Page 2 of Always Be My Pumpkin

I take a deep breath and ready myself for whatever she’s about to unload.

‘I’m happy to help with the garden but I guess you’re okay for indoors. Looks like you could knit your own Christmas tree at this rate.’

That’s not Gertrude. Unless she’s had a sex change instead of her usual soup and sandwich. But something about that voice, low and easy, feels familiar. And knitting our own Christmas tree . . . that’s not a bad idea. It’s only mid-September; we might just have time.

And then he laughs. And I turn. And everything comes crashing down. Me, my wobbly swivel chair, a pile of cosy crime paperbacks, a jumble of multicoloured crochet pumpkins. And my heart.

‘You crazy girl! Look what you’ve done now.’ Gertrude grips the spinner stand that she managed to catch halfway to the floor. Miss Marple, Agatha Raisin, and Poirot lie scattered at her feet.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ She straightens the spinner stand, then flattens down her silver-grey bob. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

I don’t answer her. I’m too stunned to speak. I slump on the worn, scratchy carpet squares and stare up at the sandy-haired man in the red flannel shirt. He looks almost as shocked as I feel.

‘Gracie.’ He leans over me, eyes wide and blue as a summer sky. ‘Are you okay? Are you hurt?’

I smooth down my floaty lemon skirt and swallow hard as I peer up at him. I’m not hurt, but my vocal cords won’t co-operate and all I can do is sit and stare at his very handsome face.

I haven’t seen Flynn Anderson for ten years. Not since we were sixteen and he casually broke my heart, then left without even a goodbye note. And considering we’d spent nearly four years writing each other silly, and sometimes serious, scribbled notes about everything under the sun, from the first day we met at Oakwood Secondary School, that hit even harder than him laughing his head off at the idea of us becoming more than just friends.

‘Gracie! Gracie! Guess who’s—’ Sarah bursts through the library front door, screeches to a halt, then opens and closes her mouth like a goldfish before she finishes, ‘back.’

‘Hey, Sarah.’ Flynn arches his brows at my best friend. The friend who stepped in and picked up the pieces when he left. Then he turns and looks down at me, still gazing up at him from my spot on the floor. He reaches out and plucks a length of yarn from my hair.

‘I thought you lived in London now.’ He tucks the yarn into his jeans pocket. ‘With Jamie.’ He hesitates, mouth twisting. ‘Don’t you?’

I chew my bottom lip as my heart sinks further in my chest. I’ve spent the last few weeks since I moved home trying to avoid talking about my ex. It’s not losing him that hurts so much. It’s the lies, the betrayal, how much of a fool he made me feel.

Sarah’s the only one I’ve told all the details to. I’ve been too embarrassed to tell anyone else, even Mam. I’m definitely not ready to tell Flynn Anderson. I shared my deepest secrets with that boy from age twelve to sixteen. I thought he was my closest friend in the world. Until he let me down. Then disappeared. And now he’s standing there asking me why I’m here. Like I’m the one who owes him an explanation. There’s no way I’m opening my fragile shattered heart to the boy who was responsible for the first cut. Time to do what I do best. I brush myself down, pull myself up to my full five-foot-three, and pin the brightest smile I can muster across my face.

‘Flynn has offered to help with our garden,’ Gertrude announces as she places Miss Marple, Agatha Raisin and Poirot back in their designated slots. ‘I was in Pat’s Plants and Herbs at lunchtime, looking through the clearance stock, and I happened to mention that we needed assistance—’

‘Really?’ I squeak.

What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve never had a problem using my voice. Mam teases me all the time that I started chattering as a toddler and haven’t paused to draw breath since.

‘You did ask if I knew of anyone locally who could help,’ Gertrude says accusingly, as though I’m backing out of a plan we’ve been hatching for weeks, not a casual comment I made yesterday while pouring her morning tea.

‘Yes . . . but Flynn’s not local,’ I mumble, instead of what are you doing here, and why did it take you so long? I watch as he gathers my crochet pumpkins and sets them on top of Gertrude’s paperback stand. ‘He lives in New York.’

I know this. He stopped sharing secret scribbled notes the day Sarah asked him to go out with me. No more silly sketches or poetic jottings dropped in my locker or tucked between the pages of my school journal. But he does send a Christmas card every year with a few lines about his life in the States. The first year it was just Hi from the U.S. of A. Happy Holidays with a big sad upside-down face etched underneath. The notes got a little longer as the years passed. But he never mentioned a thing about coming home.

‘Nonsense,’ Gertrude quips. ‘His mother’s family founded this village, he’s more local than you are. And more loyal.’

She mutters that last part under her breath, but I hear her, and it stings.

I’ve always prided myself on being a loyal person, faithful, and good at staying the course. But sometimes you have to choose where your loyalties lie, and two years ago, I chose Jamie over Gertrude’s beloved library service. And I think that will always pick at her. Flynn’s eyes flick between us, and his brow furrows. Gertrude was like my doting aunt when he left, and it’s clear he’s confused at the disapproval in her tone.

‘It’s good to see you, Gracie,’ he says, and I nod.

He still sounds like Flynn, but his voice is deeper, and there’s a faint twang from living across the ocean all these years. He asks me again quietly if I’m sure I’m okay. I flick my gaze to Gertrude with a mini eye roll, and he smiles and turns to face her.

‘I live in New York State, not the city,’ he tells her. As soon as I mentioned New York, she gave him the same disapproving frown she usually saves for me. ‘Cricket Falls is more like Oakwood, with wider streets and bigger cars. Oh, and larger portion sizes too.’ He grins and pats his stomach.

Flynn’s definitely grown since I saw him last. I still see the boy I knew, but his sandy fringe is a little longer, and there are creases at the corners of his eyes, signs of weather on his tanned, golden skin. And he seems larger, broader, in a good way. Really good. His flannel shirt is rolled up past his elbows, and his white T-shirt is stretched across his chest, and all I can see is tanned lean muscle.

I squeeze my eyes shut and give myself a mental shake. Do not stare at Flynn Anderson’s chest. And if he happens to turn around, do not under any circumstances stare at his ass. That’s what caused all the trouble in the first place. If Sarah hadn’t caught me staring as he walked ahead of us to biology class, she never would have suggested he ask me out. And he wouldn’t have laughed in her face, then moved as far as possible to get away from me. Well, that’d be the South Pole, or someplace like that, but you know what I mean.

The worst part was I had to find out from Sarah that he was leaving. I didn’t go to school the day after I saw him laughing, and he didn’t come in again after that. I didn’t see him at all until I called to his house with his leaving present, and okay, he did hug me goodbye, but he looked at me like I was breaking his heart, and not the other way around.