Page 121 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
I slide the whole thing into a brown paper bag, fold the top twice, and press the crease with the heel of my hand. “That’s it,” I tell the bag since there’s no one else. “I’m not waiting around anymore.”
My keys clatter when I scoop them; I’m all sharp movements. I flick off the last light in the prep area, and my reflection jumps in the shiny steel of the fridge—a tired woman trying to hide it with concealer and caffeine, her hair pulled back in a neat knot that she had to redo after finally closing.
My stomach rolls in a lazy, warning way; I fish a ginger candy out of the jar by the register and pop it into my mouth, relishing the spicy burn. The baby has particular opinions about when I get to be dramatic and always tries to beat me.
I snatch my bag from under the counter, tuck the pastry samples into it, and walk the perimeter out of muscle memory—back door latched, ovens off, sink handles tight, the flick-flick-flick of switches as I bring the front down to that late-evening glow that makes the glass look like a mirror. I lock up, test the handle twice, press my palm to the cool of the door because I always do, and then pivot on my heel straight toward the Wandering Pint.
It’s not even thirty steps, but tonight it feels like a crossing. The Pint is the opposite of my quiet; it’s in that happy middle where day and night stack on each other—tourists glowing with river sun and locals shedding work like old coats. Laughter rides beer foam, low and warm.
When I push the door, the bell gives its friendly little jingle, and I scan for him in the crowd.
He’s not behind the bar.
It’s Mark and a guy I don’t recognize—freckled, open face, maybe early twenties, soft new-bartender nerves he’s doing his best to hide.
On the far wall, a couple clinks forks against plates, and a man in a battered Paducah Boat Tours cap cackles at whatever story he’s telling his friend. I feel suddenly, stupidly conspicuous, like I just walked onstage into the wrong play.
Should I just go home?
No. No. He’s the father of your child. If you can’t be pissed at him, who can you be pissed at?
I square my shoulders and muscle my way to the bar.
“Hey, Paige.” Mark sees me as he slides a pilsner across the wood to a guy with sawdust still caught in his beard. He’s easy, the kind of presence that steadies a room. “What can I get you?”
“I’m—” I glance toward the office hallway without meaning to, then flip back. “Is Ben around?”
Mark and the new guy trade a quick look before Mark schools his face neutral. “Not sure,” he says carefully. “He, uh… he left a while ago.”
“Left?” The word clangs in my chest. “Like, for the store? For the night?”
“Left-left,” Mark says, then winces. “Sorry.”
“How long?” My voice sounds too thin to me. I can hear how I’m trying to be breezy and kind of failing.
“Few hours,” Mark says, and now he looks sheepish. “He didn’t say where he was going. Just grabbed his keys and… he was gone.”
“We tried calling him,” the new guy says.
“We have,” Mark says quickly, lifting his palms. “Went straight to voicemail.”
“Did something happen?” My brain starts assembling possibilities, and I force myself to shut that machine down. “Why’d he leave like that?”
Mark hesitates, then leans closer across the bar, lowering his voice enough that it reads as kindness instead of gossip. “To be honest, there was chatter all afternoon,” he says. “About the two of you.” He looks apologetic because he’s not the kind of person who enjoys passing along small-town noise.
“Yeah.” My mouth curves in a humorless approximation of a smile. “Story travels faster than the river.”
I felt it all day—those sideways looks that come with the double punch of curiosity and math. The tilted heads when customers read my face like it might give them the behind-the-scenes answer they weren’t brave enough to ask.
It’s been like that all day. I just figured someone saw us through my window last night.
I told myself I didn’t care. And if I’m being honest, I didn’t, not in the way that bites deep. I knew it was coming the moment we stepped out of the private and into the open.
But a small, stupid part of me still twists now, wondering if that’s what sent him spinning. If all those eyes made him want to erase what happened. Erase us. If he didn’t want to be known like that. If he didn’t want to be known with me.
“He was handling it,” Mark says quickly, reading too much in my face. “He did that thing where he sets his jaw and just… does the job. But then—” He glances toward the far end, like Ben might pop out any second and deck him. “We got a group of older guys in. Three. Didn’t look like tourists.”
I glance over to the new bartender, and he makes a face. “I wasn’t here,” he supplies unhelpfully. “Just heard about it when I got in. Sorry.”
