“The diner?” she asks softly.
“Of course.”
Luckily, it only takes about ten minutes to get to the Shoreline Diner. I park and rush around the front to open her door.
Her surprised look bothers me. “What’s that look for?” I offer a hand to help her down.
She eyes me curiously and slips her hand in mine. “You usually don’t hurry so fast to open my door,” she says with an easy laugh.
I shrug. “Just wanna set the standards for when you’re with Dallas.” I give her hand a quick squeeze. Releasing it takes more effort than I’d like to admit. I don’t know what’s going on, but something makes me want to keep hold of her hand.
Probably just feeling overprotective of her. Yes, that has to be it.
Thankfully, the diner isn’t crowded, so we walk over and slide into our favorite booth. It’s right in front by the large windows facing the parking lot, giving us a view of the street and anyone out enjoying a walk.
The few times we’ve been here after church on Sundays, we like to sit and talk a while. But when we don’t feel the need to talk, we just sit and look out this window and people watch.
“Hey, y’all!” Ms. Margie, the owner, calls out to us with a welcoming smile. She sets down two menus and takes our drink order.
“I don’t know why I even bother lookin’ at this thing.” Magnolia’s eyes meet mine over the top of the menu, the rest of her face hidden by it. The corners of her eyes crinkle with humor. “I get the same thing every time.” She lowers the menu to the table with a tiny laugh.
“Same here.” I stack my menu on top of hers.
Ms. Margie comes back with our sweet teas and takes our food order, promising to be back with our meals soon.
I toy with the napkin-wrapped silverware, avoiding Magnolia’s gaze. “So, uh…what made you ask Dallas?”
She’s silent for a moment. When she answers, her voice sounds almost hesitant. “I guess I was just tryin’ to be brave.” Out of my periphery, I see her fingers toy with the empty paper wrapper from her straw. “He seems nice and…”
When she trails off, I lift my eyes to meet hers. She shrugs, a half-smile toying at her lips. “Honestly, I figured he’d probably be the only boy who’d go with me.” She wrinkles her nose adorably and adds, “And who isn’t a snobby jerk.”
What about me?
I jerk visibly at the unexpected silent question.
Magnolia peers at me with concern. “You okay?”
I nod quickly. “Fine. Just…hunger pains,” I lie.
She laughs, flashing her braces at me just as Ms. Margie slides our food in front of us.
We fall into easy silence while we eat, but I can’t shake that unsettling question rattling in the back of my mind.
What about me?
Magnolia
SIXTEEN YEARS OLD
A FEW WEEKS LATER
After I ring the doorbell, I stand on the concrete step and barely resist the urge to fidget. I draw on all the etiquette guidelines that have been drummed in my head and attempt to exude confidence.
When she opens the door and sees me, though, a portion of that confidence goes up in smoke.
Her mouth twists slightly, and some might think it’s a smile, but I know better. Hollis doesn’t normally invite me inside his house, and I know it’s because of his mother. I’ve rung the doorbell before—back before we both got cell phones—and those few times she answered, she’d sneer at me just like she is now. Like there’s some inside joke I’m not aware of.
Mrs. Barnes looks past me, left then right, before settling her narrowed eyes on me. “Reckon you’re lost?”
I stiffen my spine and paste the politest smile I can muster on my face. “No, ma’am. I wanted to see if you might have some fabric scraps you don’t have a need for.” I brighten my smile. “I wanted to make somethin’ for Hollis.”
She stares at me for so long, I expect her to slam the door in my face without another word. I don’t understand her. I’ve never done a thing to this woman, yet she seems to hate me.
Then again, she seems that way toward Hollis, too, and I know my best friend. He couldn’t have possibly done anything to excuse the way she treats him.
“You wanna make somethin’ for him.” She doesn’t phrase this as a question but more like a statement. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear there was a hint of a challenge in her tone.
“Yes, ma’am.” I force myself not to look away, continuing to hold her gaze and stand up straight. I refuse to let her intimidate me.
Finally, after an awkward moment of her staring at me, she shrugs and opens the door wider to let me inside. “Sure. Why not.”
I step inside even though an uneasy feeling settles over me. She shoves the door closed and strides down the hall as I trail behind her. I look around, expecting to see photographs of Hollis on the walls or mantel or family photos placed around the home. Instead, it’s just as it was a few years ago.
Bare walls.
My chest pinches tightly. My family might drive me crazy, but at least they hang photos throughout the house. The photo they took of me with my trophy from the spelling bee in sixth grade still hangs in one of our hallways. You can walk into our house and know a family lives there. Maybe not in the foyer, where Mother insists it be decorated in a more sleek, modern way, but it’s obvious everywhere else.
Here, though, there’s no personality. It just feels…empty.
It’s a house, not a home.
Mrs. Barnes stops at a doorway. “This is the room.” She points inside to a plastic Rubbermaid bin nearly overflowing with fabric scraps. “Take whatever you want.”
Whatever I want? I can’t suppress my surprise at her generosity. Even if it is just fabric scraps. “Thank you so much.”
She waves me off and starts heading back down the hall. “Just don’t take too long.”
I stare after her for a moment before I rush inside the small room she uses for her sewing and lower myself to my knees beside the bin. Combing through the fabrics, I find a few that would be perfect and set them aside.
Once I’ve gathered what I need, I clutch them in my hands and stand, ready to rush out of here. Internally, it feels like there’s a ticking time bomb, and I’m in fear of staying too long.
Just as I turn, one of the fabrics slips from my grip and falls to the floor beside a stack of books—Couture Sewing, A Complete Guide to Fitting, and a few others. When I reach to pick up the fabric, my fingertips brush against a paper that sticks out of one of the books.
Something makes me nudge the book back just a fraction to expose a bit of the handwriting on the lined paper. I can only make out a few snippets.
Your boy is
never expected
always love
Sincerely yours,
“You done or what?”
I snap upward, startled by her sudden appearance in the doorway. “Yes, ma’am.” I rush toward where she’s standing and eyeing me suspiciously. “Thank you for these. I appreciate it.”
Slinking past her, I head down the hall, hurrying to the front door. Something urges me to move faster, and as soon as I pull the door closed behind me, I race back home without a backward glance.