Page 18 of Mistlefoe
“Ugh. I almost forgot about that.” Sierra puts her face in her hands. “This is ridiculous. Why do we have to start organizing this so late? Like, I’m sure all venues in town are already taken.”
“It’s supposed to be a challenge, I guess.” I read through the list on the board again and start noting down basic event planning stuff. Venue, catering, decorations. It’d be great if we could work backwards and just book all the logistical stuff first, but what if we end up needing a bigger place? Or smaller?
“Well, I’ve been giving myself headaches from thinking so hard but other than gift ball pit, I haven’t come up with anything else that sounds good. You?”
I cringe a little. “Would you kill me if I tell you I got nothing?” Especially when I’ve been thinking more about our rift than this project.
Sierra sighs and leans back on her chair. “Clearly we need inspiration.”
“Should we go talk with a mall Santa?” I joke but she tilts her head like she’s considering it.
“Hmm, not a terrible idea.”
“You can’t be serious.” I snort.
“Well, no that.” She sits up straight and types up on her computer. “My mom is a nail tech and one of her customers was talking about this Christmas fair she’s organizing. Maybe we can try that.”
“My brain’s not braining so I’m down.”
“Okay. Should we take a field day to the fair?”
With her? Just us? No coworkers nearby to keep us civil? Or to keep me sane?
“Let’s do it,” I agree, as if I wasn’t triggering a whole existential crisis within myself. Because it makes no sense that I’m feeling something close to excitement when just an hour ago I dreaded being around her.
CHAPTER 8
SIERRA
Life’s weird. That’s the only way I can explain how I find myself in the passenger’s seat of my work foe’s pickup truck. Or former foe? I don’t know. It’s not like I can shake two years of feeling sour about the guy just like that, which is why I find this moment so strange.
The first thing that made me kind of record scratch when I hopped on, is that his truck smells good. Like aftershave and man. I have no right thinking that anything Conor Mahoney adjacent is good and yet, here I am, inhaling the stuff like it’s giving me a high.
The next thing was the sheer size of him. Clearly, I kept him at bay enough that I knew he was a tall guy, but didn’t have a real concept of his size until we sat in a vehicle cabin together. These trucks are made for giants like him because where I have plenty of room around me, Conor is just snug. His knees almost bump against the dashboard. Meanwhile, my seat is at level with his and there’s still so much empty space between my legs and the front of the car.
But the one thing that snags my attention the most is how he drives. Namely, super slow, always under the speed limit.Even grannies pass him. And he bodily turns to the left a lot as if he expecting a freight train form that side or something.
I wait until we’re at a red light to call his name. “Conor.”
“Hmm?” He turns to me. Today his hair is a messy halo that would make him look boyish if it wasn’t for the lumberjack beard.
“Why do you keep turning to one side? Isn’t that uncomfortable?”
He blinks slowly. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
Turning back to face forward, he says, “I have very low vision in my left eye.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry, I passed all the driving exams thanks to my glasses.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I scratch my head through my beanie. “I mean, weren’t you a hockey player? Then how…”
“So you haven’t seen the video either?” Conor rubs his beard in a way that almost makes him look uncomfortable. “I thought everyone who knew me knows what happened.”
“Sorry, I’ve spent two years trying to not think about you. Stalking you online would’ve been the opposite.”
