Page 39 of Small Town Boy

I nod, not ready to share more than that. But seeing her here is a welcome relief. Something about her smile and friendly tone helps set me at ease. She—along with Willa and Sylvie—have been such a help since I arrived in town. Whether it’s checking in on me via text or inviting me to dinner with them, these last few weeks would have been a lot tougher without them. The more time I spend with them, the more I want to open up and trust them. They aren’t Marie.

Still, letting people in is easier said than done.

“You could say that,” I respond, walking inside and leaning against the desk. “Lots of meetings. But, only one more to go.”

“You here for Women’s Club? They’re over at the study tables around the corner. Not ideal, but better than a soggy basement.”

“So I heard. I went to the church first and ran into Noel.”

Kenzie narrows her eyes at me, like she’s trying to figure out a riddle. “If you don’t mind my saying, you two seem to bump into each other a lot.”

“We do.”

I keep my response short and sweet, not knowing what else to say.

“I’m trying to figure out if it’s just small-town logistics or if there is something more at play.”

A little bit of both…

“Not on my part.”

I shrug. I know I should let her in. Confide in her. Yet, I can’t get the words out of my mouth. I had plenty of opportunities the other night at dinner. The girls had heard all about my run-in with Kitty, and Willa had no shortage of opinions to share about her. Calling her everything from the “town bike”—since everyone’s had their chance at a ride—to a good-for-nothing shit stirrer, Willa gave me the whole history about the two of them being old pageant rivals and how it translated into other areas of life. Personally, I can’t figure out why it’s still dwelled upon almost a decade later, especially when Willa won the Miss Georgia title, but what do I know.

They might have known about the farmers’ market incident, but what they didn’t seem to know about was breakfast. Or, if they did, they didn’t mention it. So neither did I. Because then I would have told them that he walked me home. And kissed me.

“He’s a good guy, Bronwyn,” Kenzie says. “I know you’re still getting to know all of us, and Hickory Hills, but if there was ever anyone on this planet to trust, it’s Noel.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. You said the meeting is back over there?” I point around the corner to my right, Kenzie nodding confirmation.

“My sister Moira is there. About my height, a little blonder than I am, wearing a purple shirt. Her best friend, Stacey—dark hair, pretty sure she’s wearing yellow—should be sitting right next to her. Try to sit by them if you can.”

I thank Kenzie, tapping the desk a couple of times and heading in the direction of the meeting. The sound of chatter points me in the right direction, and as soon as I turn the corner, I’m greeted by a large group of women. All of whom stop talking as soon as they see me.

It’s as if a record screeched, killing the party. In an instant, all eyes are on me. The weight of them is staggering, as is the amount of judgment I can feel. They are all fully aware that an interloper is in their midst, and their hackles are up.

So much for Southern hospitality…

“Hey!” one of the younger ladies says, popping up from her chair. She looks just like Kenzie, only with lighter hair, and indeed is wearing purple. So that must make her Moira. “Bronwyn, right? Welcome!”

“Hi, nice to meet you.”

“We’re so excited you’re here! Let me introduce you.”

She proceeds to go around the table, naming each woman—most of whom are still Mrs. So-and-So, despite us all being adults. Moira talks fast, most of the names a blur. The only ones that stand out are Mrs. Phillips, Mrs. Burch, and Mrs. Chamberlain, and that is mostly because they are names I’ve heard from the girls. Each woman nods and smiles politely as she’s introduced, and I do the same, pretending that I’ve got this.

Because I do. I’ve got this.

I’ve made presentations to crowds of all sorts of sizes. To rooms full of powerful executives. To groups of men who were sure they had better things to do than listen to a woman speak. I not only lived to tell about all those times, but I also successfully pitched many an idea that way. A library full of small-town women does not scare me.

“Hi, everyone. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

“Bronwyn…what does that mean?” one lady whose name I didn’t catch asks.

“It’s Welsh. The Internet will tell you it means ‘white breast,’ but my grandmother always said it was ‘white raven.’”

“Oh goodness, I’d go with raven too. Wouldn’t want to be walking around with a name that meant breasts,” she mutters, leaning into the woman next to her.

Right…