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“Well, I don’t know what to do now. The story is the two of you, not just you.”
I don’t say another word.
And I secretly like that Lindsay, for once, is inconvenienced. But I’m also secretly concerned about Emmy.
Chapter Eleven
Emmy
Two things are on my mind when I wake up Saturday morning.
The Farmer’s Market and the Interview.
I’ve capitalized both in my head.
Also, both will probably have an impact on my business, but for wildly different reasons.
The interview aired last night, and today I’m up early to set up my Book Smart booth at the market. I get dressed and ready, and then come down to the kitchen to find my parents sitting at the table, each reading a section of the newspaper and drinking coffee.
People still read newspapers. It’s true.
Something inside me aches at the familiarity of the scene, the way they can sit here in silence and be perfectly in sync.
My parents have the kind of relationship nobody would write about. Because it’s comfortable and kind—and boring. They hardly ever fight, and over the years, they’ve settled into this quiet, wonderful rhythm. Even though I’m addicted to romance novels, and a part of me yearns to be swept off my feet, the truth is another part of me wants what they have.
To feel this at ease with another person? Yes, please.
Once upon a time, I did feel this at ease with another person. It’s just that it was in a completely platonic way.
At least on his part.
“Emmy, you’re awake!”
“I am,” I yawn, “but just barely.”
“How did you sleep? Was the bed okay? How are you feeling?” I’m used to this maternal barrage of questions.
“Good, good, and good,” I muse. “Though not necessarily in that order.”
My dad laughs, which I love being able to make him do, and my mom makes a face. She doesn't have time for such cleverness.
“The market is today,” I say.
Mom sets her paper down and looks at me. “I’m going to help.”
“Oh, you really don’t have to. Reagan’s coming and—”
She holds up a hand. “I want to.”
I know from experience that once my mother makes up her mind, there’s no talking her out of it, so I don’t say anything else.
She kisses my dad on the top of his head, and then follows me out the door to my car.
“So. . .” she says once we’re on our way to town.
“You’re going to grill me, aren’t you?”
She folds her hands on her lap. “Yes.”
