"If you don't like it, you should quit," I snip, immediately regretting how I sound. It's not Opal's fault I'm in a bad mood; it's my own.
Opal raises her eyebrows. “I know you didn't mean that, since you'd be lost without me." She wipes her hands on her apron and stares me down, daring me to challenge her.
I exhale heavily and set down the piping bag. "I would be lost without you. And I didn't mean to be snippy. I'm just stressed out."
"Mmm-hmm. Would that stress have anything to do with the way Killian stormed out of here yesterday?"
"No. Definitely not," I say, my words shaking. "Maybe a little. But I'm more stressed about the store and the fact that I have a mortgage and a child and "
"You know what's good for stress?"
I can't help but laugh. "Don't even say it. You're like Killian's pimp."
"Trust me, child, that boy doesn't need any pimping out. You've seen how those college girls look at him when he's in here, like he's a piece of meat and they're a pack of wild dogs."
I roll my eyes. "I don't know why you're pushing me at someone who obviously has lots of girls chasing after him."
Opal sighs like she's exasperated with me, but I know she's exaggerating. The two of us might bicker back and forth, but she's the closest thing to a friend I have in this town. "Because you need to get back on the horse."
She gives me a pointed look and waggles her eyebrows.
I choke back a laugh. "Subtle, Opal."
"I was hoping I was obvious.”
I shake my head. “What is wrong with you?”
“Honey, I'm seventy-three years old."
"What does that have to do with all of your innuendos?"
Opal laughs. "It means I don't give a shit how I'm supposed to act at seventy-three."
"I hope I'm like you when I'm seventy-three, Opal."
"You need to turn off your give-a-shit meter and stop caring what people think."
"Who says I care what people think?"
Opal doesn't answer my question. "I wasn't always like this, you know. The older you get, the less you care what people think. Which means that if I want to have a booty call at seventy-three years old, that's what I do."
I laugh. "Booty call?” The last time we talked about Opal's love life which is apparently far more interesting than my own she said she was seeing one of the widowers in town, Bert, a deacon at the church. Now she's talking about booty calls?
"I believe that's what they call it these days. Booty call. Or fuck buddy.”
"I can’t believe you’re talking to me about booty calls," I say, laughter bubbling up in my chest so quickly that I snort, my hand flying up to my nose.
"You need to get on the internet more. There's a whole world out there. Terms for everything. One of the college kids said I was 'on fleek' the other day because I'm with it. I’m hip.”
I snort again, somehow unable to control myself. "So Bert is your booty call?"
"He certainly is. I'm not looking for a new husband. Carl, God rest his soul, was my great love in life."
"You don't think you can have another?"
"There's not another one out there for me. He was it. But I'm not going to my grave some shriveled up old prune who hasn't had any fun, either. And I don't give a shit what people think about it."
"What does all of this have to do with Killian?" I ask the question, even though I know exactly what this has to do with Killian. She’s trying to tell me, in her not-so-subtle way, that I should disregard all sense of reason and propriety and jump into something with him, even if it’s a booty call.
Opal shrugs. "I don't know. You figure it out. I'm just an old woman who rambles sometimes."
"Did Killian say something to you?"
"It was written all over him. That boy has it bad for you."
"That boy does not have it bad for me. And if he did, so what? Even if I wanted to date him, I have Chloe."
"I should make you pay me a dollar for every time you use your child as an excuse for not making a life for yourself."
My mouth falls open, and I shut it again. "I do not use my child as an excuse."
Opal just gives me a look. "Today is slow out front, and you have a few hours before Chloe gets out of school. I could pick her up for you, and you could take a ride up the mountain and tell that boy you're sorry for whatever it is you said to him."
"I'm the only one who's authorized to pick up Chloe," I argue.
"Oh, please. Call Amanda down at the school office and tell her I'm picking Chloe up for you. I've known Amanda since she was knee-high to a grasshopper. She knows I'm not stealing a child."
"I'm not dumping Chloe on you so I can run around and. . . do whatever, Opal."
“I think you mean do whoever.”
I change the subject. "How do you know it's me who needs to apologize?"
Opal laughs. "It's written all over your face, honey." She reaches into her pocket and withdraws a napkin. "Now, just in case you decide you want to take a little drive and get some fresh air, his address is written right there. It's twenty minutes or so, though, so I wouldn't wait around too long thinking about it."