“I don’t care enough to hate it. I just don’t go there much.”
“Shocking.” We lapse into silence, but it’s more comfortable now. I sneak glances at him—the way he’s bracing his arm against the door, the pinched skin around his eyes that means he’s in more pain than he’s admitting.
“We can stop at a pharmacy,” I offer. “Get you some pain meds.”
“I have pain meds.”
“That you’re not taking?” I accuse, and he doesn’t deny it. “Why not?”
“Because I need to work. Can’t work if I’m high on oxy.”
“Can’t work if you’re miserable either.”
“I’ll manage.” The way he says it—hot and growly—makes me drop it. For now. But not before I let myself quickly imagine what else he could manage with those dark eyes and long fingers.
The road gets less bumpy as we approach the little Main Street area. I pass a remodeled church that seems to be a restaurant, spot a bar called Tiddy’s, which makes me snort, and then the brightly painted feed store up ahead.
Asher adjusts his posture. “Turn right here.”
I follow his directions and pull into a small parking lot. “Wow. That’s an old building.”
“Wait till you see inside.”
Getting Asher out of the car is another production, but we manage. He crutches ahead of me to the store entrance, and I rush to open the door for him.
Inside, the place smells like sawdust, motor oil, and hay. I immediately snap a few pictures. The wooden floors creak under our feet, and the shelves are stacked floor-to-ceiling with every conceivable tool and part and plant you might need to fix or grow literally anything.
An older man behind the counter looks up. “Asher Thorne. Heard about the tractor accident, but looks like the amputation was a tall tale.” He smiles, the perfect picture of a caring, small-town grandpa. “What brings you by?”
“New neighbor needs to loosen a rusted valve.” He tilts his head at me.
The man’s gaze shifts, curious but friendly. “And who’s this?”
“Eva Storm,” I say, offering a smile. “I inherited the Pierce property.”
“Ah. Trying to get the pump fired up?”
“Hope so. I found it okay, but it wouldn’t budge.”
Diego, according to his name tag, nods. “Happens all the time with old wells. You need a pipe wrench and some penetrating oil. Let me show you.”
He leads us through the maze of shelves, chattering about rust and sediment and things I don’t fully understand but nod along to, anyway. Asher follows, quiet apart from the clack of his crutches.
We emerge ten minutes later with a pipe wrench, a can of oil, and detailed instructions I probably won’t remember. Diego also threw in some plumber’s tape as a bonus “just in case” and refused to let me pay for it. Then he invited me to his house sometime to check out the bidet his husband installed.
“Everybody’s been raving about it,” he says. Pointing at Asher, Diego adds, “That one’s sister has one in her cabin. No more toilet paper clogging up the septic system. The mayor of New York City has one now, you know.”
I bite my lip and consider that I’m being invited to a stranger’s home as if I’m going to be a fixture in the community. Diego doesn’t sound like he’s making small talk. He really wants me to experience his life-changing bidet.
“I’ll connect with you about that after I get the valve open.” I smack Asher in the chest with the back of my hand. “I should probably get this one to the grocery store, though. It was so nice to meet you.”
“You, too, Eva. Don’t be a stranger.”
His words stick with me as I shove Asher into the passenger seat and wrestle his crutches from him to wedge in the back. I feel a bit like I fell into the set of a movie about a small town, and a little emotional thinking of all these wonderful people who probably knew my Pierce relatives and I just … didn’t get to.
But then, I also get this same vibe from my sisters in the city and the regulars from their businesses. I have plenty of internet access there with zero rusted valves to care about.
I pull into the closest spot I can find outside the Quick Lick and giggle when I spot a motorized scooter near the entrance.
