I freeze midstep, my stomach bottoming out.
What just happened?
My phone chirps, and I jump at the sound. It’s a message from Libby. Had some errands to run! Should be home around eight.
I swallow a fist-sized glob of tension and write back, Anything I can help with? Not much work to do today after all. A blatant lie, but she’s not here to see that in my face.
Nope! she says. Enjoying the Me Time—no offense. See you later!
I walk back to my computer in a daze. It feels like a sort of betrayal, but I don’t know what else to do at this point, weeks into this trip and no closer to any answers. I text Brendan.
Hey, how are things back home? Did Libby ever get back to you?
He answers immediately. Things are good! Yep, we caught up! All good there?
I try fourteen different versions of What’s wrong with my sister before accepting she’d definitely be furious with me if she found out I’d asked him. The rules that govern family dynamics are nonsensical, but they’re also rigid. Mom knew exactly how to get us to open up, but I’m increasingly feeling like I’m in a booby-trapped cave, Libby’s heart on a dais in the center. Every step I take risks making things worse.
All good! I write back to Brendan and turn my focus to work. Or try to.
The rest of the afternoon, customers come and go, but for the most part Charlie and I are the only two people in the shop, and I’ve never been less productive.
After a while, he texts from the desk, Where’d Julie Andrews go?
Back to the nunnery, I write. She gave up. She couldn’t help you.
I have that effect, he says.
Not on Dusty, I write. She’s loving you.
She’s loving us, he corrects. Like I said, we’re good together.
I cast around for a response and find none. The only thing I can really think about is the strained look on my sister’s face and her sudden departure. Libby had some mysterious plans, I tell him.
He says, Must be the grand opening of the Dunkin’ Donuts two towns over.
A minute later, he adds, you okay? Like even from separate rooms, with multiple screens between us, he is reading my mood. The thought sends a strange hollow ache out through my limbs. Something like loneliness. Something like Ebenezer Scrooge watching his nephew Fred’s Christmas party through the frosty window. An outsideness made all the more stark by the revelation of insideness.
All I really want is to go perch on the edge of Charlie’s desk and tell him everything, make him laugh, let him make me laugh until nothing feels quite so pressing.
Fine, I write back. Afterward, I catch myself refreshing my email a couple of times and force myself to click back over to the manuscript. I’m so distracted by trying to distract myself, it’s eight minutes after five when I next look at the clock.
The shop is silent, and I pack with the care of one trying not to wake a pride of hungry lions. I sling my bag over my shoulder and run-walk from the café, still unsure whether Charlie is the lion in the scenario or if I am.
That’s what I’m pondering when I make it through the doorway and almost collide with Charlie on the other side, which might explain why I shout, “LION!”
His eyes go wide. His hands fly in front of his face （maybe he thought I meant, Here’s a lion! Catch!）， and miracle of all miracles, we both screech to a halt, landing almost toe-to-toe on the sidewalk, but touching absolutely nowhere.
My heart thrums. My chest flushes.
“I didn’t know you were still here,” he says.
“I am,” I say.
“You always leave at five.” He shifts the watering can in his left hand to his right. Behind him, the flowers in the shop’s window box glisten, plump droplets clinging to their orange and pink petals and sparkling in the afternoon light. “Exactly five,” Charlie adds.
“Things got busy,” I lie.
His eyes dart to my chin. My skin warms ten more degrees. Quietly, he begins, “Is everything okay? You haven’t seemed like—”
“Hey! Charlie!” A low, smooth voice cuts him off. Across the street, an angelic giant of a man with twin dimples and gemstone eyes is climbing out of a muddy pickup truck.
“Shepherd,” Charlie says, somewhat stiffly, his chin dipping in greeting. It’s not like there are daggers in his eyes, but he doesn’t seem happy to see Shepherd either. History, subtext, backstory—whatever you want to call it, these two people have it.
“Sally asked me to drop this by,” Shepherd says, thrusting a tote bag in Charlie’s direction as he crosses the street toward us.