She breathes heavily, clenches her jaw, and nods fiercely as if she’s deciding she’s done with tears. “Exactly, and my picnic is awesome, and he doesn’t deserve it.”
“No way. He doesn’t even deserve a cracker that fell on the ground or the cheese from my chest.”
Her lips quirk up, and she laughs in spite of herself, it seems. “Don’t tempt me, Gabe. Now I want to serve him sweaty cheese and dirty crackers if he ever shows up for a wine and cheese night at the store,” she says, and I picture the bookshop she owns in the center of town.
“It’ll be our little secret that you have such a naughty side.” Her eyes seem to sparkle appreciatively when I say that word—naughty.
I gesture to the meal. “This delicious spread should not go to waste,” I say, hinting not at all subtly, since I’d like a bite of some of these goodies. “Don’t know if you’re aware, but I have had a bottomless appetite since I was born. I can pretty much always eat.”
“And I like to reward hearty appetites.” She grabs a slice of cheese and a cracker then hands them to me. “This picnic is definitely not for any recipients of the Dickhead of the Year Award.” She gives a tough little lift of her chin.
“That’s the spirit.”
I smile widely at her, then pop the treat into my mouth. After I chew, I declare it the best cracker in the land.
It’s a cracker, for fuck’s sake.
But Arden is smiling again.
And that’s the least I can do.
I don’t know David from Adam. I don’t know their relationship whatsoever. But I know this: the woman made him a meal, put on a pretty dress, and placed her heart on this red-and-white checkered blanket.
However he ended things, leaving her like this was a jackass move of the highest order. If he didn’t have the sensitivity to know that, the least I can do is show her that some men do have the common courtesy to enjoy a feast prepared by a good woman.
Grabbing a napkin, I dab at the remnants of tears on her cheeks, and she whispers her thanks.
We dine, and we chat, and I steer the conversation to innocuous topics. “Favorite cheese? If you had to pick one cheese for the rest of your life, what would it be?”
She shoots me a you-can’t-be-serious look after that question. “Are you trying to be cruel and unusual?”
I laugh, waving it off. “You’re right. Having only one kind of cheese forever and ever does sound like a fresh new hell.”
She nudges me with her elbow. “Exactly.” She rolls her eyes. “Next thing you know, you’ll be trying to get me to choose only one wine for the rest of my days.”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “I’ve learned my lesson. I swear.”
“Good.” She lowers her voice. “For the record, it’d be a white.”
“Ah, so you do have a favorite wine?”
“Not a wine-for-the-rest-of-my-life, but I do prefer whites. You?”
“Beer.”
She laughs, and it’s such a better sound than the sobs.
A little later, I’ve polished off more cheese and crackers, along with some almonds and olives, and Arden has nibbled on a few strawberries and grapes.
“Let me walk you to your car,” I tell her, after she packs up her basket. “Little red Honda down by the trailhead?”
“That’s mine.”
A few minutes later, I open the driver’s side door for her and then reach around to set the basket in the back seat.
I wag a finger at her. “Now, don’t let him get you down, you promise me?”
She nods and smiles, but it’s an apologetic one. “I’ll do my best. And thank you, Gabe. You helped so much.”
“I’m glad I was there. I’m glad my chest was there too, so you didn’t knock any robins down with that sniper aim of yours.”
She laughs then winces. “I’m sorry about that. Sorry you had to see me crying too.”
“Don’t think twice about it. Just promise me this: don’t let any jerks win your heart again.”
She holds up a pinky. “I promise.”
I’ve never pinky sworn before, but now seems as good a time as any. I wrap my little finger around hers. “There. It’s a deal. I’ll be looking out for you.”
“I appreciate that.”
When she takes off, I turn around, pick up the pace, and resume my run, trying my best to think of other women. Like the cute little brunette from Whiskey Hollows I met the other night at a barbecue, or the leggy redhead from the gym who asked me to work out with her.
Anyone.
Anyone at all but the woman who’s had her dignity stomped on.
The woman who is, for all intents and purposes, as unavailable as she was the day I met her.
The woman whose heart is broken over another man.
I shovel a hand through my hair as if I can rid myself of the inappropriate thoughts about how damn pretty she is, even with her tear-stained cheeks and sad brown eyes.
Pretty and technically available.
But I’d have to give myself the Jackass of the Century prize if I tried to take advantage of her right now, or anytime soon. And I’m not interested in collecting any trophies of that nature.
I run like my pants are on fire for five miles, and that does the trick.
For now.
After I leave the woods, I jog past my parents’ home, dart up the stone path, and knock on the door. My dad answers quickly, clapping me on the back.
“Can’t believe you didn’t invite me to join you on your run,” he deadpans. “I’m wounded.”
“I’m only looking out for you. You’d get addicted if I did. You’d want to run marathons.”
He ran plenty of marathons back in the day and kicked ass in every single one.
I walk past the living room, stopping to give my mom a kiss on the forehead as she reads some book she surely picked up from Arden’s store.
Fuck. I wasn’t supposed to be thinking of Arden.
In the kitchen I grab a glass of water, down a thirsty gulp, then set it on the counter as my dad strides in. “Want something to eat?”
“I already ate. Thanks.”
“At Silver Phoenix Lake?”
I laugh. “Yeah. Funny thing. I ran into a picnic.”
He arches one eyebrow in confusion.
I wave it off. “Long story.”
“I have time.”
“It’s complicated.”
He grabs a stool and sits down, folding his hands in his lap, waiting for me to tell him the tale.
I drag a hand through my sweaty hair. “So, Dad. There’s this girl . . .”
3
Arden
One week later
When someone helps you, you thank that person.
That’s simple good manners.
Perhaps it’s a thoughtful card. Maybe it’s a small gift. Sometimes it’s baked goods.
By that same token, you should apologize properly when you inadvertently hit a person with a slice of cheese, even though I doubt Miss Manners has codified the protocol for that particular faux pas.
But I figured this one out on my own, since I pride myself on please, thank you, and proper apologies, as well as delivering them in the right fashion to the right people. If this makes me too nice, so be it. I will wear the “nice girl” sticker with pride.
Take that, David.
“Ha! There’s nothing wrong with being nice,” I mutter as I put the finishing touches on the cookie-dough-stuffed pretzels I’ve just baked. This particular thank-you-for-the-shoulder-and-forgive-me-for-my-aim gift is taking the form of a sweet treat, since I bet they don’t sell those cards at Hallmark.
And that’s a good thing, since these pretzels smell sinfully good. So good, in fact, I bet they taste the way naughty feels.
Except I don’t really know what that feels like, so I shove the thought out of my mind, grabbing a Tupperware container. Baked goods are most appropriate for a man you don’t know that well. Sure, I’ve had plenty of conversations with Gabe prior to the Witness of My Tears Extravaganza. He joined the fire station a year or two ago, transferring from the city of San Francisco. Each time we’ve chatted, he’s seemed both friendly and thoughtful, easy to talk to. But beyond the interactions when he visited my store to pick up new mystery novels or crossword puzzle books, or the times I ran into him at Vanessa’s bowling alley, I don’t know him terribly well.
Except I know he likes the ladies.
And the ladies like him.
If I were on the hunt for a one-night stand, or a real good time, he’d surely be the one I’d turn to. The man has charm for miles—a playboy with a heart of gold.
But I’m not going to thank him with my body. Obviously.
Food seems a close second on his list of favorite things. Even if he was eating the picnic to be polite, he legit appeared to appreciate the spread. Men who work with their hands and bodies seem to dig gifts of fuel more than others.
Hence these kickass treats, courtesy of a recipe from my favorite Instagram baker, a fifteen-year-old in New York City who makes the most creative treats on her baking show. It’s amazing what you can learn on Instagram once you look past the endless selfie sea. I press the green plastic top onto the container, sealing in the goodies with a pop. I wipe one palm against the other. There.
Tucking the treats into my shoulder bag, I leave my two-story yellow cottage with the wraparound porch I happen to think is the height of good living, lock the door, and walk six blocks to the town square where my very own bookstore sits proudly in the center of Oak Street. A New Chapter overlooks an expanse of emerald-green grass, park benches, and a statue of some old dude who founded this town in the gold rush era.
I open the cherry-red door to A New Chapter to a twin chorus of meows.
“Are you starving? Is that what you’re telling me? Twelve hours is just too long for your bellies to handle?”
Henry and Clare answer with a duet of cat yeses, so I scoop some food for the rescue kitties the local shelter manager asked me to take in. How could I resist? They were homeless after the wine country fires last year, so I gave them four walls and a roof amidst the books, since customers dig bookstore cats. They purr their appreciation—a gratitude that will only last for a few minutes since they are, after all, cats.