Meanwhile, I had been blessed with different genes. Genes that made me small and smart and nimble and brilliant at ferreting out a good story… but slightly less competent with things like changing tires and, you know, having interpersonal relationships.
Trade-offs, right?
Despite what some people assumed, I was more than satisfied with the genes I’d gotten… but it did make things tricky, considering the most ridiculous humans in the universe existed in Copper County, New York. And unlike the refugee camps and political hotspots I’d found myself in over the years, where I could deal with whatever conditions I had to in order to get the story, Copper County was home now. The place where I was supposed to feel comfortable.
Repressing a sigh, I rinsed my cup and set it in the drainer, then forced myself to walk directly to my car and drive to town because that was what responsible adults did…
And because I knew if I didn’t get this errand done immediately, I’d spend the rest of the day thinking up compelling reasons to remain snowbound until spring.
But my responsible adultness fizzled once I’d parked my Audi in a diagonal parking spot outside the hardware store. Instead of going inside like a normal human, I tapped my thumbs on the steering wheel and watched the people go by.
My phone buzzed with a text from my editor.
Marjorie
Call tomorrow morning to discuss Empire Ridge story? I have exciting news!
As I typed out an affirmative reply, some of the tension left my shoulders.
At least my career was the one area of my life where I knew exactly what I was doing… mostly because, unlike Brewer Fucking Barnum,Marjorienever “adjusted” my renovation plans without asking.Marjoriewould never change the bathroom tile I’d selected or complain that the sliding door I wanted to add to my walk-in closet would compromise the flow of the house, despite having zero evidence beyond “experience” to explain this assertion. AndMarjorienever took smug satisfaction in proving me wrong at every turn, nodding at me with a little half smile that screamed, “I’m humoring you,” unlike certain enormous people.
In fact,Marjoriewas as excited about this story as I was. Possibly even more excited. She’d called it “career defining” when I’d sent her transcripts of my initial interview with Anthony Harmon and said the corruption whistleblower angle gave it an extra punch publications were looking for.
I stretched my neck from side to side as I watched a child skip happily into one of the snowbanks lining the street while their mother sighed in exasperation and rolled her eyes.
I imagined my sister would have roughly the same reaction if she saw me sitting here now. I could hear her voice in my head saying,Try getting out there and actually talking to your neighbors, Delaney. You’ll fit right in! You’ll see!
Then again, Tam had the aforementioned Broad-Shouldered Gene. She loved the people of this town, and they loved her. Also, she was naive enough to insist that Brewer was just beingthoroughwhenever I voiced a complaint about him and that he treated all of his clients the same way. So, really, what did Tam know?
I couldtalkto people all day long. Fitting in with them was different.
And, anyway, I was halfway convinced that the people of Copper County—with the possible exceptions of my sister and my friend Jasper, who had, not coincidentally, both grown up far from here—weren’t actuallypeopleat all but some sort of mutant golden-retriever-human hybrid. Hyper-friendly and eager and possibly rabid.
The first day I’d ventured to town to run errands last fall, the lady at the Books n’ More had spent fifteen minutes telling me about her nephew who “also didn’t play sports but turned out just fine” while I purchased stamps. Three different people had invited me to join their book clubs. And six people I’d never met had given me unsolicited advice about which contractor—Brewer Barnum, naturally—I should hire for my renovation.
I’d concluded that some people were just meant to live in small towns. They thrived in tight-knit communities that were alllll the way up in each other’s business. They liked talking slow and walking slower. They relished the in-jokes and the weird-as-fuck rituals. Theyfit.
And then there was me. A man who had to psych himself up to buy a shovel.
So, you might rightly ask, why the hell did I move here? Excellent question, really. Top-notch.
In some ways, it was a little like the story I’d been working on. A simple guy—ambitious, for sure, but earnest enough—had made a choice for what he’d thought were all the right reasons and had instead found himself caught up in something bigger and more complex than he’d imagined.
In my case, the big, complex thing just happened to be this weirdly friendly town.
“Stop being such a baby, Monroe,” I muttered. “And buy a damn shovel.”
I forced myself out of the car, slammed the door, and resolutely headed for the store?—
“Hey, there!” A parka-clad woman popped out at me from behind one of the decorative trees along Weaver Street.
“Gahh!” I jerked back, bumping my hip against my car’s side mirror.
“You’re Delaney!” Before I recovered my balance, parka-lady waved a stack of flyers in my face that made the crystalline air even colder. “I’m Janice! Janice Plum. Have you heard about the O’Leary-Copper County Council for Historical Happenings’ Candle-Making Symposium and Dipping Demonstration this afternoon?”
My heart thundered in my chest. In Kuala Lumpur two years ago, someone had jumped out at me when I was exiting a vehicle, but that incident had involved a nasty parang with a ten-inch blade and a teenager who’d taken all my money. This ambush—from a middle-aged woman in a knitted hat with pom-poms—should not have triggered the same fight-or-flight response, but my body didn’t seem to understand that.
“Come dip your wick from two to four!” Janice continued, undeterred by my wide-eyed silence.
