Page 81 of Just One Little Bargain

“Everyone?” I echo.

“Small town, honey. News travels.” She gives me a thorough once-over. “Where are you from, Milo?”

I open my mouth to respond, but Evie cuts in before I get the chance. “We need clothes. Jeans, shirts, warm layers. Men’s section?”

“Along the back wall. I rearranged last week.” Fran pats my arm with a familiarity that startles me. “She needed someone around. That girl carries everything alone and won’t admit it. First time she’s walked in here beaming like that. Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”

I want to ask Fran if she’s sure, if maybe Evie had been beaming like that before I showed up and Fran just hadn’t noticed. The version of events where I walked into this woman’s life and made it easier doesn’t fit anywhere. I’ve never been the reason someone’s day got better.

Evie is moving toward the racks, shoulders set in that rigid line, and I catch up in a few strides.

“The whole town discusses everything. You’re just the latest data point.” She snags a navy Henley off the nearest rack, holds it against my chest, and frowns at it. Her knuckles graze my collarbone. “Hold still.”

“I am holding still.”

“You’re swaying.”

“I’m breathing.”

“Breathe smaller.” The Henley drops over her forearm. “Arms out.”

“Like this?”

“Wider.”

“This?”

“You’re not being crucified, Milo, just spread your arms a normal amount.”

I adjust, and she squints at me in concentration before pivoting back to the rack and rifling through hangers at a speed that makes me nervous.

“This.” A flannel in muted green. “This.” A gray crewneck sweater. “God, no.” A perfectly respectable denim shirt gets shoved back with visible disdain.

I drift toward a section she hasn’t vetted and find a button-down patterned with small yellow birds in diagonal rows. I hold it up to my chest.

“What about this?”

“No.”

“You’re not even looking.”

She looks over her shoulder, takes in the shirt, and recoils. “Absolutely not.”

“So we’re not considering the bird shirt?”

“We are not, have never, and will never consider the bird shirt. Put it down.”

My fingers linger on the hanger in silent tribute. Then I spot a burnt orange corduroy jacket with oversized patch pockets and a wide collar.

“No.” She doesn’t even turn around.

“You have a sixth sense for this.”

“I have functional vision and you gravitating toward that jacket was audible.”

“The pockets—”

“Are irrelevant.”