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

trip to buy dinner or pick up a toothbrush they forgot at home, so it’s imperative that I have every essential and comfort item a person could ever need in stock. If I survive the first year, and turn a profit, I might be able to hire more help.

Hours pass with me bent over my laptop and disorganized papers. Wesley ensures I don’t starve to death by tentatively poking a bowl of Cheerios in front of me. I scarf it down so quickly that I don’t taste anything. “Charades,” I mutter, scribbling. My hand is sore and sweaty. “A murder mystery dinner theater. A live band! With accordions!”

Wesley leans across me and scribbles out that last idea as soon as I jot it down.

“I am not biting off more than I can chew,” I tell him fervently.

“Never said you were.”

“Anyone who says that is severely underestimating my jaws.”

“I have no doubt,” he replies calmly, clicking a pen as he glances over my proposal for the biggest lettuce garden known to man.

I’m running numbers on ketchup now. Why is ketchup so expensive? Two dollars and fifty-two cents is highway robbery. Do I have the energy to pursue homemade-ketchup making? I smack myself. No! I’m already in too deep with crocheted coasters.

“It’s because I’m a born multitasker,” I rave. “I was born under a Libra moon, probably. Strong as an ox. We Maybells see your You can’t do this and we raise you an It may take me longer, but just watch me.” I raise my glass of lemonade in a toast to myself. “We’re weeds growing out of the cracks in concrete: even when we should have been defeated long ago, you can’t keep us down.”

Wesley is wordlessly collecting my things and shuffling them into a neat pile.

“I will make my own potpourri even if it kills me,” I declare.

Wesley pulls out my chair. “All right. Time for bed.”

“What?” I clutch the edge of the table. “No! I’m not ready to go!”

“It’ll be here for you in the morning. Fresh eyes.”

“No! I can’t go to bed, this is too important.” He steals me away as I reach for my spreadsheets and color-coded life planner. “I’m a Maybell Parrish! I’m the survivor who writes it all down in history books!”

“Of course you are,” he says tenderly.

As he begins to drag me off, my emotions ping-pong in the opposite direction. I’ve bitten off way more than I can chew and now I’m choking on it. “Who do I think I am?” I moan in despair. “Why did I think I could do all this? I couldn’t even give myself the quitting story I deserved.”

He looks down at me with a quizzical brow, asking without asking.

“I snuck out like a coward. No fanfare at all. I gave them my youth, Wesley, and there were days when the only thing getting me through was the fantasy about how I would quit someday. How I’d go off on my boss. Never did.” I give up, going slack. He catches my melting form and drags me down the hall with my socked heels gliding.

“Well, go back and quit.”

“You are not serious.”

“Am so.”

“I already quit, though. Back in April. My boss left me nasty voicemails about it. If I show up now, they’ll march me out with security.”

“Sounds like an amazing quitting story. Who cares if you don’t work there anymore? If you regret not going down in flames, go back there and go down in flames.”

I cock my head, considering it. “Huh.”

“Better late than never,” he prompts.

I let my head loll back as I admire him. “You have such a beautiful point.”

He snorts.

“I’ll go back to Around the Mountain and get the quitting story of my dreams if you’ll do something you’ve always wanted to do, too,” I tell him.

“Like a pact?”

“Yes. Perfect.” I revel in the sound of that, imagining the all-seeing Fates at their loom, weaving our tapestry. “An unbreakable pact.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Loch Ness,” he remarks. I can’t tell if he’s merely indulging me right now. From his tone, he sounds greatly amused.

“Someday I’ll quit that job I don’t even have anymore, and you’ll go find your Loch Ness Monster and keep it a secret from everybody. I’ll even come with you.”

Wesley laughs. “Deal. But my one condition is no pictures. We never photograph the supernatural.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

“Let’s shake on it.”

He squeezes his arms tighter around me and shakes my whole body. I tell him he isn’t funny, which is a lie. Then I tell him that was a lie, because I say whatever I’m thinking when I’m sleep-deprived. “What if this is all just a simulation,” I mutter.

He tucks me into bed, taking care to fluff my pillows and refill my water. I bet if I ever get sick, he’ll bring me heating pads and chicken noodle soup.

“Wesley, if I don’t finish my to-do list right now, I’ll never have peace. You don’t understand. My brain literally won’t be able to turn off.”

He turns on my white-noise machine and shuts off the light.

“I’ve got so much to do. I can’t sleep. Physically, I can’t sleep. Not even if I try.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Just one more email. I’ll make it a quick one. I am really good at . . .” My eyes close against their will. “I am so good at emailing. Not everybody is, you know.”

“You’re the best at emailing.” His voice is warm with affection, and my little balloon heart swells beyond capacity.

“I love your smile,” I prattle. I can’t see his smile right now, but I can hear it. “You smile so much more now than you did when I met you.”

He wavers at the door for so long that I think he’s left.

“When I’m around people I don’t know, I rarely smile,” Wesley confesses at length. “When you smile, people look at you more. I prefer to blend in. For nobody to notice me.”

Snip, and away it flies. Goodbye, heart.

“It’s impossible not to notice you. I would know a Wesley