I’ve got some stuff to do in the kitchen. By the time I come back, a few of them are in their usual seats. I can tell they’re showing off for Ran, trash-talking louder than usual. “Bullshit! Last time you told that story, you said it happened on afishingboat, not a yacht,” Bruce is heckling Mikey when I come in.
Frankie’s just settling into his regular barstool. “Was a fishin’ boat,” he concurs in a mumble. He’s the oldest of the bunch, I think. The hair he’s got left on his head is nearly all white, as is his grizzled beard.
Mikey stops waving his hands around long enough to push his wire-rimmed glasses back up his nose. His gray hair looks like he’s already been running his fingers through it. His hair is his pride and joy — seeing as how he’s the only one of the regulars to still have a full head of it.
“Errol, would you tell this old codger he’s going senile?” Bruce jabs a thumb in Mikey’s direction. Bruce might not always be the guy who starts a debate, but he’ll be damn sure to get the last word in. His flannel shirt looks looser than usual on his skinny frame. I make a mental note to duck into the kitchen a little later and ask AJ, who’s cooking today, to pretend to screw up an order of wings so I can ask Bruce if he wants them. Everybody knows it’s a charade, and everybody always plays along.
This crew might be crotchety and cantankerous, but we all look out for each other here.
7
AARYN
Once I decided I was going to be here for a while, I drove my rental car to a dealership and signed a lease. I’m not sure if Errol’s car-free status is by choice or if he can’t afford one. My hunch is that he’s just getting by, but he’s refused to take any money from me. In turn, I just brush him off when he asks what he owes me every time I make a grocery run.
Earlier this week, Errol wasn’t in the house when I got back. I found him out in the detached garage, wearing a pair of cargo pants that had been chopped into frayed cutoffs and a T-shirt that was damp with sweat. He was sitting cross-legged on the oil-stained concrete next to a disassembled lawnmower, cursing at it under his breath as I came in.
At the sound of my footsteps, he glanced up. “Oh, hey.” With his forearms and hands smudged with black grease, he wiped his forehead with a clean spot on the back of his hand. “Didn’t realize you were back.” He looked down at a part in his hand and went back to trying to wrench a bolt off. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he muttered.
“You can fix lawnmowers, too?” I said in surprise.
He barked out a laugh. “Well, I haven’t fixed ityet. Not this time, at least.”
“How often have you fixed it before?” Errol shrugged, piquing my curiosity. “How long have you had it? How long are lawnmowers supposed to last?”
“Dunno. Until you can’t fix them anymore, I guess.” He sounded distracted as he picked up a canister and squirted something onto the bolt before he tried to loosen it again. He grimaced as his forearms corded and his T-shirt went taut across his shoulders.
A sharp metallic creak broke the silence, and Errol blew out a sigh of exertion and relief. My solution would have been to just buy a new lawnmower or, better yet, pay somebody to cut the grass. Obviously, those options weren’t on the table here, which made me feel awkward as hell.
So did the realization that I had been staring at the muscles in Errol’s arms and back as he wrestled with that stuck bolt.
I’m turning the money question over in my head as I get behind the wheel, heading to the storage unit where the rest of my worldly possessions are stashed. Errol and I aren’t in my new silver crossover today; we’re in a rental box truck that’s seen better years, with dingy yellow foam visible beneath the bench seat’s cracked black vinyl.
“I feel like I ought to be paying you rent,” I say as I merge onto the highway.
Errol frowns. “That wasn’t why I asked if you wanted to stay with me.”
“I know. But I’m sure stuff like your water bill has gone up.”
“It’s fine, really,” he says. “I’m happy to have you here.”
“But I feel like I owe you big-time. At least let me pay for my living expenses.” When he purses his lips, I press him. “Comeon—I just sold my company. It’s not like I don’t have it.”
Errol gives me a little flutter of eyelashes and a coy smirk. “Are you saying you want to be my sugar daddy?”
“Pfft.” It’s not much of a retort, but I’m distracted by the sudden frisson Errol’s expression sent through me. “You dork. I just feel weird owing you. Let me pay you back.” I roll my eyes and act dismissive, trying to shake the strange, crackling energy vibrating through me.
I glance over again to see a mischievous light in his eyes. “OK, fine, butIget to decide the terms —when and how I collect,” he says.
“That’s not fair!” I protest. The nonsensical thought flashes through my head that if Errol and I were to touch, it would spark like static electricity.
“Why not? Weren’t you just bragging about how loaded you are?” He scoots over on the bench seat and gives me a little poke in the ribs.
I make an ass out of myself. There’s no spark,of course, but I yelp and jump as if there was, almost sending the truck into the shoulder. “Shit, sorry!” I straighten the steering wheel as my face blazes hot.
Errol looks chastened. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to distract you.”
“It’s OK,” I mumble, and we drive in silence for a little bit. Since I’ve already embarrassed the shit out of myself, I turn my attention to the awkward topic I’ve beenmostafraid to broach since I came back. “How’s things with your folks? And Dennis?” I ask.
