Chapter 7

chapter

seven

Daisy

In his OshKosh overalls and tiny boots, Graham is a pretty adorable mascot for Owen’s stall at the Saturday farmers market.

I’m about to wander over and admire the zucchini when an effortlessly pretty, tanned woman in a sundress floats over to Owen’s stall. I glance down at my tattered cut-off jeans, coffee-stained tee-shirt, and ghost-white legs which haven’t seen the sun in ages, and start to feel some kind of way.

I stand motionless at the native plant stall and watch as the woman in the sundress leans over in front of the folding table that separates her from Owen, practically putting her tits on display for him.

Ugh, what is wrong with me? Where’s my sense of female unity? The woman is probably just saying hi to Graham, who’s just walked up with a fistful of blueberries in one hand and a stuffed animal in the other. He looks freaking cute, just like his dad.

Yes, I said it. Objectively, Owen is a good-looking dude. Friends say that about each other, right? I don’t have anything against this woman. And I don’t have any claim on Owen even if she is flirting.

I watch her jiggle one of Graham’s chubby little fingers and say, “Oh my gosh, you’re the cutest little farmer!”

Owen says something I can’t quite hear, sending her into a fit of laughter and hair twisting.

As for me, I’m hiding amongst the hanging Boston ferns, watching Owen and the sundress lady’s conversation. I must look like a psychopath.

Owen blushes. He never once turned red with me during our conversation at the diner. Of course, because that was just a friendly lunch. And why would I want to make him blush? I have my dignity; I don’t flirt, and I don’t put my goods on display. What if I could do that, though? Maybe I’d get more dates if I aired the girls out more often.

Lord, where did that thought come from?

Seriously, why should I change my personality? I like who I am, coffee stains, ratty jeans, and all. I mean, who wears a sundress to the farmers market anyway? Instagram influencers and faux trad moms, am I right?

Careful, Daisy. You’re being super judgmental. You’re a girls’ girl, remember?

I take a sip of my iced chai to keep me from blurting out a curse.

As I’m sipping through my straw, the woman in the sundress leans over again and picks up a huge, purple, bulbous eggplant. A slow smile spreads across her face. No. No, no, no. She’s not doing what I think she’s doing. She’s not going to be sexually suggestive about a damn eggplant. Not in front of the kid. Not in front of the kid!

But oh yes, she does it in front of the kid. The woman in the sundress arches an eyebrow at Owen and says, “One of these is too much for a small person like me. But they look so delicious, I just can’t get enough of them.”

She strokes her fingers down the shiny length of the eggplant. Slowly. I want to crawl into a hole but can’t look away.

“Um, well, the nice thing about those is they freeze great. You can, um, save them for all kinds of recipes,” Owen tries.

She brings the eggplant to her nose and sniffs, then makes an uncalled-for humming noise, as if smelling a flower. Eggplants don’t have a smell, you dumb-dumb.

I tell myself, Just shut up, drink your chai, and walk away.

I drink my chai, but I do not walk away.

“Is that so? Maybe you should come over sometime and show me how to use it,” she asks.

My choking noise is so loud that Owen and the woman in the sundress turn to look at me. Embarrassed, I spin 180 degrees and bolt in the opposite direction.

“Are you okay, Doc?” asks someone nearby.

“I’m fine!” I shout hoarsely as I make a beeline for the local honey stand at the far end of the tent.

But one thing is for certain. The doctor is most definitely not okay.