Twice Shy by Sarah Hogle (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📗

MAYBELL’S COFFEE SHOP AU has a musty odor to it, and there are a few trash bags building up along the wall.

“What’s going on in here?” Jack asks, waltzing over.

“I’m renovating.”

He nods, skimming the café. “Looks bigger.”

“I let out the seams of the walls to give us a few extra feet. I’m thinking about adding a hotel to the café. What do you think?”

“I think that’s the best idea I’ve ever heard in my entire life.” He brushes a strand of hair out of my face. “But I’m not surprised. Your ideas consistently amaze me.” His voice drops an octave. “So when are you going to let me take you to Venice on my private jet, you beautiful genius?”

I sigh. For whatever reason, Jack just isn’t doing it for me today. I’m finding his presence grating. “Rain check?” I propose, and his hopeful smile crumbles. He’s devastated, of course. Jack’s been chasing me for months.

The red light on the rotary phone flashes: IRL Calling.

“Anyway, life’s pretty hectic right now,” I tell him, swiveling to check on the batch of apple fritters in the oven. “Let’s try this again another—” Oh, that stupid red light won’t stop flashing.

I send the call to voicemail. “Maybell!” an aggravated voice blares through the speakers.

“Raghh, I was just about to leave, anyway! Give me a minute to wrap this up—goddamn it!” I’ve burned my apple fritters. Here! In my magical coffee shop where nothing ever burns! I whirl again and wipe away the café with a swish of my hand. Wesley’s knocking on my bedroom door.

“Are you in there?” he asks. Rudely.

I bolt out of bed, too fast, giving myself fuzzy brain static. Every time I’m interrupted mid-daydream, it’s an embarrassing reminder that I’ve once again lost touch with reality. I become irritable. “What?” I yell back.

“Sorry to bother you.” His tone is testy. If I ever need a rather large stick, I’ll know exactly where to find one. “The dumpster guys are going to be here in thirty minutes to pick up their containers, so we have to make sure we’ve got the house cleared out as much as possible.”

“I’ve got my half cleared.”

“Are you sure? It looks like there’s plenty of trash left.”

I open the door. Wesley backs up two steps. “That’s not trash,” I reply nicely. “It’s all stuff I can keep or donate.”

“That reddish-purple sofa’s seen better days. I mean, there are springs coming out and . . .” He trails off as his gaze zeroes in on my chest. Or not my chest, but my necklace. My blood can’t tell the difference and rises to the surface, splotching the area in question.

I’m wearing Violet’s pendant, which I found under my bed along with a dust bunny and a colored pencil. It’s stamped with the number 51 to commemorate either Violet’s fifty-first birthday or her fifty-first wedding anniversary, and I rummaged up a chain for it so that I can keep something precious of Violet’s close to my heart.

I watch the muscles in Wesley’s face go lax, the raw grief he exposes for only a second before sending it back into hiding.

“Anyway.” He clears his throat. “Thirty minutes.” His eyes drag down my outfit. “Not too late to add more to the dumpster.”

Message received, and unheeded. I’m wearing gems from my hoard haul: cowboy boots, a turquoise bolo tie, a rhinestone peasant top, and gold culottes. I can’t imagine wasting all these interesting statement pieces. Everything I’ve ever heard about fashion sense is wrong. Less isn’t more; more is more. “What?” I say sweetly, adding a sun hat with cherries and a veil to my ensemble. “I told you these clothes were still useful. And you said nobody would ever wear them. Pah!”

He winces. “It hurts to look at you.”

“You made me burn my apple fritters, so we’re even.”

“When did I do that?” He perks up, sniffing the air. “You made apple fritters?”

“Here.” I hand him the hat. He eyes it like I’m offering a dead skunk, not taking it from my hands. I try to put it on his head, but he’s too tall. I play a game of horseshoes, which one of us finds very amusing.

It lands on his head after seven tries. “Need to get a picture of this.” I dig out my phone.

“Another one for the collection?” He isn’t being mean, I think, but he does take the hat off and pushes my phone away. “I don’t like having my picture taken.”

“Why not?”

“Just don’t.”

“Are you in witness protection?”

He shakes his head, walking away. It’s been less than three minutes and he’s already done with me. “Why is that where your head goes?”

I follow him to the house, trying to catch up but never quite able to match his pace. It’s like he’s trying to escape or something. All the more evidence that he’s in witness protection.

I pounce on him in the kitchen, which is starting to resemble a kitchen again. Wesley’s only half-hidden by boxes and storage tubs, 80 percent of which are filled with plastic ladles and spatulas. I don’t have the heart to get rid of good ladles and spatulas. Or the salmon dish towels, which are a little bit moth-eaten but could still be useful if I ever need to clean grease off the bottom of my car. And a few broken cups, which I can give a second life to with a craft project of some sort. I’ll get into the world of mosaic-making.

“What’s that?” I poke at his thermos of sweet tea.

“Poison,” he mutters. “So don’t drink it.”

“I’m not going to drink your tea. Imagine that: me putting my mouth on somebody else’s thermos.” I glance at the lid and imagine it. “Chill out.”

“If you knew it was tea, why’d you ask?” He turns to lean against the counter. The window above the sink is right behind him, transforming whatever’s written on his face into an indecipherable silhouette.

“There’s nobody else around here to talk to. I don’t know how you can be so