Chapter 3

“When I tellyou I painted the man orange, I am not exaggerating,” I say, my phone pinned to my ear as I hunt for my earrings in my apartment above the bakery. I frown, one hand on my hip, and scan my bedroom.

“Orange?” Marci laughs on the other end of the line. “I thought peppers were red or green.”

“No, these were those orange habaneros,” I say, then get down on all fours and look under the bed. Nothing. I scoot my hand over the carpet and feel around anyway, then sigh and sit up. “And everyone is talking about it.”

“It’s Heatstroke,” Marci replies. “You know they’re going to talk about the dumbest shit imaginable. Don’t worry about it. You, Hannah Taylor, are a superstar. Heatstroke’s answer to… What’s the opposite of Jackson Pollock?”

“I don’t know, but the way I’ve spent half of my day in the bathroom, I might be able to give him a run for his money.”

“Eugh.”

“Yeah,” I say. “The worst part is Paul won the grand prize, and I don’t have any money to donate to the library.”

“I would think the worst part would be choking half-to-death.”

“Yeah, well, given that the person who saved me was Carter friggin’ Savage, I am pretty much maxed out on all of the parts.” I push myself up and sit down on the edge of my single bed, the duvet cover white and speckled with bluebells. Flowers are my favorite thing. Apart from books. And kids. “I really wanted to get that reader group up and running, get kids reading again. I had a plan, Marci. I had a plan and now, I’m just?—”

“What, honey?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“Look, Han, this sucks big fat sweaty balls,” Marci says.

“There’s an image.”

“But you have plenty of time to revamp and rework your plan, right? It might be slow progress, but maybe you can approach the town council for help? You’ve got a great cause.”

I don’t have time. But I couldn’t say it out loud yet. I wasn’t sure how long I’d be gone for, and as much as I adored Marci, she would want to fly back from Rome if I told her I was leaving. And that I couldn’t allow. My bestie had been waiting an eternity for the right man, though she hadn’t realized that, and I wasn’t going to ruin that for her.

“Han?”

“I’m here,” I say. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“How you’re totally right. I’m not going to give up on this. I’ll find a way to make it work, even if I have to approach the principal of the middle school myself.” I’ll have to be quick, though, if I want to do it before I leave. The last time we had a reading at the library, it was pretty successful.

“That’s the spirit!”

“Anyway, I’m being super selfish,” I say. “My gosh, you and my brother are in Italy. What’s that like? Tell me everything!”

“It’s all pasta, parmigiano reggiano, and sex. So much?—”

“Oooooh-kay. Let’s not with that last part. He’s my brother.”

“Right, right. But we saw the Colosseum.”

“What was that like?” I ask.

“We had sex in it.”

“Please.”

“I’m kidding!”

Marci tells me about their sightseeing while I listen and move through my apartment. I enter my bathroom and grimace at my reflection in the mirror over my sink. There she is. The pepper-spewer. The epic choker.

I grab cute silver rosebud earrings from the sink and put them in my ears while I listen. “That sounds amazing, Marce.”

“It is amazing. But we miss Mr. Skitters like crazy. We’ve been face-timing with him every night.”

“Aww. I bet June’s taking great care of him.”

“She is,” Marci says. “I’m half-convinced Skits is falling in love with her.”

“I heard that!” Jesse’s voice is a muffled shout in the background.

“Jesse’s too jealous for his own good,” Marci says, and then she lets out a shriek. “Jesse, what are you?—?”

“Han?” Jesse’s voice replaces Marci’s.

“Hey, bro.”

“Enjoy the potluck tonight,” he says. “Be careful.”

“Jesse, I’m a grown woman.”

“Yeah, but you never know how many hot peppers there might be at Ganny’s tonight. You gotta watch out.”

“You ass.”

He guffaws. “Love ya! Byeeeee.” And then he hangs up.

I smile at the phone. It’s so good to hear both my best friend and my brother happy. It’s the kind of happiness I’ve never experienced. I never will experience.

The last guy who I dated was an unmitigated disaster. He was into me until he found out I’m probably not able to have kids thanks to my Premature Ovarian Insufficiency.

I grab my handbag off my living room sofa, fetch the tiramisu that is my contribution, and then I’m on my way out of the door, and onto the fire exit I use instead of the stairs that lead down into the bakery. My white tennis shoe comes down on something soft, and I yelp and step back, my heart pounding.

A crushed white rose lies on the grating.

It’s the second one this week, but this time, it doesn’t have a card attached.

I lift the rose by the bottom of its stem, grimacing, and march down the grated steps. I toss the flower into the dumpster and wipe off my hands on my jeans, then snap a picture of said flower and send it to Franklin.

STOP SENDING ME FLOWERS.

Franklin

I’ll keep sending them until you let me sweep you off your feet.

Not interested. What don’t you get?

Consider them an apology. I’m going to send you bouquets every day.

Blocked.

Franklin is a guy I met on a dating site. I never met him in person because he gave off too many red flags. He insulted me, tried to convince me that I was crazy when I got offended, and then found my number and has been texting me ever since.

Cash wants to rip his throat out. The police can’t do anything about it—apparently, sending flowers and texting is not enough grounds for a restraining order. And Dad is convinced that I should just move into Ganny’s house and stay with them.

I block Franklin’s number, even though I’m pretty sure he’ll message me from another one by tomorrow. Blocking one is like lopping the head off a snake that keeps growing heads.

I grab my pepper spray out of my purse and head out of the alleyway and over to my car, nerves building. Nerves that have nothing to do with my weird pseudo-flower-stalker and everything to do with telling my family about my plans to skip town.

I take the drive at a furious pace, because I love driving and it makes me feel adventurous and free, and screech to a halt in front of Ganny’s house.

Savage’s Harley is parked out front, shimmering in the afternoon sun, and my heart pounds in my throat.

Forget about it. Just forget about it.

I’ve had a crush on Savage since he’d first rolled into town, and I’d embarrassed myself so many times in front of him. I should’ve been immune at this point, but the pepper-choking had taken the cake for most humiliating moment in front of Savage of all time.

The second good reason for taking an extended “vacation”? I’ll hopefully get over my Savage crush and move on with my life.

I enter the house and am greeted by the burst of sound I associate with my family. Fireball the Chihuahua chases Alex around the house. She’s in her teens, but she still loves playing with the dog and does so every Sunday.

“Hey, Aunt Hannah,” she says, stopping for a quick hug.

“Hey, Alex. Nice shoes.” She’s wearing glitter-spangled black tennis shoes painted with unicorns.

“Thanks!” And then she’s gone, racing off with purple ribbons fluttering in her hair.

I enter the living room and stop dead, grasping the tiramisu in both hands.

Savage is alone in here, staring out the front window, frowning. He’s always frowning. Why? Why is he always?—?

“Hannah!” Ganny enters the living room. “There you are, honey pie.”

“Hey, Ganny.” I kiss her soft rosy cheeks. “I missed you.”

“I missed you two, sweetheart.”

Cash follows her in and reaches out to ruffle my hair, but I dodge him and head into the hall for the open kitchen doorway. I drop off the tiramisu on the counter next to a collection of dishes. The interior is filled with the scent of baking lasagna and pies. I turn to find my brother filling the doorway, arms folded.

“You haven’t been answering my calls,” he says, his blue eyes laser-focused on me.

“Cash, I’m fine.”

“You almost died this week.” His usually surly expression, the one that only shifts when he’s looking at June or Alex, is filled with concern. “And what’s going on with that Fucklin dude? You haven’t updated us.”

“Fucklin? Nice.”

“I came up with it myself,” he says.

“Proud of you,” I reply. “Nothing’s happening.”

“I heard you turned down Dad’s offer to move into Ganny’s?” He says it like I’m out of my mind.

“I’m fine, Cash. But I do need to talk to you. And Dad, and everybody. Kind of?”

“What’s going on?” Cash asks.

Here goes nothing.