Page 137 of Just One More Thing

Miss Hattie is worse. She buys two jelly-filled doughnuts and winks at me so many times I start worrying about her left eye.

Frank hums “Let’s Get It On” behind the racks until Granny smacks the back of his arm with an order pad. “Ow,” Frank says.

“You’re lucky I didn’t use the stapler.”

“I was just humming.”

“My ass. You knew exactly what you were doing and I know you knew.”

Frank wisely returns to glazing.

Granny is the worst of all. Not because she says much. Because she doesn’t. She just keeps looking at me.

I try to ignore her. I refill napkins. Wipe down counters. Rearrange pink boxes by size. Answer questions from customers who are absolutely not asking the questions they actually came in to ask.

Yes, the blueberry glazed are fresh.

No, the fritters are not sold out.

No, I do not know why Jake’s light was on before sunrise, and also that is an extremely specific thing to notice while taking a walk.

By eleven thirty, my shoulders have taken up permanent residence somewhere near my ears.

“Go take a walk, honey,” Granny says.

“I’m working.”

Mr. Humphrey hmphs from the corner table over his obituary section and blueberry crumb bar.

“You’ve been in your head all morning,” she says.

“I have not.”

She points at my bkr. “That thing’s had a tighter hold on your hand than Jake had on your hip yesterday.”

Frank makes a sound behind the racks that is suspiciously close to a laugh.

Granny pats the counter. “Go.”

I leave before the entire bakery forms a subcommittee around my emotional state.

Outside, I tilt my face toward the sun and take a deep breath of salt air.

Doesn’t work.

Shells crunch under my flip flops as I head toward The Green. Somewhere behind me, Holey Moley’s door opens, and I resist the urge to turn around and see who’s arrived to continue the inquiry into my love life.

The bay is so bright under the overhead sun, I regret not grabbing my sunglasses.

A seagull cries overhead in a tone that feels judgmental. To be fair, that could describe any seagull around here.

I take another sip from my bkr even though I’m not thirsty.

That’s the first problem.

The second problem is that I notice I’m doing it.

My thumb worries the silicone sleeve, tracing the same spot over and over until the movement becomes less habit and more confession.