impressed her, even if it was misguided.
“Have you talked to Chase?” she asked. “Is he upset?” She felt a stab of guilt. The young man had trouble enough; she’d thought her words were sufficiently vague not to cause him more.
“Of course he’s upset. And what about Larissa Hughes and Mike Braden?”
“Who’s Larissa Hughes and Mike Braden?” Amy turned a questioning look to Charla, who shrugged.
“They eloped after the prom. Their parents are devastated.” Josh picked up the paper and read again. “A girl dances with the young man who will be her life partner.”
“I don’t know anything about anyone eloping,” Amy said. “I wrote that because Sandra Ogleby told me she met her husband, Bart, at their prom. They married four years later.”
“I didn’t even know about Larissa and Mike, and I know everything,” Charla said.
Josh glared at Charla and she backed away. “I’ll just leave you two alone,” she said, and slipped into the back room.
Amy turned to Josh again. “You’re blowing this all out of proportion,” she said. “If you actually read the article all the way through, you’ll see that I was very careful not to name names or give details. The article is about the prom as a tradition and rite of passage. I have quotes in there from the mayor and the police chief and some of the chaperones and other people in town about their proms. Clay Westerburg got into a fight at his prom, too—did you know that? That line in my article might have been referring to him.”
He pressed his lips together and stared at the paper on the counter between them.
“Admit it,” she said. “You’ve let the one article I wrote about you color your opinion of everything else. You don’t like me, so you don’t like my work.”
His eyes met hers and the intensity of his gaze stole her breath. “I never said I didn’t like you. I don’t like what you do.”
It would be so easy to lose sight of the real issue here, under the heat of that gaze. But she wouldn’t let some petty physical attraction—a simple biological response of a woman to a man—get in the way of standing up for herself. It had taken her so long to learn to put herself first, she couldn’t lose sight of that now. “My writing is part of me,” she said. “When you insult it, you insult me. How would you feel if I said you were a lousy teacher or an awful coach?”
“You did say I was a lousy coach.”
So much for thinking he had any sort of tender feelings for her. His only concern was his own grudge. “I did not. I questioned your qualifications—I never questioned your methods or your record.”
He looked away, saying nothing.
“Oh, now you’re doing that man thing, where you get all silent and refuse to answer me. Because, of course, I don’t deserve an answer. Brent used to try that, too, and it made me furious.”
“I am not your husband.”
“Thank goodness for that.”
“Children, your shouting is scaring away customers.” Charla emerged from the back room and regarded them with the attitude of a scolding playground monitor.
“I’ve said all I have to say.” Without another look in her direction, Josh turned and stalked away.
Amy stared after him. Her heart pounded and she was breathing hard, as if she’d just raced up a flight of stairs.
“You two just bring out the best in each other, don’t you?” Charla said.
“I don’t know why I let him get to me.” She hugged her arms across her chest.
“But you do let him get to you. I find that interesting.” Charla gave her a knowing smile.
It was Amy’s turn to end a conversation by turning away, but Charla’s words gnawed at her. Why should she care so much what Josh thought of her and her work? Why did his opinion matter more than anyone else’s?
And why, when she was with him, did she feel more alive than she had since before Brent died?
* * *
F ROM THE COFFEE shop, Josh headed to the baseball fields for the next to last game of
“Have you talked to Chase?” she asked. “Is he upset?” She felt a stab of guilt. The young man had trouble enough; she’d thought her words were sufficiently vague not to cause him more.
“Of course he’s upset. And what about Larissa Hughes and Mike Braden?”
“Who’s Larissa Hughes and Mike Braden?” Amy turned a questioning look to Charla, who shrugged.
“They eloped after the prom. Their parents are devastated.” Josh picked up the paper and read again. “A girl dances with the young man who will be her life partner.”
“I don’t know anything about anyone eloping,” Amy said. “I wrote that because Sandra Ogleby told me she met her husband, Bart, at their prom. They married four years later.”
“I didn’t even know about Larissa and Mike, and I know everything,” Charla said.
Josh glared at Charla and she backed away. “I’ll just leave you two alone,” she said, and slipped into the back room.
Amy turned to Josh again. “You’re blowing this all out of proportion,” she said. “If you actually read the article all the way through, you’ll see that I was very careful not to name names or give details. The article is about the prom as a tradition and rite of passage. I have quotes in there from the mayor and the police chief and some of the chaperones and other people in town about their proms. Clay Westerburg got into a fight at his prom, too—did you know that? That line in my article might have been referring to him.”
He pressed his lips together and stared at the paper on the counter between them.
“Admit it,” she said. “You’ve let the one article I wrote about you color your opinion of everything else. You don’t like me, so you don’t like my work.”
His eyes met hers and the intensity of his gaze stole her breath. “I never said I didn’t like you. I don’t like what you do.”
It would be so easy to lose sight of the real issue here, under the heat of that gaze. But she wouldn’t let some petty physical attraction—a simple biological response of a woman to a man—get in the way of standing up for herself. It had taken her so long to learn to put herself first, she couldn’t lose sight of that now. “My writing is part of me,” she said. “When you insult it, you insult me. How would you feel if I said you were a lousy teacher or an awful coach?”
“You did say I was a lousy coach.”
So much for thinking he had any sort of tender feelings for her. His only concern was his own grudge. “I did not. I questioned your qualifications—I never questioned your methods or your record.”
He looked away, saying nothing.
“Oh, now you’re doing that man thing, where you get all silent and refuse to answer me. Because, of course, I don’t deserve an answer. Brent used to try that, too, and it made me furious.”
“I am not your husband.”
“Thank goodness for that.”
“Children, your shouting is scaring away customers.” Charla emerged from the back room and regarded them with the attitude of a scolding playground monitor.
“I’ve said all I have to say.” Without another look in her direction, Josh turned and stalked away.
Amy stared after him. Her heart pounded and she was breathing hard, as if she’d just raced up a flight of stairs.
“You two just bring out the best in each other, don’t you?” Charla said.
“I don’t know why I let him get to me.” She hugged her arms across her chest.
“But you do let him get to you. I find that interesting.” Charla gave her a knowing smile.
It was Amy’s turn to end a conversation by turning away, but Charla’s words gnawed at her. Why should she care so much what Josh thought of her and her work? Why did his opinion matter more than anyone else’s?
And why, when she was with him, did she feel more alive than she had since before Brent died?
* * *
F ROM THE COFFEE shop, Josh headed to the baseball fields for the next to last game of
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