I miss mydad.
***
A steady stream of business eats up the morning, which is perfect because without the fast-paced distraction of work, my mind would somersault into overdrive. When things finally settle down, Kyle pours me another cup of coffee, adds my requisite splash of cream and heap of sugar, and says, “So, what’re you gonna do about Max?”
“Nothing,” I say with resolve I don’t feel. Last night’s flight through the unfamiliar has become today’s terrifying free fall. “He can ride off into the sunset with Becky.”
“I think you should at least talk to him.”
“Kyle. I suck at talking.”
“Yeah, but Max is our friend. Your neighbor. It’s not like you can hide from him.”
“I can try.”
“Sure,” he says gently, “but do you want to?”
He may be onto something—something I’m currently unwilling to explore—but what am I supposed to do? Max and I can’t continue whatever last night was, though the thought of telling him to stay away makes my skin itch. But then, who am I to assumehewants to continue hanging out withme? He’s been drunk the two times we’ve been together, and he has a girlfriend who, like it or not, sticks to him like cake to an ungreased Bundt pan.
Besides, he’s Max and I’m Jillian, and we’re friends—if that.
Through the shop’s front window, I spot a white truck pulling into the parking lot, the emblem of a smiling cow adorning its side. “I’m going to let the milkman in. You good here?”
Kyle swipes a sprinkling of coffee grounds from the counter. “Yep, got it.”
I open the back door that leads into the storage room and watch as the milkman hauls in crates of nonfat, 2 percent, half-and-half, whipped cream, and newly seasonal eggnog. I sign his invoice and pay him with a purchase order, then go about loading the big stock fridge with dairy products. The cold air clears my head, and the filtered melody of Kyle’s whistling—he’s moved on to “Joy to the World”—eases my nerves.
Then the rumble of another truck muffles Kyle’s tune. The gritty crooning of Johnny Cash’s “Cry, Cry, Cry” carries into the back room, and I freeze with a gallon of milk in each hand.
Max hardly ever comes by True Brew; he doesn’t even drink coffee.
I can’t make out the details of his exchange with Kyle over the Man in Black’s guitar riffs, but I can tell it’s taking place through the window, and I can discern their grave tones. At last I hear Kyle say, loudly, “See you later, dude.”
The F-150’s engine revs, then fades.
I plunk the remaining milk into the fridge, wondering why he came and what he said, and mostly, why he left without a word to me. Then I slam the fridge’s door and make my way into the shop to interrogate Kyle.
He’s waiting for me, hands on his hips, a look of reproach peeking out from beneath his shaggy hair. “You’re going to talk to him,” he says. “Right now.”
“I heard his truck pull away.”
“Nice try. He’s in the parking lot, and—fair warning—he’s wrecked.”
I swallow. “Wrecked?”
“You’ll see when you get out there.”
“I’m not going out there. I can’t.”
“You can.” He strides across our work space, plucks my jacket from its hook, and holds it out for me. With a resigned sigh, I untie my apron and trade up. Kyle zips me to my chin and pats my shoulder. “There we are. You’re gonna feel better once you guys work this out.”
On autopilot, I make my way out of True Brew. I trudge across the foggy parking lot, my feet crunching wet gravel as I approach Max’s truck. Exhaust spills from its tailpipe, and a slow, steady bass beat vibrates the cab. I step up to the driver’s-side door.
God, hedoeslook wrecked.
He lowers the window. “Come sit with me?”
I nod and round the truck to the passenger side. I get in, settling myself on the seat without looking at him. Johnny Cash has been turned down to less than earsplitting, but I can still make out “Peace in the Valley,” a song that couldn’t be more depressing if it tried. It’s warm in the truck, and it still smells the way it did when Bill drove it during his logging days: crisp and organic, like the woods after a rain shower.
