CHAPTER TWO
CLAY
The man yells something at me while I drive off, and I swear under my breath as I press the gas.
Hell of a way to arrive to Buffalo. I drive all night from Missouri, then get myself lost when I’m in striking distance of the city. With everything I own packed into the back of the truck, it’s killing me to burn gas, driving around aimlessly with no signal on my phone.
I cruise down the highway, wet and a little miserable.
All I did was pull over, and that guy panicked and threw himself into a ditch like I was Frankenstein’s monster. Shit like that is why I like to stick to myself. I’m awkward around other people, and I come across like an asshole without meaning to. I feel bad that I scared that guy, but what the hell am I supposed to do?
Sure, my truck is loud. And maybe I had a weird response when I saw him. It was the same smiley guy from earlier, dressed in clothes that don’t fit him and bright-eyed so early in the morning. This time, though, he was holding a basket of bright purple flowers.
Something about that surprised me, and I reacted.
Not in a bad way. The sudden burst of color just caught me off guard. I don’t know.
And possibly in that moment, I pressed on the gas without meaning to. But even if I did, I hit the brake immediately, and I was nowhere near ramming him.
Whatever. My plan is to drive to Buffalo, sell the building I just inherited, and never think of any of this again. I’ve finally had one stroke of good luck in my life, and I’m going to take the damn money and run.
When I get to town, I quickly find my new building. It’s right in the middle of a fairly busy street, and the weekday crowd is coming alive. The red brick façade is like in the pictures I saw online, except more weathered. The roof clearly needs some attention, too.
Definitely a fixer-upper. I’m officially a journeyman carpenter now, and a fixer-upper would be a treat, except this one is in Buffalo. Despite having a grandpa who lived here, apparently, I know nothing about this place except that it’s cold as hell.
And I can’t stick around anyway. After I cash out, I’ve got big plans back in Missouri.
I rumble down the block, a mix of residential and businesses, surprised by how happy everyone seems.
It’s actually not right that so many people are smiling before ten in the morning.
There’s nowhere to park and no driveway at the building, so I end up a couple of blocks away. Suspicious of new places, I tighten down the tarps and check the locks on the back of my truck, ensuring there’s no easy way to access my worldly possessions, all crammed together in cardboard boxes and heavy-duty trash bags.
Grumbling to myself and exhausted from the ride, I walk first into a coffee shop, needing fuel if I’m going to fight off sleep afew more hours. There’s meditative music on the speakers and city people in expensive clothes hurrying around like they think they’re so goddamn important, and I stare at the ground until I order my large black coffee.
Should have changed out of my dirty t-shirt and mud-splattered jeans in the truck. I’m sticking out like a sore thumb.
I hitch my backpack over my shoulder, take the coffee, and haul my ass back outside.
This is not my world.
Unfortunately, my world isn’t my world anymore either.
A week ago, it all looked so clear. I finished my apprenticeship, and I passed the last union exam, making me a journeyman. After four years apprenticing as a rough carpenter with my crew, though, my boss blindsided me, telling me they won’t be taking on a new journeyman after all.
Meaning he just wanted me as long as I was cheap labor.
Right as I was supposed to move into a new rental house, an upgrade to go along with my expected raise. And my old place was already rented out to someone else—good job me in turning down the lease renewal.
I grumble to myself about how terrible this world is. After working my ass off for years, I should have known I’d just get tossed aside again in the end.
The red brick building rises up in front of me, squat between a ramshackle antique store, its wood exterior painted white, and a new-construction condo with three sleek floors. In the window of the brick building, my building, I see a riot of color, flowers that seem to be overflowing the interior, threatening to spill out. The wordBlossomis written on the glass in pink curly script, and there’s a little wooden bench by the door with hearts carved onto it.
I drink my coffee and stare, trying to take it in.
Bet that flower guy this morning would love this place.
I wonder if the people who rent the flower shop want to buy the building. They must have known my grandpa if he lived upstairs. Unless he was a total recluse.
