Even weight distribution. Probably better for the tires.
As we roll into town, people look up and wave, smiling, and Lacey makes comments about how cute the place is again and again. It’s not like IhateLow Pines; it’s just fine. I purposefully route us around to the back of the hardware store to make sure we don’t go past Warren’s place. The last thing I need right now is to deal with another request from him to enter the contest, especially not in front of Lacey.
For some reason, I don’t want her asking about the furniture. Can’t stomach the idea of telling her about my work, about my art. I might be warming up to her, against my better judgment.
“I can’t get over this,” Lacey says, pulling out her phone and snapping a picture of the hardware store, which actually makes me chuckle. It’s like taking a picture of the road, or a street post. So mundane. Surely there are hardware stores wherever she’s from.
Where did Jasper say he was from? Or did he ever mention it? It’s not like we had a lot of deep conversations.
We walk in through the back door of the hardware store, and I’m instantly reminded of something about Low Pines that Ireallydon’t like. Liam Smythe.
Tall, broad, and blond. The kind of guy they cast to play that really charming superhero who’s stronger and better than everyone else. Today, his hair is pushed back from his face with what mustbe a headband, but the motherfucker manages to make it look masculine. Likely, the sleeves of tattoos on either arm balance out the hair thing.
Or, maybe, I’m so out of touch I have no idea what a woman might find attractive. All I know is that hair like that would drive me up the wall out at the cabin, trying to get things done with it whipping in my face all the time.
“Welcome to Smythe Hardware,” he says, rounding the corner while wiping his hand on an oil rag, like he’s some sort of mechanic. First, he looks to me, then at Lacey, and his smile only grows. “Well, hello there. Haven’t seen your face around here before. You must be Max’s sister.”
Lacey’s delight at someone who might want to have a real conversation with her is palpable. Smythe sets down the rag and leans on the counter, giving her his full attention.
“No, I inherited the cabin down the road from him, actually,” she says, and from the corner of my eye, I watch her brace for it.
And, of course, it comes. “Down the road?” Smythe asks, his forehead wrinkling for a moment, before he seems to make the connection like I did, seeing her copper hair and freckles. “Oh,you’re Jasper’s kid? I’m so sorry for your loss. I had no idea?—”
“It’s okay,” Lacey says, waving her hand in front of her face, even though it’s obvious to anyone just looking at her that it is not, in fact, okay. “And no, actually — I’m his niece.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Lacey, even if it’s under less than ideal circumstances,” Smythe says, sticking out his hand to hers, and I have to quell the strange anger that rises up in my chest when she reaches out to take it.
Why does it matter? I’ve already decided I want nothing to do with her. And so what if Smythe flirts with her? He flirts with every woman who’s ever entered this shop. I’ve seen it before, standing at the counter and waiting for the asshole to check out my stuff so I could get home.
Maybe it’s the fact that, within moments, he’s getting along well with her. Smooth. I’ve never been that charismatic or suave, and I instinctively don’t trust people who can talk like that, make their way through a conversation like it’s nothing.
“Oh yeah, I’d definitely take some fuses back with you, just in case something is blown. You should be able to find the fuse box pretty easily. It will look like the one in your condo, but bigger. Maybe in the garage or outside.”
“I didn’t even notice a garage.” She laughs at herself in a way I can’t help but find charming.
I ignore them and go to the other side of the store, grabbing the stuff I need — might as well limit the number of trips I have to make back to Low Pines — trying to block out the sound of Lacey giggling and Smythe schmoozing on the other side, over by the electrical equipment.
When I emerge, I find Lacey with her items at the checkout, still carrying on a full conversation with Smythe as he writes downeach one. She’s shocked when he doesn’t take Apple Pay and has to dig into her purse, and rather than finding that annoying — which would make sense — Smythe just laughs, saying old-fashioned bookkeeping is part of the charm.
“Plus,” he adds, bagging her things for her, “my grandpa would kill me if I updated all that while he’s still around to see it.”
Lacey laughs, but I see the grief flash over her face. When you’ve gotten used to seeing it in yourself, you can identify it quickly. Smythe doesn’t seem to notice he’s said anything to remind her of her dead uncle, and he finishes the transaction.
When I step up to the counter, it goes quiet while he scans mine, and I’m tempted to say something like,what, don’t want to flirt with me? Is it the beard?
But then there’s another gasp from behind me — like the one Lacey let out on the road — and while I’ve learned my lesson with her, Smythe looks up, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh myGod,” she says, snapping a picture of a flyer pinned to his corkboard. “This issocute!”
He and I look at each other, and I hate that I’m having a moment of connection with fucking Liam Smythe.
“Are you… talking about the fall festival?” he asks with an amused tone I couldn’t match if I wanted to. What does she mean,it’s so cute? Does she mean the idea of coming down here and paying twice as much for the same coffee and food, jamming yourself in with a bunch of other people? Of playing overpriced carnival games and looking over pumpkins they’ve brought in from the local patch, rather than going out and picking one yourself?
It doesn’t make any sense to me, and I’ve always specifically made sure to avoid town on that weekend. I’ve also, in the past, put up a sign on my mailbox letting people know to turn around if they’re looking for the fall fest, since I got tired of confused tourists showing up at my doorstep, asking if they were lost.
“Is it real?” she asks, her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline, and once again, Smythe laughs.
“Course it is. I go every year. If you’re around, I could show you the ropes.”
