A woman at the far end of the store caught sight of me over a bin of plastic tarps. She leaned into her friend, a tall blonde in a puffy vest, and stage-whispered, “That’s him. The billionaire killer. Hasn’t set foot in this town since—” Her voice dropped to a hush, but I didn’t have to guess the rest.
I tried to focus on the rhythm of the store instead. There was comfort in the clatter of loose nails, the hum of the ancient cooler, the faint, persistent tick of the wall clock above the key-cutting machine. For half a second, I wished I could just blend in—be a regular guy, picking up deck stain and a bag of charcoal on a weekend. But that’s not who I was, and pretending otherwise would be a waste of everyone’s time.
I finished my circuit of the store and made my way to the register.
The man behind the counter looked like he’d been carved from the same wood as the floor. His eyebrows were thick and gray, and he had the posture of a former linebacker whose shoulders never quite un-hunched after high school. He wore a button-up with his name—ERNIE—stitched crooked above thepocket. I set my basket on the counter. He started ringing me up, silent except for the electronic bleep of the scanner.
Ernie didn’t make eye contact. He just moved methodically through the pile—primer, brushes, utility knife, box of drywall screws, the paint samples stacked neatly on top. His hands were big and cracked at the knuckles, with one thumb wrapped in electrical tape.
After a few seconds, he finally spoke. “Fixing up old Chickadee?” His voice was gravelly, but not unfriendly.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s seen better decades.”
He nodded, like this confirmed something he already knew. “That place been empty since I can remember. You planning to stay a while?”
I considered lying, but the truth was easier. “I might.”
He grunted, ringing up the last item. “You’ll want to seal the baseboards before you paint. Old houses like that, you get ants all spring.”
I nodded. “Thanks for the tip.”
He bagged my purchases. When I handed him the cash, his hands were steady, eyes never wavering.
“I always liked your mom,” he said, not quite looking at me. “She was good people.”
I cleared my throat. “She still is.”
He finished making change, then slid the bag across. “Tell her Ernie says hello.”
“Will do.”
I hoisted the bags, feeling the heat of a half-dozen eyes on my back as I left the store. The moment I hit the sunlight, the tension in my neck eased a notch. I stood there for a minute, letting the heat soak into my face, trying to shake the bitter aftertaste of the townsfolk and their opinions of me. The thing about rumors is, you can’t fight them. Not with words, not with fists. Only thing you can do is outlast them. Let them pile upuntil they rot away, and maybe—if you’re lucky—people will move on to something new.
The air was crisp and dry, and the dust from the gravel parking lot swirled up every time a car drove past on Main. Across the street, the sign for the Dusty Barrel flickered and popped, letters half burnt out. I watched it for a second, then started toward my truck, the shiny paint job still sticking out in the sea of old, beat up ranch trucks.
I’d barely taken five steps when I nearly walked right into her.
She was pushing a stroller—one of those lightweight umbrella types, with a green and navy plaid canopy faded from the sun. She didn’t see me until the last second. I caught the faint scent of vanilla before the jolt: my hardware bags thunked into my own shin and her stroller wheel caught on the toe of my boot.
She looked up, startled, and her cheeks went pink. “Oh, sorry!” she said, voice light and breathless. “Didn’t see you there.”
I stepped back, catching the stroller before it could tip. “My fault,” I said, letting go once I knew she had it. “Should have watched where I was going.”
We both stood there, not quite sure who should move first. Her hair was down today, loose and wavy, and newly lightened to a blonde shade that brought out the honey flecks in her brown eyes. She wore a pink jacket over a blue sweater and jeans that had seen better days. Her hands were pale from the cold. I resisted the urge to grab them and hold them between my own.
She bit her lip, then glanced at the hardware bags in my hands. “Doing some home improvement?” she asked.
“Trying to,” I said, shifting the bags so I didn’t look like I was strangling them. “Old house. Everything needs work.”
She laughed, a real sound that surprised me. “You and me both. My apartment has seen better days. This week it’s the faucet that’s decided to bless me with a kitchen-river.” She leaned down and started fussing with the stroller buckle. “This is Noah,” she added, voice suddenly gentle.
She scooped her son up, balanced him on her hip. He had big blue eyes—different from hers—cheeks flushed with cold, a single cowlick making his hair stand up in the back. He stared at me with open, reckless curiosity, then reached out and grabbed the handle of my hardware bag.
“Hi!” he said, loud and sure.
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “Hey there, little man.”
Noah grinned, swinging the bag like he meant to drag it away. For a second, I let him. His hands were sticky, and the tips of his fingers were stained with something orange—maybe cheese dust, maybe paint. I realized I was smiling, and that I hadn’t actually smiled all day.
