Page 18 of Keepsakes and Kismet

“We source our nuts from a family-owned organic farm in Georgia. In fact, everything at Healthtopia is organic.”

Peyton sighs in relief. “Oh, that’s wonderful news. And I’m assuming the Nutty Nana’s gut-healthy?”

Kevin blushes, as if gabbing about gut microbiomes could be considered flirting. “I’m so glad you asked! We get our whey powder and yogurt from a local creamery. All of our smoothies have clean probiotics.”

Peyton pulls her credit card out of a hidden pocket by her lower back. My glare at Gym Rat turns slightly more menacing as he openly gawks at her ass.

None the wiser, Peyton just grins. “Probiotics? Say no more. I’ll take a large.”

Kevin rings her up, as if they didn’t have this exact same conversation last week. As if Peyton was a normal paying customer he’d never met before.

What is going on? I want to march over and question her to satisfy my interest. At the same time, I don’t want to interrupt whatever they’re doing here.

Regardless, it’s not like I can look away.

Peyton steps to the side, and the woman behind her orders a Nutty Nana, too.

“Great choice, girl,” Peyton tells her.

“Smoothie twins!” she exclaims when Gym Rat rattles off the same order with three additional scoops of protein powder.

Kevin hands a few receipts to his employee—a gangly teenage boy who’s actually wearing the neon pink shirt. The worker puts on plastic gloves and grabs a bunch of bananas for the smoothies.

Clover pokes me in the arm. “Cal. Take a picture of me in front of this accent wall for my socials.”

“Can’t Clementine do it?” I idly ask, distracted by Peyton, who finally seems to notice me. Her eyes dart in my direction and widen momentarily, before quickly refocusing on her admirers. She pastes a bright smile back onto her face.

“No.” Clover scoffs. “I need someone tall for the angles.”

“Fine.” I grab her phone and take a few pictures of her, then some more, until I’ve taken twenty-four fucking pictures of Clover in front of pink wallpaper.

By the time I bring my attention back to the front, moving slightly closer to hear Peyton over the noise of the blenders, she and her posse have all gotten their smoothies.

“Cheers, friends!” Peyton raises hers before taking a long sip. She then lets out a moan that I refuse to admit has done anything other than puzzle me.

She takes another sip, rolling her eyes back into her head. “This is so good. I’ve never tasted such a pronounced nutty flavor in a drink before.”

Except last week, when you tried the same “life-changing” drink.

Peyton’s generous praise catches the attention of another guy in line, who inches toward her and asks what smoothie she ordered. I notice the way Peyton’s nose scrunches, how she takes a step back from him, but she masks any discomfort well.

Poor guy probably needs a shower. Or maybe she just doesn’t like people in her space. Who does?

“It’s a Nutty Nana. You have to try it. Make sure to add in an extra scoop of whey protein powder!”

A smile lifts the man’s face as he pulls out his card and orders that exact smoothie from Kevin.

Peyton has these people wrapped around her lavender-tipped finger. At this point, I’m pretty sure she could order a wet shoe and they’d fall in line.

While almost everything about her perplexes me, it’s also mesmerizing to watch her work—which I’ve realized is what this is: work. There’s a sieve about her personality, one that filters out little bits of her true self—the sarcastic, mischievous one that I got—before she interacts with people she’s trying to convince. Yet, she radiates easy familiarity, like she’s their long-lost best friend.

Peyton surveys the rest of the line, seemingly satisfied with her efforts so far, and finally turns my way. When her eyes land on mine, her full lips curl into her classic smirk. She gives me a small wave, wiggling her fingers playfully.

Hi, Inspector, she mouths, amusement steeped in her expression.

I’m starting to realize that she’d be able to persuade anyone to do anything with the flecks of gold in her sage-green eyes alone.

She may find humor in my job, but for me, it’s serious. It’s what keeps me steady. PTSD can be unpredictable, so catalogs, control, and clarity provide comfort. Peyton, on the other hand, cannot be categorized. She appears to fit into her own, unknown bracket of pandemonium.