I’ll be there. Trust me.
I stroll back through town, waving at a few locals as I pass. They greet me by name, asking how things are at the auto shop. Idle chitchat transforms a two-minute walk into almost thirty minutes. The brigade of little old ladies power walksdown the street, our self-appointed neighborhood watch. Dressed in matching pink tracksuits, they have a nose for trouble, which usually finds its way sniffing in my direction. They take crime and the latest town drama very seriously.
Before they notice me, I slip through the open garage door of Mountain Auto Repair and let the comforting smell of tire rubber and oil surround me. A scraping noise comes from the only car in the shop, Ms. Myrtle’s Cadillac. Lewis pops his head around the hood of the car, his gray beard wiggling as he chews his gum.
“You’re back early.” His eyes dip to my shirt. “Do I want to know why you’re wearing that?”
Ah.That explains the strange looks I got in town. Perhaps a recovering alcoholic shouldn’t be a walking promotional poster for the local bar.
“My other shirt was wet, so Tristen gave me a spare.”
“To be frank, that’s not the weirdest thing I’ve heard you say.” He pops his gum and ducks behind the car. “You clockin’ in?”
“Today is my day off, remember?”
“If you’re off, then why are you in my garage distracting me?”
I roll my eyes. “Good to see you too, Lewis.”
Opening the back door, I enter a narrow hallway and climb the uneven steps to what was once the shop’s main upstairs office, which Lewis has now converted into my temporary apartment. Nova once called it cozy, but I think that’s just a kind way of saying cramped. The main area is a combination living room, dining room, and kitchen. What little space I have is monopolized by the ugly mustard-colored sofa and TV tray. In the corner is a small counter with a sink, holding my coffee maker and microwave that I have to squeeze behind the oversized sofa to reach. My beige fridge is practically empty. On the center shelf rests a few water bottles I stolefrom Des’s place and half a loaf of sandwich bread. I’m not much of a cook, so thankfully Ethan, one of the cooks down at Lula Belle’s, tends to drop off any extra leftovers instead of trashing them. One of the perks of living on Main Street, I guess.
My bedroom barely fits my full-size mattress, allowing me a foot of walking space around the frame. There’s no space for a nightstand or dresser, so I crammed all my clothes in plastic bins under the bed. Even the storage closet is full to the brim, stacked with boxes from Granny’s trailer that I haven’t had the heart to go through yet. I don’t even open the closet door for fear of breathing in her scent still clinging to her belongings.
I waste no time changing into my usual comfortable clothes to curl up on the sofa. Remote in hand, I’m ready to binge another episode of a reality dating show I’m hooked on. It’s nice to feel like I have my life together compared to these people on TV.
The show title flashes on the screen before I hear Lewis bellowing my name from the shop downstairs. So much for my day off.
“I should make you pay me overtime,” I grumble as I push through the door to the garage.
“Stop leaving your personal things on the reception counter.”
My personal things?I squint at him in confusion.
Lewis isn’t one to beat around the bush. Turning, I catch sight of an orange-colored candy wrapper and already know who was here.
Growing up, we never had money for frivolous things. Not until my granny’s jams started becoming more popular could we afford anything beyond the basic necessities. Back then, we scraped pennies together and accepted donations from the church. Candy wasn’t on the list. But whenever Tristen came to our trailer or saw me at school, he’d alwayshave a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup in his pocket for me—which started the beginning of his nickname for me.
“What did he want?” I ask, picking up the candy and tucking it in my pocket. I might be angry at him, but I’m never one to pass up free food.
“I’m not playing secret messenger for you two.” He wheezes a laugh, a wet rattling sound. “If you want to know, then go over there and ask him.”
“Jeez, Lewis. I thought you were going to have someone listen to your lungs.”
“No time.”
“Well, make time.”
He huffs. “I’d almost think you care about me.”
“Maybe a little. I gotta appreciate a man who always gives it to me straight.”
“A little honesty never hurt anyone.”
Little?I chuckle at the understatement. The man is a drill sergeant, barking at me until I fall in line. More than once he told me that my granny had raised me soft and Des was even softer, treating me like a porcelain doll. That I don’t need cuddles or hand holding, I need tough love and a purpose. He put a wrench in my hand and told me to suck it up and get to work.
So I did.
In town, they call him the bulldog. Short and big boned, and once he sunk his teeth into something, it was impossible to change his mind. And as luck would have it, I was the fixer-upper he couldn’t wait to restore.
