee shop across from the hardware store already steaming up their windows, and Mrs. Hemsley’s cat posted like a sentry on her porch, eyeing me with the kind of judgment you only get from cats—or retired English teachers.
The front door of Springs & Bells sticks and groans, as usual. I’ve got the move down: right hip, little shove, a curse whispered out of habit. Inside, the scent hits me straight away: sawdust, metal, paint thinner so deep in the wood it’s probably in my DNA by now. The ceiling fans are already spinning. Somewhere in the back, Melvin is muttering to himself. He’s always here at five, rain or shine, staking his claim behind the counter like the store will vanish if he isn’t holding it down.
I drop my bag behind the counter. There’s a sticky note on the register, waiting for me, the handwriting severe and familiar.
Farmers’ market. 8 am. Don’t be late, Picasso.
A little arrow at the bottom. It points to nowhere, which somehow fits Jordan’s sense of humor perfectly.
I stare at it for a beat, and suddenly my brain, which has been stuck on fast-forward, just hits the brakes and spins off in a new direction.
Farmers’ market.
I’d signed up months ago, in April, after the town council meeting when Beth from real estate cornered me with her “I need a favor” smile. I’d agreed, mostly out of habit, maybe a little community guilt. Back then, the shop was definitely not for sale. Past Maddie, always overly generous. Maybe concussed. Present Maddie is just standing here, in the hardware store at 6:17 AM, clutching a sticky note and feeling the icy dread sink in.
I peel the note and tuck it in my apron. I’ve got one hour and forty-one minutes to come up with an escape plan for the farmers market I signed up to sponsor in the first place.
I’m still hoping for divine intervention or at least a believable excuse (tuberculosis? maybe spontaneous? highly contagious, must avoid peppy Vermont crowds), when the bell over the door rings precisely at 7:55.
Jordan walks in like they belong here, which is infuriating and, yes, impressive. They’re in work pants, sleeves of their green flannel rolled up, tattoos exposed, those dizzying patterns from wrist to elbow. Their hair’s in its usual messy bun, undercut crisp, and there’s a dark smudge on their temple. They don’t wipe it off. Why bother?
Behind them—a flat-bed dolly stacked with folding tables, a crate of tote bags with our logo (my design, for the record, a rare burst of marketing optimism). The bags seem to multiply whenever I’m not looking.
“Morning,” Jordan says, half-grin ready, reading me like I’m an open book.
