“No, not usually. People buy stuff that you don’t even want to think about putting together for a meal.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Like…prunes and ground beef,” he said. “Lots and lots of both.” He made a face.

“Conor,” the cashier, an older woman, said in a weary, warning tone. “More bagging, less commentizing.”

“Commentizing?” Conor dropped a loaf of Italian bread and a package of thin spaghetti into a new plastic bag. “Mary, you are making up new words every day.”

“I have to do something to amuse myself,” she said. “You sure don’t help.”

“Help? Did you say help?” Conor cleared his throat. “Yes? Okay. I’d be glad to help you, Miss,” he said in a loud voice.

“Miss?” I repeated as I followed him out the automatic doors, past a bunch of giveaway newspapers in wire displays and a collection of carts and baskets. “Since when am I a Miss?”

“What do you want to be? Ma’am?” He quickly wheeled the metal cart toward the door.

“How about just…how about you let me carry my own bags?” I said.

“We have a rule here. Two bags’ worth, and you get me,” he said.

“Remind me to shop lightly next time, then,” I said. “Anyway, what’s in that bag? One thing?”

Conor laughed and strode out the automated exit doors ahead of me. “I wanted some air, okay? It gets boring in there.” He turned to the left as we headed across the parking lot, just as I turned right.

The cart smashed into my shin, then its wheels rolled right over my foot. “Hey! Watch it!” I cried. I jumped back out of the way, and Conor stopped in the middle of the lane to apologize.

“Look out!” I said, pushing Conor as a car came toward him, and he grabbed the cart to catch his balance.

The car veered around Conor—and instead sprayed me with slush as it went past.

“You are a seriously dangerous person. You know that?” Conor commented as he wheeled his way out of the driving lane.

“Hey. I’m the one who just got her foot run over. Not to mention drenched.” I looked at the bottom of my jeans, which were now soaked with water and slush.

“Like it hurt. There’s nothing in this basket,” Conor said as we started to move toward the minivan again.

“Then why are you carrying it out for me?” I asked.

“I told you! I wanted some air. Do you know how boring it gets, arranging things in geometric shapes in bags?” he asked.

I laughed. “Well, enjoy the fresh air. By all means.” I lifted the back of the minivan and he put the grocery bags inside, even though I could have done it myself with no problem. I hoped he wasn’t expecting a tip.

“Well, thanks,” I said, closing the hatch.

“No problem. Sorry about your foot,” Conor said.

It was hard to take him seriously when he was standing there in an apron. “You should take some time off or something,” I said. “You work too much.”

“Oh, yeah? This, coming from someone whose idea of work is collecting text messages?” he scoffed.

How could one person be so nice, and so rude, at the same time? “Okay, well, bye,” I said. “Have a great night.”

Well, at least I didn’t have to worry about what had happened that morning. Things with Sean were fixed, and fine. Things with Conor were back to normal: in other words, strange.

Chapter 12

“Excuse me,” I said as I climbed into the small, red pickup truck. “But what are you doing here?”

Shouldn’t you be at work? I wanted to say. A double latte goes unmade right now because of you.

“Ask him.” Conor didn’t look thrilled as I scooted over across the bench seat to sit next to him. Sean climbed in after me and slammed the door closed.

“Don’t slam it,” Conor said, aggravated. He looked like he needed a few more cups of coffee or something. I remembered Paula saying that he wasn’t a morning person.

“I didn’t slam it,” Sean protested. “I closed it.”

I sat there between the two of them: Conor was behind the wheel, my left leg was jammed against the shift-stick, and Sean was as close as he could be to my right leg. The mattress for the charity event was tied to the roof, on the truck topper.

“He insisted on driving when Ian couldn’t get the car like he thought,” Sean explained.

“I didn’t want to drive,” Conor said. “You made me.”

“No, you just didn’t want me to drive your truck,” Sean replied.

“Exactly.”

“So. Nice weather today,” I said, trying to interrupt before they turned this into a full-scale, all-day argument. “Sunny, not too cold…”

“Believe me, there are things I’d rather be doing,” Conor mumbled.

“No doubt,” Sean said. “Like harassing someone else?”

We pulled out of the neighborhood and started heading down Interstate Highway 35. If we took this highway north, we’d end up back at my hometown. Which maybe wasn’t such a bad idea, with things going so strangely this morning. But we were going south.

I was completely confused by the Benson Boys.

First, one of them basically starts dating me and we kiss. But then I see him with another girl. He says it’s nothing, but I’m worried. And we kiss some more.

Second, the other one acts like he thinks I’m stupid. Then all of a sudden he starts following me everywhere. Then he almost sort of kisses me.

And now here I was, smushed between the two of them, with a mattress bouncing on the rooftop, being buffeted by the wind as we reached sixty miles an hour.

Conor accidentally put his hand on my leg as he reached to push the stick shift into overdrive. “Oh, sorry,” he said, turning to me with a bashful smile.

“Sorry,” Sean muttered. “You’re not sorry. Well, you are, but not that way.” Then he snuggled closer to me, and put his hand on my other leg.

I wondered how far away this Buck Hill place was, and whether we’d all survive the journey intact.

When we reached the ski area, we had to park at the outskirts of the lot because we were a little on the late side. Conor and Sean hoisted the mattress off the truck and carried it on their heads over to the staging area, near the rope tow.

A local radio station was sponsoring the event, along with several other businesses. They had tables set up and were selling T-shirts to raise money. Music was blasting from speakers on top of a black van. There must have been a few hundred kids milling around, some in costumes and some as spectators, and lots of parents, too.

When we went up to the table to register, I wandered up and down the line, checking out the other organizations there.

“Are you going to sign up for the loppet?” Conor asked as he and Sean came up behind me.

“No. What’s a loppet?” I said.

“A ski race,” Conor said. “It’s Norwegian. This one’s in Mora and it’s called the Vasaloppet—it’s 30K.”

“Oh. Well, then I don’t think so,” I said. “I’ve never really done much cross-country skiing before. I tried telemarketing once—”

“Telemarketing?” Conor burst out laughing. “Did you say ‘telemarketing’?”

“What,” I said.

“I think you mean telemarking,” he said.

I grinned. “Oh yeah. That sounds better.”

And everyone at the table started laughing at me, and both Sean and Conor were laughing, too. The one time they agreed on something, and it had to come at my expense.