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At eleven, my relief comes in the form of our part-time employee. Jen, a college sophomore at Boise State, has been working summers at the shop since she was a freshman in high school. Spring session recently ended, and even if we can’t really afford her, I’ve been glad to have her back.
She clocks in, then comes out to join me on the sidewalk. “How’s the day?” she asks, smiling as she draws her hair into a quick ponytail.
I pull my gaze from Annie’s Pie Shoppe. He isn’t there anymore. Obviously. But knowing he’s here, somewhere in Sun River, has made me twitchy. I’ve been distracted all morning.
“Decent,” I tell Jen. “A few orders have come in, and the Simmons did their pickup.”
“Sounds good.”
Silence reigns for all of ten seconds. “Celeste? Everything okay? Did I do something wrong closing yesterday?”
“No, Jen. Not at all.” I’m usually a chatterbox, but today I don’t have the mental bandwidth for anything but basic conversation. “I’m just, um, a bit tired. Do you mind if I head out? I told Mom and Dad I’d feed Lulu lunch. Then I’ll finish up with the invoicing at home. You can call me if you need me and I’ll come right back.”
Jen’s eyes are questioning behind her glasses, but she nods. “Sure thing.”
I thank her, then grab my backpack. Instead of facing Main Street—and the amorphous, tingly threat of Lucas—I slip out the back.
The house I grew up in is three blocks east of the shop. The neighborhood is old and charming, two- and three-bedroom bungalows built in the 1920s mixing with newer builds. One of my parents’ favorite pastimes is talking about how wild the real estate market is, how if they sold their lot to a developer they’d be instant millionaires.
They’ll never sell it, or the flower shop, though sometimes I wish they’d unload both. They’ve worked so hard for so long, I want them to enjoy their golden years without worrying about money. But they’ve shut down my argument enough times that I’ve stopped asking.
The little white gate creaks as I open it, and I purposefully don’t look at the house to the right.
But the memories come, anyway.
In the summer before fifth grade, the most exciting event by far to happen in my small world was a new family moving in next door. My parents had heard from someone who heard from someone else that the family had a young daughter around my age. I was over the moon.
My desperate desire for a sibling was replaced by the prospect of a new friend. This—this was what I truly wanted. A partner to walk to the bus stop with, to share secret wishes with, to wander and listen to music with. Who didn’t care that my hair was wild and almost always knotted because I never brushed it. Who wouldn’t tease me or make fun of my obsession with lime-green Converse, or my tendency to come to school with muddy or paint-splattered clothes.
The day the moving truck pulled onto the street, I could barely contain my excitement. My nose plastered to the glass of our living room window, I watched for hours as furniture and boxes were unloaded and hauled into the house. The house was a new one, recently finished, and about twice the size of ours. The construction had been super annoying and loud, but if my new best friend moved in? Worth it.
Finally, finally, a big, shiny sedan pulled into the driveway. A man and woman stepped out. They were so lovely, like models I’d only seen in magazines. The man was taller than my dad, with brown hair slicked back and dark sunglasses. He wore a smart polo shirt and khaki pants. The woman who rounded the car to his side was likewise polished and perfect. Dressed in crisp white pants and a navy blouse, even from yards away I could see the sparkle of diamonds in her ears. Her hair was in a stylish bob, dark blond and glossy, and sunglasses covered half her face. Despite my limited view, I knew she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.
When the back door of the car opened, I didn’t at first notice, so taken was I with the adults.
Then a loud, piercing voice shouted, “Mom! Michelle won’t stop pinching me!”
I frowned at the sight of the speaker. A boy. Blond like his mother, his shoulder-length hair obscured his face as he raced to the front of the car. I studied his lanky frame, the jeans that were too short. He looked about my age, but boys’ ages were always hard to guess. Most of the ones in my class looked a lot younger than the girls.
I assumed Michelle was his sister. My best friend. I waited for her to appear. From my vantage point, a tree blocked the most important portion of the car. All I could see was the woman walking around the other side.
Where are you, Michelle?
At long last, the woman reappeared. I blinked, not understanding. She led a small girl with dark hair by the hand. She couldn’t be more than five years old.
“No,” I whispered, my gaze veering back to the boy.
Soft footsteps moved up behind me. “What on earth is so captivating out there?” asked my mom.
I looked at her, wide-eyed with panic. “You said it was a girl my age!”
My mom’s eyebrows lifted in surprise and she looked out the window. “Oh, that must be the Adlers. We’ll have to bring them some wine later. And look, Celeste, that boy seems about your age. You should run out and say hello!”
With all the angst in my ten-year-old body, I glared at her. “Are you kidding me? No way!” I snapped, then ran away from the window, pounded down the hallway to my room, and slammed the door behind me.
Parents.
