Page 66 of Forbidden to Fall

In the end, though, I went in search of James with no toilet seats, no two-by-fours, and no screws because I couldn’t spare the money to really lean into my lie.

I spotted him at the end of an aisle and made my way there. In one hand, he held a couple of long, thin metal sticks. His other hand was at his mouth, his index finger pensively tracing the arc of his lips.

My heartbeat stuttered as I wondered how those lips would feel.

He glanced up as I approached, his gaze moving to my empty hands.

“I figured I’d hold off,” I said. “My supply should tide me over a little longer.”

“You sure?” He jabbed his thumb toward the outside of the shop. “The truck bed can hold a couple dozen toilet seats. Could be good to stock up.”

I came up beside him to face the array of axes he was contemplating. “Definitely tempting, but I’ll wait.”

“Your call.”

I glanced at him, and we shared a smile.

I liked this dynamic we had going—the teasing, the conspiratorial smiles.

I maybe liked it too much.

A couple came around the aisle end cap and slowed at the sight of us so near.

“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Rigby,” I said.

The Rigbys were in their early seventies, their hands clasped between them while their free hands held canes.

“Hello, Sadie.” Mrs. Rigby returned my smile, then her eyes traveled to James, and her smile faded.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Rigby,” James said.

She gave him a curt nod, her lips pinched together, then she elbowed her husband gently, and they moved past us.

My heart clenched as I watched them shuffle down the aisle.

“Poor May,” Mrs. Rigby said, loud enough for her husband to hear—which was also loud enough for us to hear. “Loses her husband only to be abandoned by her only son.”

My eyes widened in horror, and I looked up at James.

He took in a long, slow breath, the furrow in his brow deep.

Was this how people treated him?

I felt sick to my stomach, but hadn’t I had the same exact thoughts Mrs. Rigby had just voiced?

My face burned with shame—for my own judgment of James and for the way my fellow townspeople were talking about him.

“Have everything you need?” he asked.

There was no joke about toilet seats or two-by-fours. He wanted to leave, and I didn’t blame him a bit.

While I was coming to really like Morgan, I was fighting a growing impatience during each of my bakery shifts. The freedom of the sugar shack made the rigidity of the procedures at Keller’s feel like handcuffs.

I watched the clock like a student watching for the end-of-school bell, removing my hairnet and my apron once it was two minutes past the hour so I didn’t seem too overeager.

“Bye, Morgan,” I said, coming out from behind the counter at the end of my shift on Saturday.

“See you tomorrow!” She waved.