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Skylar

"You know the drill, Mrs. Ryan. You can rub it on as often as you need, but just a small bit goes a long way." I hand the glass jar containing the orange-tinted balm over to the elderly woman standing before me.

She mumbles a "yes, yes" before handing me the necessary bills and leaving the store. After five weeks, her mobility has improved since using the anti-inflammatory balm currently being stuffed into her oversized handbag. She has been applying it to her arthritic knee, and while she says it's her medication causing the difference, the same drug she has been on for years with no previous results, she still keeps coming back. 

When I first opened, I was lucky if I had even one customer a day walk into my store. After weeks of being open with nearly no sales, I was on the verge of calling it quits. Then one day, Mr. Adams from the bakery across the road came over to purchase some of that same balm for his hands. Someone told him about my shop, and thanks to that stranger, I am now thriving in this little town. As often as I have asked Mr. Adams, he tells me he cannot remember who it was.

The miraculous recovery of Mr. Adam's inflamed hands, caused by age and the never-ending kneading of dough, spread like wildfire. One of the benefits of a close-knit community is that word of mouth travels faster than any social media post ever could. News of my balm spread to the townsfolk, and now a year on, business is booming. I even sell and ship to online customers.

"I'm heading out for a coffee. Do you want anything?" I ask Rene who is spritzing water on the various plants on sale.

"The usual," she says, giving me one of her dazzling smiles.

Six months ago, I hired Rene after she came wandering in here asking me if I was looking for help. At the time I wasn't, but I got such a good vibe from her after a brief conversation that I gave her a job on the spot. The shop was doing well with the locals, and with online sales increasing, I could use another pair of hands. She was an outsider like myself in this town, which made me empathize with her. Ultimately, I guess that's what swayed my decision.

She is two years younger than me, vegan, and loves plants nearly as much as I do. Her dress style and mannerisms make me think she has been transported straight out of the hippie period from the sixties. She is my height, 5'5" tall, lean but femininely muscular, with a more tanned complexion compared to my paler, I-get-burnt-just-looking-at-the-sun skin.

She also has gorgeous blue eyes, as opposed to my plain hazel ones, topped off with thick wavy black hair which reaches her waist. Her wavy hair seems effortlessly under control. The bottom half of my hair is the only part under control, owing to the partial locs. The top half is another story altogether. It is a naturally curly red mess reaching just below my shoulder blades. Definitely not effortlessly under control, more like effortlessly chaotic.

Just as I'm about to leave, the phone rings. Rene answers it, her face scrunching up when she hears the voice on the other side.

"I'll get her for you." The cool tone of her voice and her facial expression already tells me who is on the other side. My suspicion is confirmed when she holds the phone out to me.  

"It's Chris," she says, rolling her eyes and gagging. 

From the first moment she spoke to him on the phone, she instantly disliked the faceless voice. Bizarre, considering she has never met the man, and her interactions have been purely work-related. I, on the other hand, find his voice attractive and his personality charming. He supplies me with the more exotic herbs I require for my herbal infusions. The quality of his herbs is unparalleled with any I have seen before, besides mine, and his pricing isn't bad either. I'm lucky he found me.

He called me out of the blue one day, saying he had seen my online store and wanted to know if I would be interested in buying herbs from him. At first, I was skeptical, as he didn't even have a website I could check out. But he was insistent, even going so far as sending me some samples, along with a decadent herbal pumpkin pie tea mix which I drink nearly every day. Chris includes this tea with every order I place, free of charge.

I stifle a laugh as I approach her, grabbing the receiver from her hand.

"Hey, Chris," I say, watching Rene as she resumes her spritzing.

"Hi, Skylar. How are you today?" The voice on the other side is smooth like butter. He sounds like he is in his mid-thirties, but sometimes the way he talks makes me think he is older.

"You know you can call me Sky." I fake exasperation, having already told him a hundred times.

"Skylar suits you better." There is a hint of amusement coloring his tone.

"How would you know? You haven't even met me," I counter, this banter between us becoming usual as our interaction over the months has continued. Rene shakes her head, obviously listening to our conversation. 

"Just a guess," he trails off, a hint of emotion in his voice I can't identify. Before I have time to ponder what it is, he continues. "Did you receive the shipment I sent?"

As if Rene can hear both sides of our exchange and without turning around, she points in the direction behind me, a box lying on the floor unopened next to the storage room. It's like she can read minds or something. This same thing happened many times before. 

"Yip, I got it. I still need to open it. Thank you, Chris." I smile even though he can't see me. I wonder if he is this attentive to all his customers.

"I've put some more tea in there. Are you still drinking it?" Chris enquires, making me wonder if he is hinting that I pay for it. Whenever I do offer, he declines.

"Yes, nearly every day. Thank you. You really should start charging me for it." Rene looks at me, a frown furrowing her brow before she walks towards the back room to refill the spray bottle.

"It's a gift from me to you," he says, his voice low, almost seductive. It must be my imagination. "Well, I must go...thank you for calling Chris. We'll chat with the next order?"

"Definitely, Skylar. You take care of yourself." With that, the call ends, leaving me, as usual, curious about the man on the other end. 

Snapping out of my thoughts, I take one last look at Rene, who has returned and is now giving her full attention to watering the plants before I walk out of the shop.

I head over to Fred's Diner, which sits at the end of the block across the road, separated by a park in the middle. Larry, the teenager manning the counter, beams at me when I enter. Every time I see him, he blushes and stumbles over his words. He clearly has a crush on me. 

"The usual?" He asks, his cheeks bright red and matching the upholstered bar stools lining the counter.

"Yes, thank you. And for Rene," I say before sitting on one of the stools closest to me. 

As usual, when waiting for my order, I scan the diner looking at the pictures on the walls. For me, they never get old. It's a vintage retro-style diner with old James Dean and Marilyn Monroe posters, amongst others, adorning the walls above the booths, which line two walls. Chairs and tables dot the rest of the area, their worn red upholstery matching the theme of the stool I am sitting on and the booth seating—history captured in every small tear and crack of the fabric.

As my gaze moves to the back, I catch the eye of a rather large and burly man sitting in the last booth in the corner, sipping on a Coke. The most striking thing about him is his hands. These things are massive, nearly swallowing the glass he is holding whole. I wonder how he hasn't managed to shatter it. Perhaps there was a class in school that taught him how to control the force, I absentmindedly think as I chuckle inwardly. He must be a tourist as I haven't seen him around before. New faces rarely remain in Willow Falls for longer than a couple of days.

Larry brings my order, effectively ending my musings over burlos huge hands—a coffee for me and a vegan frappuccino for Rene. Even small towns seem to be embracing the vegan movement. I suppose they need to. It appealed to the new-age tourists who loved to pass through.

As I leave, and for the second time today, I feel eyes on my back. I'm not unaccustomed to people staring. The messy red hair and locs alone elicit looks, coupled with the fact that I wasn't born here, made me a spectacle in this small town. One of the reasons I covered the birthmarks on my wrists. Which looked more like botched tattoos. Chunky bohemian jewelry did the job—one less thing to draw attention to myself. 

Coffees in hand, I head back, the feeling of eyes on me not going away until I am safely in my shop.

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