The phone lights, asks for attention, finds the network just enough to ping, three texts from Blake stacked like excuses.
Blake: You home?
Blake: Dinner?
Blake: Everything okay?
“He’s worried.”
It’s Humbug’s turn to shrug.
I type:Got stuck.At the garage.Tow truck picked me up.I’m fine.Roads are closed.
The dots appear.
Blake: Do you want me to come get you?
No.I type.Not in his BMW.It’s safer to wait.
A long pause.
Blake: Okay.Be safe.I love you.
The words land like a coat I should put on but don’t.I’d rather freeze at this point.
“You good?”Humbug asks.
“I told him I’m safe,” I say.
“That true?”he asks with a smirk.
“I’m safer here than anywhere,” I say and feel it.
He tips his head, a small, helpless surrender to the truth.The heater clicks.The clock over the parts shelf ticks.My heartbeat picks up like it wants to keep time with his.
“Maybe you’ve got beard blindness,” he mumbles under his breath.
“Say what?”It takes me a minute.“That’s rude and wrong to say,” I complain.
Humbug shrugs.“Maybe.I just don’t know any man who’d let his woman walk home in this mess.And not give a damn where you’re spending the night.”
“He doesn’t know, I’m here with you.He trusts me.”
We both make a face.
“Where’s your wife?”I counter.
“Don’t rightly know or care.”
“I’m not Blake’s beard.He’s not gay.Hell, he’s getting really tired of my excuses.”
“Your excuses?”
“I’ve not slept with him since… the robbery,” I admit.
At my confession, we fall silent, trying to pretend we’re just waiting out weather.Humbug messes with the radio, finds a station that fades in and out on a loop of warnings and Evervale’s year-round holiday music.I unfold my fingers and fold them again.He wipes a wrench and doesn’t need to.
We fail at pretending.
