Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Greta had attended this auction since she was old enough to remember, and since she was old enough to remember, it had been her least favorite part of the holiday festivities.
Still, she went every year because it was a family tradition and because she loved the rest of the Holiday Fair that first December weekend. The auction had even been the occasion of her coming out five years before.
She and Tillie had been in the booth their family ran every fair. The handmade items they were selling changed with the whims of their mother’s crafting. One year it had been quilted oven mitts, another it had been felted table decorations, and that year it had been knitted hats and mittens. Tillie and Adelaide were the most enthusiastic crafters and usually made the bulk of the items alongside their mom. Sadie liked to sell things but not make them. Maggie would start one of whatever they were making that year and quickly lose interest. And their father concerned himself with all elements of display, providing snacks, and cheerleading, but didn’t have the dexterity for most crafts. His attempts were generally hilarious, though, and every year, they had him try to make one and enshrined it on the shelf above the piano, which now held two decades of misshapen crafts.
In the family booth, Tillie had been showing Greta how to knit a hat for the third time, her attempts at mittens having proven hopeless, and Greta had sworn bitterly as the whole thing slid off her needles.
“Watch your language,” her old math teacher Mr. Sorensen had said as he walked past. “Men don’t bid on young ladies with potty mouths at the holiday auction.”
Greta, home for the holidays from her freshman year of college and high on the freedom of her first months away from her family, had snapped back, “Well, this young lady has no interest in men or being auctioned off to anyone, so that’ll work out great for all of us.”
Tillie and Greta’s father, who’d returned with hot cocoas in time to overhear the exchange, had turned to her with identical hazel eyes—her father’s wide and Tillie’s smiling. Tillie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Greta said, starting to shake with nerves. Her whole family—strike that, the whole town—would know in a matter of hours.
She shoved her woeful knitting at Sadie and got to her feet. As she walked past her father, he caught her shoulder and squeezed. When she looked up at him, he smiled and nodded just once. Then he let her walk away to be alone with her thoughts.
Now, she wished desperately for a similar exit strategy, but she was onstage in the middle of the town square with nearly the entire population of Owl Island staring at her.
Just as she was telling herself that it couldn’t get any worse, she caught sight of Tabitha Ryder. Greta winced.
Tabitha’s smooth blond bangs and elfin face were framed by the faux-fur-lined hood she had pulled up against the Maine winter. She held mittened hands with Jordan Laverty, who was handsome and too infuriatingly kind to loathe the way Greta would have liked.
Hey, at least Greta had a perfectly self-deprecating story to tell when the topic of first loves came up. Not everyone had confessed their love to their best friend and then puked on her shoes. (Although, Greta found out, more had than you might think.)
Tabitha’s blue eyes grew wide when she saw Greta onstage, and Greta braced herself for the utter carnage of her heart that would follow if Tabitha smirked at her pathetic misfortune.
But Tabitha didn’t smirk.
It was so much worse.
Tabitha, curse the kind soul that had made Greta love her in the first place, gave Greta a look of such pity that Greta felt her insides fold like a paper bag. Gone was the urge to murder. Now, with Tabitha—beautiful, happy Tabitha—looking at her while holding the hand of her new love, Greta simply wished to disappear.
***
Greta allowed herself one hour of furious shower wall punching and postshower cringing at the memories of the day before she pulled a wool hat over her damp hair, stepped into her boots, zipped up her heavy coat, and stormed over to her parents’ house three streets over, where the whole family always gathered on holidays and Saturday afternoons.
Close was the word Greta always used to describe her relationship with her family. Occasionally, as she got older, tight-knit. But it wasn’t until her friend Ash had returned to Owl Island after leaving for a few years that someone had finally looked her dead in the face and said, “Dude. Your family isn’t just close. It’s codependent. And weird,” he added under his breath as Greta squirmed.
And, okay, she’d always known her family did more things together than lots of people’s, but they had a whole thing going on, and usually it was great. Her family was lovely and fun. Her sisters—especially Adelaide and Maggie—were her best friends (since Tabitha wasn’t in the picture anymore), and she loved having a built-in support network, no matter what happened. But then there were moments like this. Moments when they were intrusive and possessive and infuriating and—