‘Scar, don’t…’ Devon starts but I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want sympathy or pity for my insecurities or my truths. There were many reasons why Hope and Jess didn’t know about Devon Wood or my desire to be an artist and that would be one of them. If they didn’t know, they didn’t have to feel sorry for me for my lack of accomplishments.
‘Please, D, you’re going to be late,’ I say and turn my back on him and walk into the kitchen.
By the time I’ve tidied up the plates from breakfast, he’s standing in the doorway, head scraping the arch, cotton long-sleeve shirt hugging him in all the right places making him look delicious but at the same time cuddly and soft. ‘Scarlett, you can’t keep blaming me and pushing me away like this. You are…’
‘Don’t worry about it, Devon, I’m not blaming you,’ I say rather forcefully. His face is serious, no beaming smile on his lips; instead they curve down at the edges, his eyes cloudy under the dimming sky in the grey afternoon.
‘Then stop this and listen to me,’ he pleads walking into the kitchen. I walk out and stand by the front door.
‘Stop what?’ I ask, shielding my still bare legs from the icy breeze by hiding them behind the door when I open it.
‘Jeez, this, this whole pushing me away thing. You can’t be doing this right now,’ Devon says, and I can hear the anger rising in his tone. ‘You’re just going to throw me out. You don’t care what I have to say or how I feel. You’re simply happy to see me go?’ Devon says, his tone growing sterner and stronger as he rakes a hand through his hair. I don’t say a word. I simply look ahead at the path. Behind me I hear shuffling and huffing as Devon puts on his shoes and grabs his things.
‘I get it. It didn’t matter how I felt back then, and it doesn’t matter how I feel now. All this time you’ve only thought that it was you who was hurt and you’re doing it again. Have I ever made you feel not good enough? Because I’m truly sorry if I have, Scar, but I think you’ve put that on yourself. Maybe you need to ask yourself if you are good enough for you.’ The anger in Devon’s tone scares me. I’ve never heard him sound like this before. I catch the puffiness around his eyes when he storms past me. ‘Dreaming big doesn’t mean there aren’t ups and downs you know. At least when you leap there’s a chance you can fly; if you never leap you will never know, and you end up stuck and weeks like this would have never happened,’ Devon says as his tears start up again. He wipes at his face and shoves his hands in his pockets.
My emotions are running wild in my gut when I think over the joy I have felt this week. ‘Maybe this week shouldn’t have happened. Bye, Devon,’ I say closing the door, unable to look at the pain in his face for much longer.
20
‘Do you think she’ll like this one?’ I whisper to D as I fold my piece of paper in half. On the front I’ve drawn a robot that is holding a heart that says, “I love you.”
‘Put some more glitter on it,’ he suggests, passing me the tub of pink glitter from the craft pot.
‘How are you getting on over here, my loves?’ Mrs Bride asks, coming over to the children’s corner of the library where kids can sit and read on bean bags or craft at a large oval table. She always makes sure it’s stocked up with all sorts of glitter, colourful paper, glue, paint and crayons.
‘Does it look good, Mrs Bride?’ I ask, proudly holding up my mum’s surprise birthday card. Mrs Bride bends down and gives my card a good look.
‘My dear, it’s fabulous. Did you draw that robot?’ she says, peeking at me over her spectacles. I nod enthusiastically. ‘I think your mum is going to love it. You have a real talent, Miss Scarlett.’
I giggle at the praise. ‘I really hope so, she didn’t like the alien last year. I thought a robot might be better.’
*
It’s teeth-shatteringly frosty outside on Monday morning. Christmas Eve is on Thursday and I think there’s a strong chance it’s going to be a white Christmas. I pull my maroon beanie tighter over my ears and stuff my gloved hands inside my coat pocket as I quick-march to the library. With the fair and then having spent the weekend with Devon, I haven’t given much thought to Hope and my proposal for the governors and it’s due today, which only adds to my shaky state. The heating envelops me in a welcome hug when I pull open the door and jump inside. I dance on the spot for a moment to warm up.
‘Good morning, Miss Scarlett.’
‘Hey, Scarlett.’
I’m immediately greeted by Mrs Bride and Autumn who are stood behind the gorgeous oak desk with coffee mugs in hand. I can smell the peppermint aroma as it wafts over to me on the hot steam. ‘Good morning,’ I reply, loosening the top button of my fluffy parka and wiping my feet before walking over to them.
‘How are you, lovely?’ Autumn asks me with a warm smile. Her tight curly auburn hair is loosely atop her head in a pretty messy bun and today she’s wearing a yellow knit jumper with black leggings; she looks gorgeous.
‘I’m doing great, thank you. How are things? Did you manage to organise your holiday?’ I return with a cheery smile.
‘I did, please keep your lips sealed. I’ve actually managed to keep it from Willow. I’ve just got to keep it a secret for another night. We leave tomorrow,’ she tells me with a soft chuckle. I mimic zipping my lips like she had done that night at the bar.
‘And how are you, Mrs Bride?’ I say a little louder, turning to the little old lady to Autumn’s right, who looks demure and elegant in her light blue fleece, white polo neck and a touch of pink blush on her cheeks.
‘I’m wonderful, dear. Now this magazine of yours,’ she replies, getting straight to the business of why I’m here early on a Monday morning. ‘You and Hope are doing a fine job and you know I will always support our villagers and I will of course be happy to carry it in here with the option to buy, but, Miss Scarlett, I know there’s more to you wanting to stock it here than either you or Hope are letting on and, well, I think it’s time for a change,’ she tells me coming out from behind the desk.
She lays a hand on my elbow and guides me to the children’s area and gestures we should sit down at the table. I oblige and pull out my notebook to jot down her ideas to report back to Hope, trying to think over my conversations with the village folk over the last week. Apart from my blunder at the bakery early on, letting it slip about trouble with the magazine, I feel that I’ve done a stellar job of keeping its struggle a secret.
‘You girls have been working so hard and Hope did a beautiful job taking over from Alfred and continuing the magazine’s traditions, but many of his ideas are dated now. While yes, we all love the horoscopes and coupons, notes about town and articles on the village’s history,’ she says this while waving her arms around as if to show me it’s a tad boring and monotonous, ‘Mable was telling me you’re going to be including recipes from the bake offs each month, which I think is gorgeous. It’s nice to include us folk but we want that imagination of yours. I know you and Hope have plenty of it,’ she finishes, her blue eyes opening wide. She rests a delicate hand on mine, the one I have atop my notebook where I haven’t actually written anything, being distracted by her words and just listening.