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WREN
Fragrant wafts of cinnamon danced around me, and bells jingled from the top of the door as I walked into the pie shop. Annie’s was a hidden gem in Providence. Annie Smith—the owner and namesake for the joint—catered to the under-caffeinated student population of the College Hill neighborhood. The pies were divine, the coffee was strong, and the booths were tall and solid, offering privacy for late night study sessions or remote work.
The walls in the dining room were lined with books. It was an honor system library. You could read while you indulged in a slice of French silk pie, or you could take a title to-go along with a family-sized chicken pot pie.
“Hi, Wren!” Annie was behind the counter today, working the register. Her dirty blonde hair was tied back in a reckless ponytail. The chambray Annie’s apron she had on barely disguised a shirt that read, The Book Was Better.
“Two things,” I began. “First, can I get an iced coffee and a slice of coconut cream? “And second…” I reached in my bag and pulled out the mass market paperback I had borrowed from the shop the last time I was in. “You have some serious explaining to do!” I said as I stabbed the shirtless cover model on the front of Whitney West’s latest novel with my finger.
Annie frowned as she picked up the paperback and thumbed through it as if the explanation for my outburst was buried in the pages. “You didn’t like it?”
I slapped my hands on the countertop. “It was brutal! I couldn’t put it down. I was sobbing in the bathtub last night because you didn’t warn me about the ending! Gah!” I tossed my head back, fully aware that I looked like a complete lunatic. “You and your book recommendations are sadistic!”
She smirked. “So, you want the next one in the series? I just got it in.”
“God, yes!” I exclaimed. “I am ready to get hurt again.”
She wiggled out from behind the register and crooked a finger for me to follow. We wound through dimly lit tables and booths then turned a sharp corner. That’s what I loved about Annie’s. It was the perfect place to get lost. In the dining area, booths and tables were lit only by the lamps on the table. The low lighting mixed with towers of books and raucous vining plants gave it an old-world pub feel. All it was missing was the cobblestones. It was like stepping into an alternate universe. One where the only concerns were what kind of pie I was going to have next and how many Whitney West novels were on the shelves. Annie had quite the collection.
“It should be right…” Annie bit the tip of her tongue as she popped up onto her tiptoes and plucked a paperback off the shelf. “Here.” She thumbed through the pages before handing it over. “Disclaimer,” she said. “You’re gonna need tissues for this one, too. But the happily ever after is so worth it.”
I clutched the book to my chest. “You’re my favorite pie-making smut peddler.”
She laughed. “I’ll wear that as a badge of honor. Maybe I’ll get it on a t-shirt.”
I hurried back to the front to grab my pie and coffee. An employee called my name and handed me the tray. As I made my way to my favorite corner booth, my phone buzzed on top of the tray.
T: Away games suck.
I smiled as I slid into the booth and grabbed my phone to fire back a response.
Wren: Oh?
T: There’s no sexy blonde on the sidelines for me to look at.
Wren: Good to know that none of the girls from Cinci caught your eye.
T: I only have eyes for you, Little Bird.
I looked down at my lone slice of pie and let out a pathetic sigh. The week after the tackle sucked ass. I couldn’t open my phone without a million red notifications from social media, an inbox full of media outlets asking for a comment, and a swarm of vulturous photographers outside my apartment. Tatum threatened to hire security for me, but I made him promise not to, and assured him that it would all blow over soon.
I hoped.
Unfortunately, the interviews Tatum and I did together the day after the game only added fuel to an already-out-of-control wildfire. It wasn’t what we said that the court of public opinion latched onto. It was the way his eyelids lowered to my mouth in the split second that we looked at each other, rather than at the interviewer.
It was the light touch of my hand on his arm when he cracked a joke about me taking the tackle like a pro.
It was the way he didn’t dismiss me as “just a cheerleader”. Tatum did something that Preston never had.
He saw the value in creating joy.
Sure, I wasn’t out saving lives, but for a few minutes every game, I danced on the fifty-yard line and made someone smile. Maybe they were walking through fire and needed a reminder that there were small moments in life when it was okay to simply sit back and watch the show. The problems would still be there when the game was over.
The sweat was worth it.
Not everything has to be groundbreaking or life changing. Sometimes, the thing that someone needs most is a few minutes of escapism.
My workload was lighter since I had completed the renovation at Tatum’s place. I was barred from participating in Reds rehearsals until tomorrow, though I still showed up and watched while the rest of the ladies danced their hearts out. Tatum practically lived at the Reds facilities. When he wasn’t with the team, he was working out on his own or texting me.
