Page 19 of Overdue

“No, thank you.” So her answer is still no, but, at least, she said it with a smile this time.

“Okay then. See you tomorrow. Thanks for this.” I wave the paper and leave.

Notice I made it the entire afternoon without growling something obscene at her. Maybe there’s hope for me yet. Crap, did I just jinx myself? Whatever. This day is going in the win column also.

I can’t help but grin as I point my truck toward home. I like the new Austen. She has all the spunk and beauty she’s always had, but now she has the confidence to go with it. Gran was right, she has grown up good.

* * *

AUSTEN

I kick off my shoes and slump down on the couch when I get home. Never did I think that being the local librarian in such a small town would be so exhausting.

I hosted the local genealogy club this morning, filled in for the regular storytime person who’s home with a cold, pulled books to be sold at the annual book sale, and reminded no less than twenty pre-teens they still need to be quiet, even on the computers.

Weirdly, the few minutes I spent looking at Reed’s drawings were the best part of my day. I don’t even want to contemplate the implications of that.

“Everything good at work?” Dad asks, looking up from his iPad. He’s always either teaching about physics or reading about it. He’s a great dad, but his topics of conversation usually go right over my head.

“Yep. You?”

He responds with some form of a grunt. Is it possible that all men converse in grunts, and I’ve just misread Reed’s? I’m too tired to think about it now.

“Do you know what we’re having for supper?”

He makes another noise I assume is a negative response.

“Well, do you know when we’re eating?” It must have come out a little too snarky because he puts down his iPad to look at me over the top of his reading glasses.

I sigh and head to the kitchen. Mom is checking on something in the oven.

“Hey. Dad just told me, without speaking, that, if I wanted to know when supper was, I could darn well get off the couch and come help. So, what can I do?” I ask.

“Well, you know your father. Always such a way with words.” Mom laughs. “How was your day?” I shrug. “I heard you and Reed were getting chummy at one of the tables today.” What exactly does “getting chummy” mean? It wasn’t like I was giving the man a lap dance.

“I’ve been helping him with a project, if that’s what you mean.” Mom gives me a conspiratorial smile. “Ughhh! People need to mind their own business. There has never been anything between us, and there never will be. Why do I have to be the latest topic of conversation?”

“Sweetie, you moved home and immediately dealt out the ‘slap heard around the world.’ I’ve even heard speculation about it in the next county over. What do you expect?”

“I don’t know.” The tears start to well in my eyes. “I guess I just thought I’d be famous for something else now instead of assaulting Reed Campbell. I mean, the feud between us is old news.”

“Honey.” Mom reaches for me. I hold up a hand to stop her.

“It’s fine, Mom. I’m going to go take a shower if you don’t need me to help.” Without waiting for an answer, I leave the kitchen.

It’s not Mom’s fault I’m such a washout at the ripe age of twenty-six. It’s no one’s fault but my own. The current pity party I’m throwing myself isn’t doing anything to help. This is my life now, and I need to start dealing with it.

I leave my clothes in a pile in the middle of the bathroom and slip into the shower. The water slowly washes away all the tension in my shoulders.

I do have a lot of things in my life to be thankful for. I have amazing, supportive parents who let me move back in. I have a roof over my head that Mom and Dad insist I don’t pay rent for. They want me to save my money for my own place.

I have a great job bringing the love of reading to others. The pay’s not great, but at least it’s something. And I have the start of an adult friendship with my older sister.

By the time I turn off the water, I feel much better. Counting my blessings is a trick Grandma Caraway taught me as a little girl. It’s never failed to put my life in perspective. I wrap my hair in a towel and pull on a pair of pajamas.

My phone pinged while I was in the shower, so I pick it up off the counter to check. It’s a text from Reed. I don’t remember ever receiving a text from him before.

Reed: I hope you don’t mind me texting. I wanted to thank you again for the help. What are you up to?

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