Page 20 of When In Doubt

“It’s pretty relaxed, and maybe… maybe I could show you the station.” A hint of redness creeps onto his cheeks.

I unstick the flyer and look at it, curling the corner over with the edge of my nail. Would it be so bad? I study it, my thoughts bouncing too fast for me to get a real read on them. I know I should try, should make more of an effort to get back in touch with the town, but there’s a part of me that’s agitated already at the thought of heading into an event like this.

In the end, I realize the decision is out of my hands, which is its own relief.

“I have the store open on Saturdays,” I say, trying to seem suitably regretful. “But I’m sure it’ll be great!”

“Oh. Okay, yeah. No worries.” A crease appears between his brows and for one reckless second, I want to smooth it out with the tip of my finger.

“Maybe next time, though?” I joke weakly.

“Sure.” He seems disappointed, and I hate myself a little. Here he is, going out of his way to be welcoming and I’m just throwing it back in his face. Even if he probably just feels bad about our first encounter.

There’s a curious weight on my chest when the door swings closed that leaves me questioning why I ever liked the quiet so much.

It isn’t until later that I realize he’d only brought one flyer with him.

“You’ve already got one!” a voice chirps brightly as a whoosh of cold air sweeps into the shop entrance. “Where did you get that?”

I startle at the interruption. I’ve been replying to customer emails for the last hour, lost in my own world.

“Get what?” I ask with a frown, looking up to see a young man with thick, dark hair combed neatly back. He’s wearing the same uniform as Oscar’s, but has a taller, slightly leaner build.

“The flyer?” He laughs like I’m missing something hilarious. “I haven’t been here yet. Unless I did, and I forgot?”

What is he talking about? Better yet, who even is he? “Sorry, I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I’m Ryan.” He grins. “Is Malcolm here?”

He’s really not making this easier. I know that I’m not the most conversationally agile, but I don’t think I’m the one making this weird.

“Who’s Malcolm?”

“The store owner?” he asks. “I’m meant to put these flyers in store windows, and I wanted to ask if that was okay.”

“I’m the store owner.”

“You’re Malcolm?”

I finally catch up with what he’s saying. “It’s my last name. I’m Freya Malcolm.”

“You’re Freya?” he exclaims, looking so boyish in his excitement that I don’t quite know what to make of him.

“Yes?”

“Shit, well, now I get it.” He looks me up and down in a move that might make me uncomfortable if there were anything in his gaze other than a kind of delighted curiosity.

I sigh, shaking my head. “Get what?”

“Did Murphy drop that here?”

“Oscar? Yeah, he did.”

At that, Ryan bursts into laughter. “Jesus Christ, I gotta go tell the crew about this.” He turns on his heel and bursts out into the street, calling his goodbye as he goes. The whole interaction took less than a minute, but it’s left me in a tailspin.

What the hell was that?

Chapter Eight