Page 14 of Cackle

“I’m Annie,” I say. “Annie Crane.”

“Annie,” she says. My name has never sounded so beautiful. “Lovely to meet you, Ms. Crane.”

Should I curtsy?

“Have you met anyone else in town?” she asks.

“No, not yet. You’re the first.”

She smiles like she takes some satisfaction in this. “What brings you here?”

“I’m teaching at Aster High. I teach English and ASL.”

“Mm,” she says. “Teaching is a very noble profession. Requires quite a bit of patience.”

“I think it’s the same as any job,” I say. “Can be hard sometimes. But that’s why there’s wine.”

Why did I say that? That was so corny. I wish I could melt into the floor.

“Annie,” she says, “we should get coffee sometime. Won’t you come to the farmers market this weekend? It’s on Saturday. Every Saturday, Memorial Day through the end of October.”

“Sure,” I say. Is this small-town life? Inviting strangers to coffee?

But are we strangers? It doesn’t feel like we’re strangers.

“Wonderful,” she says with a single clap. “I’ll introduce you to everyone in town. They’ll be so excited to meet you.”

“Really?” I ask, my skepticism slipping out of my mouth like excess sauce.

“Of course.” She laughs. “We don’t get many new faces here.”

“Oh,” I say. “Um, where is the market?”

“Just down the road, there’s a little path. You won’t be able to miss it,” she says. She’s standing so close to me that I can smell her perfume. It’s lavishly floral.

I’m taller than her by a few inches, which is not unusual. I’m five foot nine and typically taller than my friends. But I don’t feel taller than she is. She carries an air of authority.

It could be because she’s so beautiful. It elevates her. Puts her on another plane of existence. Or maybe it’s the accent.

“I’ll see you Saturday, then,” I say. “Thank you for the wine.”

“You’re welcome,” she says. “Have a good night, pet.”

“You, too,” I say. I’m careful not to trip on the step on the way out. I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of Sophie, this gorgeous, generous wine-store-dwelling goddess.

I get in my car and set the wine down on the passenger seat. I consider fastening the seat belt around it. It’s a straight three-minute drive back to my apartment. Back home.

I drive slowly. Bottle on board.

I park at the end of the driveway, in my spot, back wheel lined up with Mr. Frog.

“Mr. Frog,” I say, tipping my imaginary hat to him.

I load my bags onto my wrists. I carefully hold my wine in one hand as I unlock the door with the other. I climb the stairs. My feet land in the center of each step; my knees lift the exact right height. My body knows them already. It’s receptive to this new place.

The hope I felt this morning comes fluttering back. Cute apartment, charming new town, charming new friend.

I should allow myself this moment of optimism. I should give myself permission to feel something other than sad.