Page 9 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
Could’ve been any of those things, if I was being honest.
I sank into one of the plush velvet chairs near the reading nook. Aunt Jem had reupholstered the purple fabric herself; the ones designed to make people feel safe and comfortable, encouraging them to stay longer and buy more things. “Fine. What do you want to know?”
She didn’t hesitate. “What’s going on between you and Marc?”
“Nothing,” I said automatically. “Absolutely nothing.”
She opened her mouth.
“Don’t,” I warned.
“Glam-ma,” she sang in a whisper.
I groaned. That woman was a menace. A beloved, stylish, terrifying menace. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d let the goat out on Main Street and orchestrated the whole thing with Marc. Ugh. Now I sounded weirdly paranoid.
“We just … don’t see eye to eye,” I admitted, before she could finish the threat. “He doesn’t like my crystals. Or my beliefs. Or my business. Or me, probably.”
Cheryl blinked. “That’s it? That’s the big drama?”
I waved vaguely at the shop, at myself, at the universe in general. This feud with Marc had been going on since we were kids, and the roots of it went deeper than crystals and science.“He doesn’t believe in any of this. Thinks it’s all—what did he call it in November at Ruby Night? Ascam.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. Insulting. And I told him that at least my rocks didn’t judge people for seeking comfort, unlike emotionally constipated veterinarians who probably stuffed their feelings into a jar years ago and promptly forgot where they placed them.”
Cheryl snorted. “You did not say that.”
“I absolutely did. Mrs. Chen from the flower shop heard the whole thing and laughed so hard she dropped a pot of tulips.”
“I love you,” Cheryl said, still grinning. “And next time you and Marc are together, I’ll need to bring popcorn to watch the show.”
I rolled my eyes. What I didn’t say—what Icouldn’tsay—was that the worst part wasn’t Marc’s dismissal of what I did. It was that somewhere underneath all that skepticism and sarcasm, underneath the man who rolled his eyes when I discussed astrology and scoffed at my “woo-woo nonsense,” was the boy who’d sat with me by the river when we were kids. The one who’d listened when I told him my parents had forgotten my birthday the week before. Again. The one who’d shown up the next day with a cupcake from Penny’s grandmother’s bakery, back when she was still running it.
She was definitely about to push harder—I could see it in the way she leaned forward—when the door chimed.
Right on cue.
I hefted a dramatic sigh as the infamousSofia Kingsley herself—the one and onlyGlamma—swept inside as if she’d been summoned by the mere mention of her name. Coco, her French bulldog, was tucked into the crook of her arm like a fuzzy designer accessory. Perfect silver hair. Oversized sunglasses, despite being indoors. The confidence of a woman whoknewthings and had been running this town since before I was born. “Hello, Delaney. Cheryl.”
Heat rushed from my scalp to my toes.
Cheryl’s eyes grew wide. “Oh my God.”
Of course. Ofcourseshe’d heard us.Damnit.I bet the front door hadn’t shut tight. I’d been meaning to fix it like a hundred other things around here.
The universe was laughing at my expense.
“Glamma!” Cheryl beamed, because everyone loved Glamma, and she insisted everyone call her that. It was basically an unofficial law in Ruby River.
I took a moment to breathe. To center myself in the way Aunt Jem had taught me. I picked up a fallen yoga mat instead of making eye contact, buying myself a few seconds. “Sofia,” I said carefully. “How are you?”
She clicked her tongue, the sound both fond and reproachful. “Now, how many times have I told you to call me Glamma?”
“Many,” I admitted. At least a dozen. Possibly more. It was just people who belonged in Ruby River that called her that. Despite living here during the summers as a kid, I wasn’t permanent, and I still didn’t feel like I had found my place here yet.
“I heard you had an eventful morning.”
Slowly, I turned to face her, fully abandoning the pretense of the yoga mats. “How did you?—”
