Page 4 of Surrendering to the Grump

Kennedy Brooks has a classroom to prep, twenty two eight year olds to teach long division to, a Fall Fest volunteer schedule with six unfilled slots, a mother who needs her prescriptions picked up from the pharmacy on Moss Street, and a grumpy woodworker to break down before Friday.

Busy is good. Busy means nobody has time to notice that I haven't sat still long enough to eat a full meal in three days.

The apartment above The Book Nook is tiny. Ms. Shelly rents it to me for next to nothing because I help her with inventory on weekends and because she told me once that the building feels less lonely with someone upstairs. That sentence sat in my chest for weeks. I know exactly what she means.

By seven fifteen I'm at school with my coffee from Maple Lane Cafe. Lina had it waiting at the counter, two sugars, splash of oat milk, and a look.

"So?" she said, leaning on the register. "How'd it go with the mountain man?"

"He said no."

"He says no to everything."

"He also ate all four donuts."

Lina grinned. "Then he said yes. He just doesn't know it yet."

That conversation plays in my head through morning announcements, through long division, through Jaylen asking me for the fourth time if we can have class outside because "the leaves are at peak crunch, Miss Brooks." Through recess duty where I stand at the fence checking my clipboard, confirming vendors, texting Lisa about the sound system.

Me:

PA system is confirmed for Saturday. Do we have someone running the corn maze entrance or am I doing that too?

Lisa:

I'll find someone. You're already doing too much.

Me:

I'm doing the right amount.

Lisa:

Kennedy. You're running the volunteer schedule, the vendor layout, the parking plan, the school's craft booth, and you agreed to help Hank set up tables at his bar for the festival after party. That is not the right amount.

She's not wrong. But if I take something off the list, there's a gap. Gaps get filled by people who don't do it right or don't do it at all. And then the thing falls apart, and everyone looks around wondering why nobody handled it.

I handled it. I always handle it.

After school lets out at three, I drive to Pistachio Sweets. The display case is glowing with fall everything. Kunafa drizzled with pistachio. Salted caramels in orange wrappers. The Dubai chocolate bars that sell out by noon every Saturday.

"Apple cider donuts again?" Maya behind the counter already has the bag out.

"Different strategy today. Give me the salted caramels."

"Trying to bribe Rhett Gallagher?"

"Trying to negotiate with Rhett Gallagher. The bribery is a bonus."

Maya drops six caramels into a bag with a wink. "Good luck. My daughter still plays with that little wooden fox he left on the counter. Won't tell you that if you ask him, though."

Twenty minutes later I'm pulling into the gravel lot at the end of Maple Lane. His truck is parked sideways across the entrance. Again. On purpose.

I park on the shoulder, grab the caramels, grab my clipboard, check my reflection in the rearview. Hair is doing its thing today. Big twist out, gold hoops, the rust colored turtleneck that makes my skin glow. Not that I dressed for him. This is my regular fall wardrobe.

The bell jangles when I push the door open.

Rhett is standing at his workbench with a hand plane, shaving long curls of pale wood off something flat and wide. His flannel sleeves are rolled to his elbows. Sawdust on his forearms, on his beard, caught in the auburn hair at his temples. Those gray eyes come up and land on me with a weight I feel in my knees.