The Space Between Sisters by Mary McNear Page A

talking to each other and stared at her. Just . . . stared at her. And she did this thing she did whenever people stared at her like that. She just kind of . . . went inside of herself. It was hard to explain. It was like she was there, but at the same time, she wasn’t there. She couldn’t remember exactly when she’d started doing this, probably in adolescence, but it had become practically second nature to her. Like right now, for instance, she put the bottle of wine on the counter and slid her wallet out of her handbag, and the whole time she was doing this, she was staring at a flyer someone had pinned up on a bulletin board behind the counter. It had to do with a bluegrass music festival—which was something she had no interest in—but she pretended to read it with total concentration.
    She was staring at it so hard, in fact, that she was only vaguely conscious that the man behind the counter was speaking to her.“I’m sorry, what did you say?” she asked, tearing her eyes away from the flyer.
    â€œI said, ‘It’s at the fairgrounds on Sunday.’ Are you interested? Because I’ve heard some of the bands, and they’re pretty good.”
    Was he asking her out? She felt her face flush with irritation. She hated it when guys did this. And she never understood it, either. Why would they think she’d be willing to go out with a stranger? And, in this man’s case, since when did buying a bottle of wine from someone constitute an introduction to him? Now, though, she took a five-dollar bill out of her wallet and placed it on the counter, and, as she did so, she leveled her gaze at him. “I don’t date people I don’t know,” she said.
    â€œExcuse me?” he said, picking up her five-dollar bill. Now, apparently, it was his turn to be confused.
    â€œI said, ‘I don’t go out on dates with people I’ve never met before.’”
    â€œDid you . . . did you think I was asking you out?” he asked, counting out her change and putting it on the counter.
    â€œWell . . . weren’t you?” She picked up her change and put it back in her wallet.
    â€œNo, I wasn’t,” he said, and she saw a flash of irritation in his blue eyes as he put her bottle of wine in a paper bag. “I was just making conversation. This is my business,” he added. “I’m not in the habit of using it as a place to try to pick up women.”
    â€œOkay,” she said, apologetically, her face warm again, though this time only with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I obviously misunderstood you.”
    She heard a laugh, a laugh that was quickly disguised as a cough, and she looked over to see the man in the seersucker hat covering his mouth with mock politeness. He looked like he wasenjoying himself immensely. So did the guy in the baseball cap, who, even now, was leaning against the counter with a lackadaisical smile on his face. So this was what passed for entertainment around here? Being rude to customers?
    â€œThank you very much,” she said, insincerely, as the proprietor handed her the paper bag.
    She turned to go then, but before she’d even taken a step she heard the man behind the counter say, almost as if to himself, “That’s a really nice bottle of wine.”
    She spun around, too irritated to feel self-conscious. “You’re the one who sold it to me,” she objected. “If it’s so bad, why do you even carry it?”
    â€œActually,” he said, “that bottle was already here when I bought this business.”
    â€œSo, why’d you keep it?” she shot back.
    â€œBecause there’s no accounting for some people’s tastes,” he said, with an amused glance at his companions. Poppy turned on her heels and headed for the door, determined not to give him, or his friends, anything else to be amused about. But by the time she reached the front porch, where the