Page 8 of Just One More Thing

“And like you haven’t been eating enough doughnuts.”

“That would be true.”

She nods. “I knew it.”

Then she swivels on the stool and points dramatically toward the case. “Chocolate glazed with sprinkles. Two of them. And don’t argue. You look like you need sugar and emotional support.”

I round the counter, and the moment I do, I notice the dent in the back door where someone—definitely not me—once slammed it open too hard while we were racing outside so we wouldn’t miss the Fourth of July fireworks. For one quick, stupid second, I can hear Jake laughing behind me, loud and breathless, because I’m about to lose and we both know it.

I take a tissue square, slide the tray toward me, and lift the doughnut closest to the edge. Sprinkles scattered bright and cheerful across the chocolate like they’ve never had a hard day in their lives.

When I turn back, Granny’s already bossing a customer into taking the last apple fritter.

“Life is short,” she says firmly, “and your hips will forgive you.”

The woman laughs. Everyone always does.

I lean against the counter and soak in the chocolatey air, the hum of conversation, the comfort of being somewhere that doesn’t expect anything from me except maybe to eat a doughnut and answer a few nosy questions.

“So,” Granny says casually, as if she hasn’t been waiting for this moment all day.

“How long are you staying?”

I peel a sprinkle off my doughnut and buy myself half a second.

“I can stay until you’re back on your feet. Both feet.”

“What about Southern Living?”

“They’re fine with it. I’m on a leave of absence.”

“Fine with it how?”

“The HR approved, editor said family comes first kind.”

“Good,” she says immediately. “Because I can’t reach half the shelves and Frank keeps eating things he’s supposed to deliver.”

“I’m just here temporarily,” I remind her.

She gives me a look over the top of her glasses. “Everything is temporary. Doesn’t make it meaningless.”

Oof. That about knocked me off my feet.

I look down at my doughnut for help.

It gives me nothing.

“And,” she adds, “you can help me later when the town starts asking questions I don’t feel like answering.”

I laugh. “You love answering questions.”

“I love answers,” she corrects. “Questions are just the excuse.”

Then she reaches out and squeezes my hand, her grip warm and steady.

“I’m glad you’re here, Emory.”

I nod, because the second I say I’m glad too, this whole arrangement starts looking less temporary.