Cackle(17)

Even if she isn’t, technically speaking, I think being that gorgeous and owning the only liquor store in town grants her sovereignty.

“Morning, Erik,” she says. “This is my new friend, Annie. She just moved here.”

“Hi, Annie,” he says. He’s very Tiger Beat, very CW. Striking blue eyes, good hair. He and the older guy, who I assume is his father, wear matching red flannels.

“Sophie,” the man says, “the usual?”

“No, Oskar,” she says. “Make us something special. Something festive. I want to impress Annie.”

“All right,” he says. He looks over at us. He’s got the same blue eyes as Erik, but his are attached to deep crow’s-feet. I bet he smells like coffee grounds and firewood and is a good dad. He and his son work together, passing beans and cups and cartons of milk like it’s a choreographed dance.

He’s attractive, but I’m not attracted to him. I want him to adopt me. Teach me how to make a solid cappuccino and tell me he’s proud of me.

While I’m distracted by my daddy issues, Sophie tucks a daisy behind my ear.

“I don’t know yet,” she says, “if daisies are your flower.”

She slides her bouquet into an empty mason jar resting on the ledge in front of us. I think it’s meant for tips.

“My flower?”

“I think everyone has a flower that reflects them. Their personality, their essence.”

“What’s yours?”

“I fancy myself ranunculus.”

“Do you?” I ask. I don’t know what a ranunculus is, but I don’t want her to know that. She seems very into flowers.

“Yes. A deep purple or burgundy ranunculus. They’re my absolute favorite. They don’t like the heat and need lots of sunlight, so we’re similar in that way.”

Oskar sets down two lattes with pretty leaf designs in the foam.

“Maple cinnamon,” he says.

“Oh, thank you, Oskar,” Sophie says. She picks them both up and then hands one to me. “Sounds lovely.”

He bows his head like his son did. “Would hate to disappoint you.”

There’s something a bit grim about how he says it. Sophie bats her lashes at him. They play a short, silent game. I don’t know the rules, but I know Oskar loses. He looks away, wiping his hands on a dirty rag.

“Come,” Sophie says to me. “I want to take you somewhere.”

“Bye, Sophie!” Erik says.

“Good-bye, Erik. Be good,” she calls over her shoulder as we walk away. She leads me to a paved sidewalk that curls around a patch of woods. On the other side is a small park. A playground, a few benches and a beautiful storybook gazebo. It’s almost too much. Too perfect. Too picturesque.

I take a sip of my coffee, and it, too, is wonderful.

“You like it?” she asks me. “Oskar owns the Good Mug on Main Street.”

“What’s his deal?” I ask. This is the kind of thing girlfriends talk about, right? Is this how we bond? Or was that an awkward and intrusive question and maybe I should just leave?

Sophie sighs. “I don’t like to share anyone’s secrets, but I will say this. He’s a very complicated, haunted man.”

I follow Sophie up the steps to the gazebo. There are two girls already inside sitting on the ground instead of on the built-in bench. They’re close to each other. They might be playing one of those hand-slapping games, or trading secrets, or practicing kissing.

When they see Sophie, they shoot up.

“Hello, Miss Sophie,” they say in unison.

“Hello, girls,” Sophie says. She pats each of them on the head. When she does this, the girls eye each other. I watch color flood their cheeks.

“We were just leaving,” one of them says. “Bye!”

“Bye, now,” Sophie says, waving.

The way people react to her . . . is there something I’m missing? Or is she just so beautiful that people don’t know what to do with themselves when they’re around her?

She sits on the bench and I park myself next to her. She sets her coffee down, removes the sleeve and wraps her hands around the naked cup.

“Did you use to date? Oskar, I mean,” I say. I regret it immediately. I don’t know what to do with myself around her. How to act. “I thought there was a vibe.”

“Me and Oskar? Oh, no,” she says, laughing. “No, no. I don’t bother with men in that way. Or women. Or anyone. I haven’t for a long, long time. I’ve discovered, over the years, that I’m much happier alone.”

The words land square in the center of my forehead. Much. Happier. Alone.

“Are you all right, Annie?”

“Yeah, sorry,” I say. “I just . . . My boyfriend, well, ex-boyfriend . . . We just . . . I’m just going through a recent breakup. We were together for almost ten years. We lived together. I thought we were going to get married. So it’s a big . . . It’s an adjustment.”

I try to retract the tears into my eyes by sheer force of will. I feel one escape.

“Oh, Annie,” she says. She reaches for my hand and squeezes it.

“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s just hard.”

“I’m sure,” she says.