Then I pass the second with stubbornness.
By the time Larsen’s General Store comes into view, I’m already slowing down, as if my truck has opinions separate from my brain.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself, pulling into the gravel lot. “Fine. We’re doing this. We’re being… thoughtful. Normal. Like a person.”
My truck, in response, makes a sound that feels judgmental.
Larsen’s has been sitting on that corner longer than most of the town’s grudges. The windows are full of practical things and weird things: seed packets and canned peaches, cheap toys that will definitely break, a rack of postcards nobody mails, and a display of local goods because Colter Creek is stubbornly proud of itself.
The bell over the door jingles when I step inside.
Cool air hits my face. The smell is an odd blend of pine cleaner, old candy, and whatever’s been brewing in the coffee pot behind the counter since 1997.
“Wyatt Tucker,” a voice calls out, rich with amusement.
Mrs. Larsen is behind the counter, silver hair in a braid, reading glasses on a chain, expression sharp enough to cut twine.
“Afternoon,” I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near “man who has never been casual in his life.”
She looks me up and down. “You look like you wrestled a cow and lost.”
“I didn’t lose,” I say automatically.
Her smile deepens. “That’s what all the losers say.”
I ignore that. I glance around the store, suddenly overwhelmed by the fact that this is a terrible place to buy a romantic gift.
Larsen’s sells necessities and impulse purchases. No one comes here for grand gestures unless the grand gesture involves a snow shovel.
Still… Abilene isn’t a grand gesture kind of person.
I scan shelves, looking for a diagnosis.
My eyes catch on a display of soaps and lotions near the window. Local brands, mild scents, beeswax hand salve in tins.
It’s the kind of thing a beekeeper might actually use, especially after working hives and handling equipment.
I reach for a tin, read the label.
HAND SALVE — UNSCENTED — MADE WITH BEESWAX + HONEY
My chest does a weird little thump.
This would be perfect.
It’s practical. It’s thoughtful. It’s not creepy.
I pick it up, then immediately think:Is it creepy?
I mean… she makes honey. She has bees. Buying her a beeswax product could be interpreted as either “I noticed what you do and I respect it” or “I saw you once with a hive tool and decided your entire personality is bees.”
I set it down.
Then pick it up again.
Maybe with something else,I think, as if my brain is assembling a treatment plan.
I move toward the small gift section. Mugs. Tea infusers. Little notebooks with floral covers. A display of dried herb bundles with tiny tags that say things such asCALMandSLEEPandDON’T MURDER ANYONE TODAY.
