Brett squats down to pull up the bottom of the garage door. It’s three times the length of a house garage, so I assume it’s heavy.
I shouldn’t be watching the muscles in his backside flex as he stands to push the door overhead. "Grab the pole," he instructs me.
He dropped it a few feet behind him.
I’m holding the wooden pole, waiting for my next direction, but he’s quick to get the door rolling upward and takes the pole from my hand, wedging it beneath the bottom panel of the garage door.
A truck pulls into the space in front of the garage, and the back-up warning beeps scream into this small space we’re in. The truck stops, and a woman jumps out of the driver’s side door. "Is the damn door broken again?" she asks.
"It sure is," Brett tells her.
The woman walks over to Brett and gives him a hug. "How are you doing here?"
"Good, good. I’m getting things under control," he tells her.
It would be sexist of me to wonder why a petite woman is driving an eighteen-wheeler, but the thought crosses my mind. Plus, they know each other, which also crosses my mind. "How’s little Miss Parker doing?" The woman asks, while unlatching the back panel of the truck.
"She’s doing well in school this year. She ended up with a great teacher, which she needed after last year."
"Oh, totally," the woman says. "The old bat should have retired twenty years ago."
I feel like a moron standing here, holding a pole.
"Oh, Becca, this is Melody, Harold’s younger daughter."
Becca.
She wipes her gloved hands off on her blue work pants and offers to shake my hand. "I’m so sorry for your loss," she says.
"Thank you," I mutter.
"Your dad was awesome. Such a great guy."
Brett clears his throat and hops into the truck, pushing out a small metal ramp that extends into the garage.
Brett and Becca swap spots, and Brett catches each barrel rolling down the ramp, lifting each one without breaking a sweat.
He lines all thirty-something of them up in a row behind me. "That’ll hold you for a while," Becca shouts from inside the empty truck.
"Yes, ma’am," he replies.
The ramp retractsand Becca jumps out. "Well, I have to get back to the warehouse. We have two more deliveries today. I’ll talk to you soon, Brett," she says, smiling.
"See ya," he says, waving as she climbs back into the truck.
Brett places his hand above mine on the pole. "Here, watch out while I dislodge this stupid thing." I take a few steps back, and he jumps up to press up on the bottom of the garage door to let it fall away from the pole. He catches it and slows it from crashing to the cement.
"I don’t think I could ever drive one of those trucks," I tell him, trying to make conversation since I feel a little awkward.
"Yeah, she’s been driving eighteen-wheelers since she turned eighteen. I give her credit though, it’s not easy."
He’s known her for a while too.
"I’m sure it’s not," I tell him. "Well, I’ll go unlock the shop door while you settle the barrels, I guess." I don’t know what happens with the barrels now, but I assume they won’t stay lined up in a row here.
"Oh yeah, that would be great. I’ll be up in a few."
The moment I reach the storefront, my emotions catch up to me, and I realize I was only okay while initially walking inside of this holiday decorated shop because Brett was here waiting.
