Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“We’re all just . . . misunderstood.”
“Exactly,” I say. “There was another woman I used to see at the chemist’s. She was always hanging out on the corner, smoking her e-cig and chatting up anyone who’d give her the time of day. Anyway, she’d always give me a glare every time she saw me, and I could never figure out why. It didn’t bother me, of course, but I was curious and about to leave for Edinburgh, so I finally confronted her.”
“And what’d she do?”
“She asked me why I never called her.”
Anneliese almost chokes on her drink.
“All that time, she thought I was some guy she hooked up with the year before,” I say.
“Were you that guy?” she asks, one brow lifted.
“Definitely not.” I distinctly recall her garish purple hair and that livid face filled with spiky piercings—not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just that I prefer to spend my nights with women who are a little . . . softer around the edges. “She didn’t believe me, though. And she actually followed me home, spewing all kinds of profanities at me, causing a scene.”
Anneliese cups her hand over her mouth. “I can see why that guy never called her back . . .”
“Unfortunately for her, I was already leaving town the next day. Never saw her again. Legend has it, somewhere in Chiswick, there’s a purple-haired woman standing outside the chemist’s looking for the right bloody arsehole who ghosted her.”
She chuckles. “You’re a great storyteller, you know that?”
I shrug. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I was younger, anytime I was stuck somewhere with nothing to do . . . a doctor’s office or airport or whatever, I’d choose a random stranger and make up a backstory for them. It was a good way to stretch my imagination.”
“That sounds fun . . .”
I tip my chin down, glancing into my plastic cup. “I’ve never told anyone that before.”
“Why not?”
“Some people might find it strange.”
“As strange as naming other people’s children for them?” she teases.
My mouth cracks into a smile. “Yeah. Strange like that.”
Anneliese studies me. “What would my backstory be? If you didn’t know me? If you randomly saw me in the bookstore that day and had no idea who I was . . .”
I toss back the rest of my wine, buying time. It’s been a while since I’ve done one of these.
“All right. I’ll give it a shot,” I say.
She settles in, clasping her hands on her lap and waiting like an eager child in line to see a mall Santa.
“Your name is Wren—like the bird—and you grew up in the Seattle, Washington, area, but the rain always made you sleepy, and you wanted to live somewhere with white Christmases, so you filled out an elaborate one-hundred-question quiz online that told you Arcadia Grove, Vermont, is your ideal location. You packed everything you owned into the back of your Subaru Forester and road-tripped across the country solo until you arrived. You’ve been here five years. You work at the bookstore not because you’re a reader but because you love the smell of paper and it helps you pay the bills and support your hobby.”
“Which is?”
“Building dollhouses,” I say, motioning with my hands. “And I’m not talking your average homes for dolls. You build the kind with elaborate details. Toasters with buttons and ovens that open and rugs with rug pads under them. Wallpapered walls. Cedar-shingle roofs. Lights and doorbells that function. They’re little works of art, truly.”
She laughs.
“Every year you donate one to the children’s hospital in Burlington,” I add. “Someday they’re going to name a wing after you. Many years from now, of course. After you’ve donated so many dollhouses they have no other choice but to honor you.”
“And is that my life? Just a spinster building dollhouses until I die?”
“I can give you a family. You want a family?” I ask.
She nods. “I do.”
“Okay.” I crack my knuckles and stretch my arms over my shoulders. “You married a guy named Connor. The man looks like he walked straight out of a J.Crew catalog. Preppy as hell. Loves craft beer. Can grill a mean steak. Plays in the local men’s rugby league on Saturdays. You met him when he walked into your bookstore looking for a present for his teenage niece. You told him he was in the wrong place, that no teenager in her right mind would want a used book for a gift. You promptly pointed him toward the trendy boutique down the street. He thanked you for your help and went on his way, but as the days passed, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. He loved your honesty, and if I’m being frank, he also loved your ass.”
Anneliese throws her head back, clapping and laughing. “Nice.”
“Long story short, he comes back a week later, tells you he can’t get you out of his head, and asks you on a date,” I say. “Only, plot twist—you’re already dating someone else.”