Page 14 of Forget Me Knot

She huffs her annoyance at me and narrows her eyes at the box in my hand.

“I didn’t come empty handed.”

“A ring would be better,” she says,tut-tuttingme and shaking her head, incredibly disappointed with my peace offering.

“Hiya, folks.” Maloy struts up the sidewalk in our direction with Nate at his side.

I groan at the sky.Why do I have to have an audience for this?

“What do we have here, my guy?” he says.

Maloy and Nate are my two oldest friends. We played Little League together, fought over girls in high school, played college ball, and were even roommates for a short period of time. Our former closeness is probably why I can always tell when they aren’t sure how to approach me from day to day.

“Maloy. Nate,” I greet them, each with abronod that I hope says,good to see you, now please kindly get lost.

“Comin’ to say hey to Dinah?” Nate asks, a knowing smirk on his dumb face.

“Yup.”

“And”—Nate’s gaze travels to the box in my hands—“carbs say...?”

I growl because I don’t know what else to say. I did not intend on laying out every intention for my day to the entire town outside my own business and home.

Maloy slaps his hand on my shoulder. “I think that’s Jack’s way of sayin’ he calls dibs.”

“You can’t call dibs on a woman,” Nate chastises.

Mrs. Cotten leans in closer to her husband, but says loud enough to gain the attention of other curious bystanders across the street. “What’s dibs, dear? And how do you call it on a woman?”

Her husband shrugs. “Beats me. Could be one of them eupharisms.”

“Euphemisms, Mr. Cotten.” I feel my blood pressure rising, and the ache that’s a dull constant behind my eye begins to beat like a slow and steady drum. “And it’s not. And I’m not,” I say pointedly, eyeing Maloy.

He rubs his hands together like he’s looking for warmth. “Good deal. Then you won’t mind me runnin’ on in to say hello to Dinah for myself. Because I absolutely don’t mind callin’ dibs.” He begins to push forward when my hand juts out, slapping him in the chest and stopping him in his tracks.

“No.”

“No?” he questions with a sly grin I’d like to knock off his face.

I face forward, staring at thatClosedsign and think about the woman on the other side of the door compelling me forward. I’m a moth, following the flickering of a flame against my better judgment. Wordlessly, I push on the closed door, finding it unlocked, and leave the audience on the street behind me.

“Hello?” The place is empty and void of activity, save the ballad blaring over the speakers right now about some guy begging to be pulled out of a train wreck. It’s haunting, and I kind of dig it.

“Um…” I warily step behind the counter and peek around. “Um, excuse me? Dinah?”

Suddenly, a pink blur flies through the swinging kitchen door, clutching her hand to her chest. Her bright green eyes are red-rimmed, cheeks rosy, and pale pink lips trembling.

She gulps like she’s out of breath. “What are you doing here? I thought I locked the door… I’m closed.”

I’m immediately on guard. I may not be the most emotionally adept guy out there, but I have a mom and sister who claim not to wear their emotions on their sleeves, and yet we all know when something’s amiss thanks to a few tell-tell signs.

Watery eyes.

Incessant sniffling.

Shaking lips.

And finally, the ability to claim, “I’m fine,” while avoiding eye contact, or my least favorite, silently sobbing into the atmosphere.

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