“Abigail!” Rose has taken to bellowing from her office when she has a question. The other women who sit near me all smile. There’s a group of staff members who work on the alumni magazine, create all the admissions graphics, and manage the college’s website. I love sitting with the creative team, tossing in my ideas when someone wants to talk about the look and feel of a new brochure.
They mostly think Rose is eccentric. I’ve learned by now to speak my mind with her—she can always tell if I’m holding back. It feels like I’ve lived here for ages since she’s given me so many large projects in just a few weeks. Anna mutters at me to get a move on before Rose really starts yelling, so I grab a notebook and walk down the hall.
“Abigail,” Rose says again. She taps a manicured nail against her computer monitor where I see the talking points I sent over for her meeting with a famous author considering a donation. “This is perfection. How much am I paying you?”
“Oh. Thank you. We decided on—”
“Christa!” Rose interrupts with a roar. I hear the office manager approach quickly, heels clacking on the hardwood floor in the hall. “Christa, give Abigail a bonus. She’s going to turn this meeting into a funded professorship.”
Christa looks back and forth between Rose and me and nods, clacking back down to her office. Rose smiles. “Now,” she says, leaning back and pressing her fingertips together. “Tell me how you put together this plan.”
“Well, first I read Ms. Bluestein’s book and made some notes about her protagonist.” I explain how I imagined the author was making meaning of her own experience at Oak Creek College, how it must have been a very formative experience for her. Rose’s smile widens as I talk, so I continue. “It really seems like she would want to share that experience with other hopeful writers, and the best way to do that is to make sure they have really good professors.”
“We were initially earmarking this donation as scholarship money for summer study.”
I nod. “I think we can get that, too, from other sources. But a Bluestein Professorship will touch hundreds of students, offer lasting impact for Oak Creek.” I pause. I didn’t ask permission to change the gameplan and I worry that people will think I stepped out of my lane. But Rose stands and slaps the desk.
“Come on,” she says, slipping off her cardigan. “We’re walking into town. This calls for celebratory baked goods.”
We step out into the hot afternoon sun and make our way across the bridge over the train tracks that will bring in Ms. Bluestein tomorrow. The rail line parallel to the creek separates the college from the town, and a sweet footbridge connects them. The leaves above the tree-lined walks are starting to yellow. It all feels surreal, magical.
“Where did you grow up, Abigail,” Rose asks as we descend the steps onto Main Street.
“Middle of nowhere, Ohio,” I say with a smile.
“And you moved here when you saw the job posting?”
I shrug. “It was good timing. I needed a change.”
Rose pushes open the door to the Insomnia Bakery and pauses to inhale. Eyes closed, she enjoys the scent of buttery pastry, chocolate delights. A young man with dreads and bags under his brown eyes greets us. “Hey, Rose,” he says, slinging a tea towel over one shoulder.
“Abigail, this is Stu. He’s got twin sons at home, bless his soul. Is it really insomnia, Stu, if you know it’s kids keeping you awake?” She laughs.
Stu shrugs and leans forward. “My wife, Jess, and I sleep in shifts. And work here in the bakery in shifts. And wrangle the boys…you get how it is.”
I smile as he pulls up his phone, showing a blurry picture of two little guys running toward the camera, eyes gleaming. “They look like they’ve got a lot of ideas,” I tell him.
“Never fear, Stu,” Rose says, tapping her chin. “You’ll blink your eyes and they’ll be off in outer space or galavanting in France.” She gestures at the counter display. “We’ll have 2 chocolate croissants, please.” Rose grasps my arm, cooing, “There’s nothing like a well-made croissant when you’re feeling particularly jubilant.”
We wave goodbye to Stu and sit at one of the picnic tables in the middle of the town square, eating as the seniors dance their Tai Chi silently. Library patrons weave among them on their way in and out of the building. I’ve already become accustomed to the way this town just does what it will, follows its heart.
Rose dabs at her lips with a napkin and says, “You’re making a difference here, Abigail. I hope you feel appreciated for that.” She smiles.
“Oh, I do,” I nod, brushing the pastry crumbs from my hand. “I was worried I was overstepping with the Bluestein notes…”
“Nonsense! I told you 1,000 times already. I hired you for your ideas.” She stands, tossing the paper from her croissant into one of the nearby public compost bins. “I want you to take the afternoon off. Tomorrow we start preparing for the research symposium and it’s going to take all your energy to get the scientists to translate their ideas into something regular people can understand.”
She waves, walking back toward campus, and I fight the small moment of panic at the thought of an open afternoon. I remember that Diana said I should drop by the Houseplant Haven any time. I decide to brave a visit, arguing I could buy a houseplant for my new place if Diana doesn’t seem like she wants to be social.
A small bell tinkles above the door as I push it open to reveal a store front filled with light and wooden shelves overflowing with all manner of green plants. “I’ll be right with you,” a voice shouts from the back, so I take a moment to walk around, sniffing the buds and admiring the leaves.
“Abigail! Good to see you.” Diana emerges, wiping her hands on an apron and tucking a spade into her pocket. We walk around and she shows me her hops garden, the source of her delicious beer. “Can you keep a secret?” I nod, puzzled, and she says, “I don’t show many people my real babies.” She beckons for me to follow her into the back of the shop, where an overpowering scent transports me to my brothers’ apartment on summer nights.
“Wow,” I say, as my eyes adjust to the lights illuminating row upon row of marijuana plants. “What is all this?”
“This is my life’s work,” she says, explaining that she’s in the final stages of securing a license to grow medical marijuana. “I’ve been working on this strain since graduate school,” she says, telling me how she once partnered with neurological researchers in her PhD program.
“Are all the Crawfords biology PhDs?”
She laughs. “No. Just me and Hunter, who does not approve of this work because it’s still not legal federally.” Diana explains how she meets with hydroponics experts and has a system of koi fish for fertilizer. She shows me some notes about her plants and what they theoretically do differently from other types of marijuana.
I don’t understand any of it, but I nod along, easily picking up on her confidence that this is important, to her and the rest of us. I smile, remembering the same passion from Hunter when he speaks up about the biology department at the college. I know he lost his job with the space agency, but he doesn’t seem to be wallowing in depression about it. He’s moving on, making things happen. Passion seems to run in their family.
Diana asks, “Is it true what Archer says? That Hunter doesn’t even have any furniture?”
“Oh.” I’m not sure if I should get involved in Hunter’s family business, but it doesn’t seem too out of bounds to tell Diana that he has a weight room in the dining room and nothing but a computer desk. “And when I saw him, he had had some sort of accident where part of the ceiling fell.”
She frowns. “I love him and he’s brilliant, but he’s totally myopic. Mind if I walk to your place with you so I can check on him?”
“Please do!”
She locks up and we head off down the street. It’s nice to walk in step with a Crawford. I giggle, noticing that she doesn’t rush on ahead just because her stride is longer.
I enjoy walking with Diana, listening to her talk about her plants, her beer making, her assurances that she’s finished with men and all their bullshit. She’s so outgoing I start to wonder how she came from the same family as Hunter, who still doesn’t smile or talk much.
I follow along as Diana climbs his steps and rings the doorbell. I don’t tell Diana that by this time of day, Hunter is usually grunting through an exercise routine. After a few moments of him not answering she leans and peers in his front window. He doesn’t have curtains up yet, so we can both see him in the dining room doing squats.
“Oh for Christ’s sake.” Diana rolls her eyes. “Can you let me in your place so I can go around back and smack him?”
I nod and let her in. She walks through my house muttering about useless men. She bangs out the back door and I see her barge into Hunter’s half. I figure they have family things to discuss, so I go upstairs to change into my new post work uniform of leggings and a tank. I’m startled to hear Diana’s voice shout up to me.
“Abigail!” I lean out the bedroom window to where she stands in the back yard. Hunter leans against the porch rail, arms crossed over his bare chest. “Wanna come work out with me and my brother?”
I think about how his grunts and clangs have become my sound track while I make dinner, making me feel like I’ve procured my food from the jungle rather than the Pioneer Woman cookbook.
“Well,” I start. “I’ve never really lifted weights before…” I don’t really know if I can be in the same room as him, shirtless, without staring or feeling embarrassed that he saw me in my underwear.
“Come on,” Diana shouts. “We’ll show you how.”
I make my way over there, nervous but not wanting to turn down Diana and risk her thinking I’m rejecting our new friendship. I don’t want her to think I’m afraid…of the weights or of Hunter.
Diana grabs a jump rope from a hook and heads out back. She starts jumping rope on the porch and I stand awkwardly in Hunter’s dining room, looking around.
He scowls. “You haven’t done this before?” I can’t get a read on him, but I shake my head. He sighs and hands me a broom.
“Here,” he says. “Put this on your shoulders and I’ll show you how to squat.”
“A broom?”
He nods. “It’s best to learn without weight. To make sure you get the motions correct.”
I swallow and try to finagle the broom handle so it’s resting on my shoulders, but it feels awkward and the wood snags on my tank top.
I feel Hunter’s hand on my shoulder, pushing on the broom and trying to bend my body. Every nerve I’ve got starts to fire, directing wave after wave of sparks through my body. I feel myself break out in goosebumps. I hear him start talking, explaining what to do very calmly.
He’s passionate about weight lifting, like he’s passionate about everything. His low voice gently talks me through the steps of how to move safely, and I feel mesmerized. He’s not a bit impatient, seemingly content to help me get it right. And he keeps his hand pressed against me. I try to focus on his words, but I’m distracted by the heat of his body.
And then, without warning, the weight of his hand on my back takes me back to that night with Jack. I’m transported to the last time a man this close to me, put his hands on my body. My blood runs cold and I spin around.
Too late, I realize I whacked Hunter with the broom stick.
He lets out an “oof” as I drop it. My hands shoot to my face in horror. Why did my body respond that way? I look around, seeing Diana’s face etched with concern while Hunter mutters and picks up the broom.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I walk toward my house. “I can’t do this.”
“Abigail, wait,” Diana says, starting to follow me, but I shake my head.
“I need to go. I’ll talk to you later, Diana.” I close the back door and turn the lock, sinking to the ground on the other side of the door. I’m so ashamed and embarrassed.
Diana shouts my name a few times, but then she stops and I hear the crack of the jump rope, the clangs and grunts as Hunter continues exercising. I start to cry softly, worried I wrecked my chance at making friends here. I keep making a fool of myself with this family. I spend the night worried my time in Oak Creek so far has been too good to be true, and maybe my landlord will kick me out for hitting him with a broom.