It’s afternoon by the time I leave, and I don’t rush the drive home. After crossing the Telford city line, I detour toward the garage on Main Street without stopping to consider why. I’m only going to pass by, assure myself that he’s not there. I almost believe myself until the garage comes into view. Cal’s red truck—Heath’s truck—is still there. I pull in and get out automatically, not needing a closer look to confirm it’s the same truck but taking one anyway.
“Can I help you with something?”
I turn and see a man in gray coveralls wiping his hands on a paisley-print orange handkerchief. His pleasant smile falters when he sees my face, and my stomach flutters uncomfortably. I don’t get recognized everywhere anymore, but I wouldn’t be surprised if this mechanic knows who I am considering how frequently Heath said Cal had his truck fixed here. Still, it’s possible there’s another reason for his flat expression. Straightening my back, I force a smile onto my face. “Yes, sir. I was just curious what’s wrong with this truck?”
“That truck’s not for sale,” he says without a hint of his initial smile.
I swallow down the splash of bile in my stomach. He knows exactly who I am. “No, sir, I’m not looking to buy it. I was only wondering why the owner hasn’t picked it up yet.”
The mechanic takes a step toward me. “Not sure as how that’s any of your business.” His demeanor isn’t openly hostile, but it’s as far from welcoming as it can get. It isn’t wholly unexpected so instead of slinking away, I close my eyes and draw in a steadying breath before opening them again.
“I dropped the owner off here yesterday. Are you waiting for a part to come in or something?”
His expression goes blank, and I think I stunned him into answering. “It’s fixed. I agreed to hold it for a few days until he could pay for the repair.”
I have a flash of Heath walking in heat and rain when he doesn’t have to do either, when he shouldn’t. “How much is it?”
The mechanic hesitates, gaze flicking to my Camaro as if to confirm it was the car Heath got out of yesterday. I don’t know how well this guy knew Cal or knows Heath, but I can guess that he’s struggling to understand why Heath would have anything to do with me. Staring at Daphne, he tells me the repair cost. It’s slightly more than half of the paycheck I picked up the day before. More than I can comfortably part with, if I’m being honest.
The mechanic is beyond words at this point, but he takes my money if not my guilt.
CHAPTER 5
Ipark the Zamboni—Bertha, as I call her—in the garage after my last pass on the ice for the night. The skaters are all gone, and apart from Jeff, the manager, I’m the only employee still working. It’s just after ten and even though weariness is tugging on my limbs, I stop and stare at the ice, now smooth and luminous as a moonlit lake. A smile lifts my mouth and my heart as I breathe in the clean, chilled air. Someone thought it’d be funny to flood the boys’ bathroom and pee everywhere except in the urinals, so the only ice time I got that day was driving Bertha back and forth across the rink every hour. She’s slow and lumbering and older than I am, but anything is preferable to scrubbing pee stains from grout. My knees are aching as I duck my head in the office to see Jeff.
“I bleached every inch of the boys’ bathroom and the ice is ready for the morning. I was going to head out unless you need anything else.”
“I need all the trash cans empt—” He cuts off when I heft up one of the two colossal trash bags I’m lugging for him to see.
“Last ones,” I tell him. “I’ll drop them in the Dumpster on my way out.”
Jeff leans back in his chair, considering. He has no idea how the bald spot on his crown catches the overhead light when he does that. My attempt to smother a laugh makes his eyes narrow on me. “That bathroom was a mess.”
I refrain from saying that after the hours I spent in there, no one knows that better than me. I smell like I doused myself in eau de urinal cake. “Well, it’s clean enough to eat off now,” I say, knowing that my assurance means less than nothing.
With a sigh, Jeff pushes himself up. “I better just give it a quick look-see.”
I’m too tired to muster up more than a passing annoyance. I follow him to the bathroom and stand in the doorway watching him inspect every inch of the visibly gleaming bathroom as if the Pope is planning an imminent visit to the Polar Ice Rink.
Jeff’s “quick look-see” takes ten minutes, after which he agrees—begrudgingly—that the bathroom’ll do before letting me leave. I’m halfway to the front door, lugging the trash bags in my wake, when his clucking tongue draws my attention to the wastebasket from the office, which he’s holding. There are two tiny pieces of paper inside. I raise my gaze from the wastebasket to meet his eyes, silently asking him if he’s serious. In response, he swings the basket slightly from side to side like a pendulum.
“We don’t cut corners here, Brooke. Every trash receptacle, every night, regardless of how full. I don’t want to have to keep checking your work. It’s a waste of my time and, frankly, you shouldn’t need supervising after all this time.”
I know he’s considering making me show him every emptied trash can in the building, and honestly, I don’t trust myself not to lose my temper if he does. I’d gain a moment of satisfaction but at the cost of getting fired. Not to mention how ashamed of me my parents would be. They raised me better than that.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I promise it won’t happen again.”
He makes me wait several long seconds before bestowing the most condescending of nods on me. My teeth grind so hard that I’m afraid they’ll crack as I empty the basket and even return it to its spot beside the desk, but I hold my tongue and gather up the two trash bags, which are bigger than I am. I can feel Jeff watching as I head toward the double-door exit with my unwieldy load. He’s not about to offer to get the door, and I’d rather clean the bathroom again with my toothbrush than ask him. If being petty and double—sometimes triple—checking my work is the best he can do to try to get me to quit, I’ll outlast him. If this were any other job, I’d have been long gone, but until Telford opens up another ice rink, I need this one.
I tie my jacket around my waist before shouldering my way outside. The muggy night air feels good on my refrigerated skin for about thirty seconds before stickiness sets in. This is one of those nights when it feels like I’m living inside a giant mouth, as though the earth itself were covered in a still, steaming breath from the recent rain. It’s as gross as it sounds and does nothing to improve my mood as I pile the trash bags I can barely see over into my arms and trace the path to the Dumpsters that I know by heart. I pass Jeff’s pristine red midlife crisis, and the temptation to leave the bags on his hood is a pleasant one. I’m not genuinely considering it, but thinking about it makes me feel better.
My thoughts are a little too distracting, and my sneakered toe catches on a crack in the asphalt. I’m stumbling, trying to regain my balance, when one of the bags is lifted from my arms. I’m ready to utter a genuine if surprised thanks to Jeff for deciding to help me when I look up not into my manager’s face but into Heath’s.
My brain can’t conceive of a reason for him to be there, so I gape at him for a good few seconds, taking in the height and breadth of him. He’s not huge or scrawny, but somewhere in between. Standing before him, I don’t feel dwarfed—which I often do at five foot four—or lumbering, which I also sometimes do since skating has added muscle to my otherwise petite frame. If I had my skates on we’d be nearly eye to eye; without them I have to look up just enough that it makes a flutter shiver through me despite the still, sultry night air. Until I take in his expression. His gray eyes are hard and there’s a tightness to his jaw that pulls all his features into harsh relief, like he’s both angry and trying not be at the same time. The effect is somewhat lost considering he just rescued me from face-planting into a trash bag.
His gaze moves to the remaining bag I’m still holding. He doesn’t say anything but, unlike Jeff, he doesn’t hesitate before taking the other trash bag from my unprotesting arms. I’m suddenly struck by the conviction that Heath’s the type to open doors and pull out chairs, and I’ll bet he saysma’amandsiras easily as his brother did.
He rounds the shadowy corner of the building and pitches both bags into the Dumpster a few yards away. He doesn’t immediately return or even look in my direction. And that’s when I start to sweat.
