Page 8 of Broken Pact

Living in Rosewood means I have to travel to get those experiences. There’s music here, don’t get me wrong. But it’s kids talent shows and festivals and karaoke night at The Wild Boar. Which is practically a Reaper bar, and almost the entire town knows my feelings on them. Or a certain one, at least.

I swipe over to Harper’s notification, the boulder of disappointment doubling.

Harper: Babe, I’m so sorry but I’m not going to be home in time for the concert! They overbooked the flight and I was one of the unlucky ones to get the boot. *sad face* But you better still go and send me photos! And please, for the love of god, take a video of the show! Just a couple songs!

My shoulders slump forward as I reread her text.

Me: Sure, going to a concert alone is always super fun *thumbs up emoji*

Passive-aggressive texting isn’t usually my thing, but I am a little annoyed. We’ve had these plans for like three months. Harper decided to take a last-minute trip to visit her boyfriend across the country last week. I tried to tell her, but she doesn’t listen to a word anyone says when it comes to him.

I can’t imagine ever being so twisted up about someone that I forget all reason. Drop all my plans and basically lift my middle finger to the rest of the world. When I’m feeling particularly masochistic, I think about that one time—that one person—that made me feel a little out of control. But it was never the all-consuming infatuation or love. I sigh, letting all that bad juju fall off of me. There’s no use in dragging up shit that’s better left untouched.

Harper: Please, you’re the most extroverted person I know. I bet you’ll leave the show with five new besties!

I exhale a breath, exhaustion settling in behind my eyes. I don’t bother correcting her assessment of me.

Me: It's fine. Have a safe flight home and I’ll see you later.

Harper: I told Davis you’d understand!

My top lip curls up at the mention of his name. Fucking Davis. I huff as I slide the platter of ice cream sandwiches into the freezer in the back of the bakery. My sour mood hangs over my head like a raincloud, and there’s only one thing that will dissipate it. I flick off the lights and lock the door, heading to the grocery.

5

CORALINE

“Out of the way, youth.” The warning hits my ears a second before the edge of a grocery cart grazes my hip.

I jump to the left, narrowly dodging the cart return in the parking lot of Harold’s Supermarket. My hand flies to the sore spot, my fingers pressing tightly against the ache. My gaze narrows as I recognize the back of Mrs. Handler’s head—her silver hair twisted into a perfect chignon.

“Thanks for the head’s up,” I call out, inflecting my voice with that southern sweet tone my grandma taught me years ago. There’s fifteen feet of available space to my right that she could have pushed her cart on, but that wouldn’t be her way.

Mrs. Handler responds by flipping the bird over her shoulder. She doesn’t even break her stride. If anything, her anger seems to give her some pep in her step.

I narrow my eyes on her retreating form, letting the sun bake away my own frustrations. Regret fills me like a mouth full of sour grapes. The grocery store on a Saturday afternoon might’ve been my worst idea ever, and that’s saying something considering I once let my older brothers cut my hair in the third grade. Beau put a bowl over my head and Graham started chopping. Thank god Mom walked in before he got too far. I had the worst pair of choppy fringe bangs for a few months until I grew them out long enough to tie back.

But I convinced myself that I can be quick today. I only need a few things. In and out, fast.

Just like your last boyfriend, my subconscious adds with a snicker. Her voice sounds more like my cousin’s than mine, but since she’s the best person I know, I take it as a good sign.

I snort before I can stop myself and exhale a breath.

“Don’t take it personally.”

The soft voice startles me, and I jerk my head to the left, finding the owner of the advice. “What?”

A woman stands between two SUVs, the rear driver’s side door open and a handful of reusable grocery bags stacked on the seat. “Mrs. Handler,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward me and nodding toward the grocery store with a smirk. “I said don’t take it personally. She’s like that to everyone who isn’t local.”

“Oh, yeah, I know her.” My brows dip as I look at her. She’s around my age if I had to guess, dressed in a faded band tee, hair tangled in an artfully messy bun.

She smiles and wipes her hands along her jean shorts. “Then you already know not enough luck in the world is going to help you in there today,” she says around a laugh, nodding toward the grocery store.

A wince scrunches my face up. “That bad, huh?”

“Worse.” She laughs as she bumps her car door closed with her hip.

My brows lift toward my hairline. “Love that for us.”

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