Page 67 of Every Thought Taken

They shuffle into the rooms and wave off my apology. While they try on clothes, I dart to the office in the back. My hours are the same every week, but I double-check that one of my two employees hasn’t asked for time off. After a quick glance at the schedule, I exit the back and straighten clothes on a nearby display table as I wait for the women to leave the fitting rooms.

“This dress is to die for,” the brunette says as she steps out, holding up one of the new floral dresses I got in last week. “So happy I stopped in today.”

I take the stack of clothes from her hands when she approaches the checkout counter. “Isn’t it perfect?” My cheeks tighten as I smile brighter. “When the designer emailed pictures, I immediately told her I wanted it for the shop.”

The red-haired woman sidles up to her friend with her own stack of clothes and a handbag. “You’ve really done incredible things with this shop…”

“Helena,” I offer.

She nods and smiles, her eyes roaming the store. “Gayle was wonderful, but you have a keen eye. Every time I set foot in here, I want half the shop in my closet.”

I bag the brunette’s purchases as she taps her card on the payment reader. “I truly appreciate the business, ladies.”

“I’m Catherine,” the brunette offers. “And this beauty is Sherry-Ann.”

The other woman smiles.

“It’s wonderful to meet you both. If there’s anything you’d like to see in the store, let me know. I work with a few designers whose style reflects my own, but I’m always open to new ideas.”

After I tally Sherry-Ann’s order, she pays and points a finger my way. “I’ll think on that and get back to you.”

They turn and head for the door, large brown bags swinging from their arms with my store logo on them. One last “see you soon” before I am once again alone.

I take out my phone, unlock it, and open the chat between me, Lessa, and Mags. My fingers hover over the screen as I lose focus.

What are you doing, idiot? You can’t just text Lessa and Mags to ask for advice on Anderson.

I shake my head and exit the chat, but not the messaging app. Instead, I gather every ounce of courage and tap the icon to start a new text.

My heart pounds viciously in my chest as I stare at the blank screen. I’d long since deleted the unanswered texts I sent Anderson. Months turned into years and when I hadn’t heard a peep from him, I assumed he no longer had the same number. So I stopped trying but never deleted his contact.

I hit the plus sign and scroll my contacts until I land on his name. And then my fingers hover over the keys again. Unsure what to say, I type out a generic message.

Hey, it’s Helena.

Then I tap the delete key and start again.

Hey Anderson, it’s Helena.

Why the hell is this so difficult? This is Anderson, not some random stranger hookup from a dating app. I smash the delete key and huff at the screen. Closing my eyes, I drag in a deep breath, hold it to the count of three, and exhale slowly. My fingers fly across the screen. Short, sweet, and to the point. Before I stop myself, I hit send.

Helena

I work 9-6 Tuesday through Friday and 9-3 on Saturday.

My eyes lock on the screen as I wait for any indication he’s seen it or is responding. The screen dims and I tap it awake. I nibble on the corner of my bottom lip, occasionally peeking up to see if anyone is lingering outside the shop.

Thedeliveredbeneath my blue bubble changes toreadand my pulse kicks up. How does something as simple as him reading my message spike my pulse? God, my reaction is so juvenile and virginal. Sweaty palms, ragged breaths, that swirling energy beneath my diaphragm.

When did I last feel thisbuzz? Anderson and I didn’t part on the best of terms, but no matter how hard I tried, I never connected with anyone else. Not like I did with him. I never experienced that delightful hum of anticipation with another person.

Much as I wanted to move on, I had difficulty saying yes to dates two or three with a guy. I tried—truly, I did—but guilt consumed me every time I compared them to Anderson. Their hair and jawline and frame were all wrong. The scent of their cologne missed the mark. How they looked me up and down made me shiver, and not in a good way. And their views on life didn’t match mine. Worst of all, the egos. God, I was done with men and their need to prove how extraordinary they were.

At the end of the day, and at no fault of their own, they just weren’t who I wanted.

It’s difficult to move forward and findthe onewhen you can’t move past the first or second date.

The first year of college, I kept my head down and nose in textbooks. I wanted to make Mom and Dad proud. By sophomore year, I had relaxed a little. Took a breath. Went out with Lessa to a few parties. And the guys… noticed.

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