Read Online Purely Unconditional: A Romantic Tale of Snow Days and Second Chances by Bethany Hensel - Free Book Online

road. It seems to
make it doubly cruel when it’s gorgeous out. One minute, they’re
enjoying the sunshine. The next, bam! And all they were trying to
do was get to the other side of the street. That’s me. I feel like
I got hit by a semi.
    I adjust my purse on my shoulder and keep walking.
As I pass the Cat Café—a large black cat stares at me, his glinting
eyes knowing, as if he remembers—my phone beeps. Natalie. I read
her text and head into the corner market. She says she’s five
minutes away, which really means she’s just leaving now.
    The corner market, or, as the sign says, Korner
MarKet, is run by Mr. and Mrs. Giffin, two of the nicest people
you’ll ever meet. Mr. Giffin is a retired NBA all-star with Hershey
Kiss-colored eyes and hands so big they can easily palm a
watermelon and still have room to hold a grapefruit. His wife is
mortal-sized with a head of curly brown hair that is always,
without fail, held back by a Star of David barrette. A gift from
her mother, she tells everyone who makes eye contact with the
thing. It’s easy to do; the jewelry is gorgeous.
    “Hi, Mrs. G,” I say as I come in. She’s behind the
register tapping away on her phone. A huge pumpkin on the counter
nearly eclipses her completely. The store smells like produce and
cinnamon.
    “Layla!” She comes around the counter and throws her
arms around me, swaying side to side.
    “Where’ve you been?” she asks, relinquishing her
tight hold. “The fair trade sugar came in weeks ago for you. Do you
know how hard it’s been keeping Frank from that stuff?”
    Frank is her husband, aka, Mr. Big Hands. (Hmmm…I
wonder if there’s any way of saying that without it sounding
sexual…kind of like when you say the word willy. Or balls. I
juggle balls. I love meatballs. Balls are fun to play with. Mr. Big
Balls—I mean, hands. Mr. Big Hands. Big Fingers. Mr. Big—nope. No,
there isn’t.)
    The door opens and Mrs. G. waves at the people
coming in, just as friendly and warm as usual. Then she turns back
to me, an expectant look on her face.
    “I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. It’s been crazy
lately.” Reality: I’ve been broke. “I’ve been meaning to stop by
and just…one thing after another kept coming up.” Reality: I’ve
been really broke.
    “Well, you can pick up the stuff now. I’ll have
Frank get it.” She inhales and opens her mouth, about to shout down
the store, when I say her name.
    “Thank you, but I didn’t bring my wallet with
me.”
    “Oh, just bring me the check later. It’s no big
deal. I trust you.”
    I appreciate her faith, I do. But there’s no way I
can take that sugar. I mean, I don’t think she understands how
later that later would truly be. Much later. And just like my
Tell-Tale Turtle, I’d simply feel too guilty.
    Kowabunga…
    I shake my head and smile. “Really, thank you, but I
couldn’t. Besides, my oven needs repaired so I’m not even doing
much baking. Let Frank have it.”
    Mrs. G., after several more minutes of trying to
convince me to take the sugar, finally relents. That’s the thing
about Silver Lake. Even though it’s a pretty big city, it somehow
feels very small-town, and I say that in the best way possible.
People know each other. They seriously do trust each other.
Generations of families have lived here and continue to. People may
move, but they always seem to come back. Remember that whole “birth
to earth” quote from West Side Story? Yeah, that’s applicable
here.
    My phone beeps and I take it from my purse.
    Get in, loser. We’re going shopping.
    Natalie.
    I say my goodbyes to Mrs. G. and head back outside.
I make the trek to my car as quick as I can, huffing (how pathetic)
a bit when I finally get there. I make a mental note to cut back on
the potato chips…just as soon as I finish the bag I have opened at
home.
    I stand on the curb and await Natalie’s entrance. I
do not wait long.
    A gleaming yellow and black Camaro turns onto King’s
Square. The