My smile slips, even though I try to hold it in place as a facade. Pleasing me has always been a simple task, but it was never something Troy was capable of doing. We were a perfect mismatch. “I wanted to be a housewife. And a mom.” I look out the windshield, to the town approaching. There’s a small gift shop boasting candles and sweets, and next to that, a large autobody and collision center, and next door to that, Wrench Kings. “There it is,” I point, but he’s already slowed the truck as the turn in is quickly approaching.
“A housewife and a mom is a beautiful goal, those are two cherished roles,” he says softly.
I lift a shoulder and let it fall, feeling stripped naked with how vulnerable the admission feels. “The idea of investing my life and all of my love into the people I cherish the most was just something that always appealed to me. Hosting sleepovers and making home cooked meals, decorating Christmas trees together and hand-sewing Halloween costumes… knowing what is going on in my kids classroom because I can volunteer in them and be part of things. Just… being the place my husband comes to at the end of a long day or week, and have him confide in me, and be his person. All of that, I just wanted to be the matriarch of a beautiful family.”
When I get the courage to look his way, I find Dean staring at me. “That’s a beautiful, selfless dream.”
“The cruel irony of my husband having the very oppositedream,” I say with a smile. But not a sad smile. I am not sad over Troy, and I am not sad about the life I live. And that much I want to make clear. “I am living a different life, but it’s beautiful, too. I get to be with my boys all the time, we’re close, they trust me and I trust them. We rely on one another and we’re devoted to each other. You know? Like… Rawley would never be mean to Tanner and they would never exclude Archie, because we’re close, and we always have been. I tell myself that’s the trade off to everything we lost. Being so close.” I smile at him, meaning the words, despite the longing in my bones to do this life with someone who fills all the tiny spots left empty inside me. The places that were chipped away and stolen from Troy’s devastation. “We’re happy.”
Dean’s smile is so effervescent that it threatens to knock the wind from my lungs, I swear. How did I not realize that Coach Dean is this hot? I guess all those summer drop offs to early morning practice were tainted by Archie’s endless bitching about having to wake up so early to do drop off with me.
Dean parks his truck in the parking lot in front of Wrench Kings. Though his job is done—driving me here—my heart leaps into my throat when he meets me on my side of the truck and asks, “is it okay if I keep you company until you’re on the road? I don’t like the idea of driving you to a different town then just driving off.” His mustache curves with each word, and I wonder what that mustache would feel like against my bare belly and in between my naked thighs.
I smile. “Thank you, that’s nice of you. I appreciate the company.”
Inside Wrench Kings, we’re helped right away by a friendly guy working the front desk. Dean wanders out back, and through the long, rectangular window that separates the waiting area from out back, I catch a glimpse of him talking to a man. In place of a cowboy hat is a tangle of dark hair, tied into a messy bun. Why do men nail messy buns better than women? His neck is inked, and a nose ring shines from one nostril. He laughs as he talks to Dean, the two of them close in build, with Dean having maybe another inch on the man wearing the mechanic blues. A few minutes later and Dean’s friend appears, keys in hand.
“Ms. Colt,” he says. “Miller will help you. Car’s all fixed up.”
Dean lingers in the shop talking to his friend, who I now know is named Atticus, based on the embroidered name on his chest. While I settle up my bill with a payment plan, they talk and laugh, and Atticus slips Dean a card from his wallet.
Finally, when I’m ready to leave, Dean pulls open the door and ushers me out.
“You get to catch up with your friend?” I ask as I spin the key ring around my pointer finger, buying a few more seconds of time with him.
He smiles. “Yeah, I did and hey, you don’t mind if I follow you home, do you? Just to make sure.”
“I’m going straight to the hospital to pick up Tanner.” Ilook at my watch, and get excited at the prospect of my boy being out in just one short hour.
He shrugs. “All the same, I’ll just tail ya to make sure that belt doesn’t act up.”
“Don’t have confidence in your friend?” I ask about the man with the bun who looks like he could rebuild an engine in his sleep.
“I trust him implicitly.” His eyes look dark at this moment, and I think if he smiled while giving me that look, I’d combust.
“Okay, sure,” I tell him, before thanking him again, getting into my car, and starting the journey back.
I check the rearview mirror, finding him there each time I do, and when I get to the hospital and pull up out front, leaving my car in the temporary loading zone, I see his truck in the reflection of the double doors.
As soon as those same doors close behind me, I lean against the wall, and let my fingers move over the cool painted drywall. Tightness grips my chest and desire flames between my legs, but something in my stomach is queasy, and nervous, almost sick. I place my hand there, kneading, questioning, when a moment passes and I realize… that’s not sickness I feel.
Those are butterflies.
And I have a very serious crush.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
CLARA JUNE
Foolishly,I believed that having Tanner resting at home would be easier than having him at the hospital. But as my cell phone rings from my apron pocket for the sixth time in two hours, I’m starting to think I greatly overestimated things.
“And I’ll take the roast beef sandwich.What’re my options for the side?” asks Davie, a lifelong Bluebell resident and daily Goode’s Diner customer. I tap the end of my pencil against my pad, ignoring the vibrating coming from my pocket.
I repeat the sides that I’ve listed to Davie nearly everyday for the last four years. “French fries, sweet potato fries, fruit salad, green salad or ambrosia salad.”
He nods his head, eyes narrowed in deep thought as if there’s a shot in hell he’s gonna order anything but the fries.
