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Once I get back to the shop, I busy myself with the day-to-day operations, but also find myself fielding a lot of questions and comments, mostly of the “How are you, really? How scary! You could’ve died! We’re worried about you!” variety.
My favorite is, “Oh my gosh, it could’ve been so much worse!”
As if it wasn’t bad enough.
As if I want to think about all the things that could’ve been worse.
I’ve said those words to other people, thinking I was helping them see a more positive perspective, but now I know words like those don’t help.
There were also the, “I cannot believe Owen Larrabee was the one to pull you out!” and “Is he still as hot as he used to be?” and “Wasn’t he in jail?”
My customers mean well, but by the time the interview rolls around and Lindsay shows up, I want to crawl into a hole and stay hidden until hell freezes over or Leonardo DiCaprio dates someone his own age, whichever comes first.
Probably the hell thing.
Lindsay arrives early, and she and a cameraman commandeer my shop, displacing paying customers, and raising more than a few eyebrows.
People start murmuring, and I catch bits and pieces of conversation. Words like “Owen Larrabee” and “left at the altar” fly around haphazardly, putting everything that happened eight years ago right back in the Harvest Hollow limelight.
And a familiar knot twists in my belly.
Lindsay was never outwardly mean to me, but she did confront me once about my “little crush” on Owen. I was pulling out the books I needed to take home with me from school that day, and when I closed the locker, there she was, staring at me.
One pointed lecture through fake smiling teeth, and I knew my place.
She and Owen were new, but he and I were not.
But knowing they were dating had certainly put a damper on our pond chats. At least for me.
“Emmy Smart.” She’d smiled at me, a smile that dripped with insincerity.
“Hey, Lindsay. . .”
“Can we talk about your little crush on my boyfriend?”
The way those two words belittled my feelings for Owen stung. What I felt for him was deeper than a “little crush.” I really knew him, and I was convinced nobody else—not even Lindsay—could say the same.
“I don’t have a crush on—”
“Let’s not pretend, okay?” she said. “I see the way you look at him. And I found this.” She held up a note that I’d written Owen that morning in study hall.
She shakes it slightly, like a dog treat. “Do you want me to read it out loud?”
I shook my head. I knew what it said.
Owen,
I’m bringing your favorite cookies tonight—oatmeal butterscotch. I finally perfected my recipe. Show up hungry!
—Emmy
Lindsay stared at me with a raised brow. “Care to explain?”
“It’s not a big deal,” I said. “I’m just—”
“Tutoring him, I know,” she says, cutting me off. “And it’s not like I’m threatened, I mean. . .” she gives me a dismissive shrug. “And seriously? Cookies?” She holds the note out in my direction. “Maybe don’t pass my boyfriend notes in the hallway.”
Owen didn’t show up at the pond that night. Or for several nights after. And he never did try the oatmeal butterscotch cookies.
