I position the pen between my fingers and scratch another note on the list: check on Dottie.
I miss her this morning too. I wonder if she’s looking at the clock, wondering where I am and prepping her “You’re late” line to fire my way as soon as I open the door. A smile graces my lips as I realize it’s the day Joe will be coming with the floor mats, and I wonder if Dottie will finally pick up on the fact that he has a thing for her.
My pen taps against the notepad over and over.
I wonder if Fidget the ferret has been behaving and what kind of pies Birdie will bring this week. I’m curious, too, if the man with the fishhook on his hat at Tank’s is watching for me to come in for a coffee today. It just became a part of my routine. Not because I needed the coffee, but because I liked the ritual of it. It was sort of cool in a very weird kind of way to start to understand the threads of small-town conversation and to maybe be a part of them in some way.
“What do you think about the mayor over there running for reelection?” someone from the round table at Tank’s would ask me.
“You ever see a horse that won’t eat apples?” they’d ask.
Or they’d point at something in the newspaper and want my opinion.
It never mattered what the topic was, and my opinion surely didn’t matter, but it was requested. Valued. As if they were starting to accept me as a potential piece of the fabric of their lives.
And I left.
“They probably won’t even notice,” I mutter as I doodle a ferret in the top corner of my notepad.
The awning overhead moves in the breeze. The sunlight that filters in shines on my darkened phone screen. As soon as my eyes land on it, my stomach twists until it’s raw again.
Just before I booked my flight, my dad sent me a text.
Have you come to your senses?
I didn’t respond. Instead, I just turned my phone off and boarded the aircraft. That didn’t keep me from thinking about his question over and over.
It’s a reasonable question in a way he didn’t intend for it to be. It’s straightforward. It’s thought-provoking.
Have I come to my senses?
The question has slowed me down, and coupled with the flight to Orlando, it’s giving me a lot of time to think.
I’m in Florida and about to take a position to lead a company. All the while, I’ve misled the man who’s opened himself up to me as a mentor.
I wrote it off at first—brushed away the first stabs of guilt. But the closer I got to the hotel, and every time I picked up the phone to call Montgomery’s secretary to take the job, it got worse.
How did I let myself get like this? How did proving my worth to my father become so damn important that I lowered the values I pride myself on?
“Here’s your ticket,” Roxie says, placing a bill facedown on the table. “You need anything else? I know I just asked you that, but . . . you seem a little lost, if you don’t mind me saying.”
I look up at her. Her face is clean and pretty, and it kind of reminds me of Sophie. An honest vulnerability shines in her eyes, and I find my heart shattering all over again.
“I guess I am a little lost,” I admit. “I’m new here. Have lots of things to do.”
“Where are you from?”
“Arizona. Taking a job at Montgomery Farms.”
She nods politely. “Arizona, huh? One hot place to another.”
“Coincidentally, yes. Now I need to find a place to live and get my things hauled over here.”
“There’s an apartment open in my complex. A couple of them, actually. Some of the girls moved out since the boys aren’t coming back on time . . .” Her face falls. “If you want the number, I can give it to you.”
“Sure. But may I ask, why aren’t the boys coming back?”
She grins. “My boyfriend is in the marines. They’re overseas right now. They were supposed to be gone a few months, but it got extended. It’s sad, you know. Hard for them. But some of the girls move on with their lives. Some of them have to for school or for family support. There are all kinds of reasons.”
“Wow. That’s rough.”
She shrugs as if she’s resigned to the situation. “It’s just how it works. I mean, I don’t like him leaving, but he loves it. So I deal.”
“Has he ever thought about doing something else? Because, man, that has to be hard to go without seeing each other like that.” I force a swallow. “I just . . . Well, my wife is back at home, where her heart is, and . . . here I am.”
My face gets hot, and it’s not from the sun.
The truth hanging out there like that cuts deep. It exposes the rawness of the situation and how simple yet complicated it is. But if anyone should understand, it’s Roxie.
She looks around the patio. Most of the customers who were here when I arrived have gone, the brunch rush now over. Only a few tables are full, and they seem to be leisurely reading on their phones or having breezy conversations with their tablemates.
Pulling out a chair across from me, she sits.
“Would it be okay if I make a quick observation?” she asks.
“Sure.”
“I’ve watched you since you got here. And not watched you like I’ve spied on you or something, but more like I’ve been curious as to what your story is. Everyone has a story. Believe me—I’ve heard them all. And I make a little game out of it, if I’m being honest. I make up little backstories for people, and it’s fun to see if I’m right.” She tilts her head to the side. “I was both right and wrong about you.”
“Oh really? What did you think my backstory was?”
She grins. “I knew you were heartbroken. That was easy. You kind of wear it on your sleeve.”
“I beg to differ,” I protest.
She laughs. “About what? That you’re heartbroken or that you wear it on your sleeve?”
“I think I hide my misery very well, thank you.”
Her face wrinkles up like she’s embarrassed for me. It makes me laugh. That feels good.
“So your wife is in Arizona, huh?” she asks.
“No. She’s in Tennessee.”
“But you said she was back at home. Didn’t you say you were from Arizona?”
Her question echoes through my mind as she sits patiently and waits for my response. I gaze into the distance as I replay her words again and again.
“You said she was back at home.”
I did say that. She’s at the Honey House. Her home. But . . . why does it feel like my home too? Why did I mean it to mean my home when I said it originally?
“She must really love you,” Roxie says with a laugh. “That’s all I can say.”
My head snaps to her. “Why would you say that?”
“Well, for one, don’t take this the wrong way, because loyalty is my jam and I’m in a very happy, albeit very distant at this point in time, relationship, but you’re super cute. And you seem nice and like you do well for yourself. And if she let you go, she must really love you.”
It’s like the world stops moving. Everything outside of the table, everything besides me and Roxie blurs as I digest that.
“I mean, I love my man,” she continues. “It’s the only reason I stay with him. And it’s the reason why I don’t ask him to leave the forces even though he could.”