Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
GARRISON
Bright-red hearts and cartoonish cupids hung in the deli window. I scowled as I approached the door. I hated Valentine’s Day enough on principle. It was nothing more than a holiday created by greedy corporations wanting to milk money from the masses during a post-Christmas retail lull.
It put unnecessary pressure on relationships and made dating a minefield. I had a personal rule not to start seeing someone new between Thanksgiving and Valentine’s Day because expectations got murky around gifts, gestures, and the holidays. I didn’t need mass-media messages about hearts and forever love forcing me to move faster than I wanted, to make some grand gesture when we’d only been on a few dates, or even worse, get my hopes up.
It didn’t help my feelings about the holiday that my last boyfriend had dumped me a week before Valentine’s Day, and I’d lost two hundred bucks on canceling my reservation at one of the nicest restaurants in Portland. At least he’d had the decency to break up with me early enough to avoid a penalty on the hotel room I’d reserved. But that was ancient history. I hadn’t met anyone since that I’d wanted to spend time with beyond a couple of dates.
I rolled my shoulders as I opened the door. It’d been a long day of meetings outside the office, and all I wanted was a good sandwich before my block of afternoon meetings. At least I was outside the office and wouldn’t get targeted by a rogue singing telegram again. That had been fucking mortifying.
My coworkers were nosy on the best days, and watching me get dumped by my imaginary partner by a guy wearing a giant heart would fuel their gossip fodder for weeks. At least a couple of them had brought me sympathy baked goods. Homemade banana bread did ease the sting of embarrassment.
The worst part was that since the incident two days ago, I couldn’t get the guy out of my head. There was something about his confidence as he sang with the honed skill of a boy-band star and moved his lithe body to the ridiculous lyrics. During my routine jerk-off session that night, my brain had attempted to strip away his ridiculous costume to picture what was underneath. His sweet, sympathetic smile and earnest apology hadn’t helped me shake him from my mind.
I opened the deli’s door and inhaled the heavenly scent of ovens full of baking bread. Nothing was better than a well-made sandwich, and this place had great Yelp reviews. My stomach growled as I passed a rack of fresh loaves.
A line of people stood along a counter covered with trays of baked goods. As I inched forward in line, I spotted a basket filled with sandwich slips. I filled out the form for a club sandwich with no pickles. I never understood the appeal of pickling things. They ruined a good sandwich with all that nasty juice.
I’d been meaning to check this place out for a while. I considered myself a bit of a sandwich connoisseur and prided myself on knowing all the best spots in the area. I loved when work meetings took me out of the office so I could explore new places for lunch.
A bubbly, college-aged person with jet-black hair collected my order form. While moving toward the register, I passed the row of treats on the other side of a plexiglass divider. Both the brownie and pumpkin muffin tempted me.
“Would you like a sample?”
The same black-haired person wielded a bread knife and aimed it at a half dozen partial loaves on a cutting board.
“What kind do you have?” Movement behind the employee caught my eye. Standing at the sandwich-making station was a familiar tall blond with bright-blue eyes staring back at me.
Jesus Christ. Is he going to start singing again? My lips twitched at the prospect of a singing sandwich artist.
“Any of those sound good?”
I’d completely missed the list. “Uh, that one.” I pointed to a loaf with crispy cheese on the outside.
I glanced again at the telegram singer and caught him looking away. Clearly, he recognized me too. He was hard to forget.
He’d been right about the chocolates. They were delicious. Even though I lived in Dahlia Springs, I hadn’t visited the candy shop downtown. I’d be rectifying that with the post-Valentine’s Day chocolate markdowns. The only good thing about that damn holiday.
I munched on the cheesy bread while waiting for my turn at the cash register.
“Garrison?” a familiar voice called.
“That’s me.”
He winced as he approached. “Hey. Sorry about the other day.”
“So you said.”
“At least you got chocolates for your trouble?” His eyes rose hopefully.
I couldn’t help but smile. At first glance, he had an all-American boyishness. Blond hair, blue eyes, a scattering of freckles across his pale face. But there was an edge too—in the fashionable cut of his hair with shaved sides and a longer, styled top. He wore a cropped T-shirt and Doc Marten boots. Most appealing of all was his smile. It sucked me right in.
“If only they were commensurate compensation for my colleagues getting a free show at my expense.” My tone was teasing.
He passed me a brown paper bag. “Hopefully, this helps. I added something extra.”
“A good sandwich wipes away a lot of sins.” And refilled my patience meter to get through the rest of my busy day. I loved my job, but some days were far more draining than others.
“Lucky for you, I make an incredible sandwich.” I couldn’t look away from his crooked grin.
God, something about his confidence worked for me. “We’ll see about that.”
“It’s good to see you again.”
“Is it?”
He gave me a quick once-over. “Yeah.”
The person with black hair handed my telegram singer a sandwich form. I saved us both from an awkward goodbye and saluted him with the sandwich bag before striding out.
My stomach growled as I climbed into my Audi. I tried not to eat in my car to save myself the trouble of cleaning crumbs, but some days, it couldn’t be helped.
The scent of oven-baked bread filled the space. Who needed new car smell air fresheners? I inhaled deeply to build anticipation for the lunch I’d been dreaming of through my last two stressful meetings.
My phone buzzed as I unwrapped the yellow paper. Sighing, I set the sandwich on top of my bag on the dashboard. It was probably someone from work trying to interrupt the mere twenty minutes I dared to take for myself.
Ewan: Hey, man! I’m excited for Friday. You sure you’re okay being DD?
My best friend was the only person with an evergreen invitation to interrupt my precious sandwich time. Especially if it was about his bachelor party this weekend. I couldn’t wait to celebrate with him.
Garrison: Of course! It’ll be fun. Is the plan still to start at that brewery in NW Portland? I confirmed our hotel reservation, so we’re good there.
I took my duties as a groomsman for my oldest friend seriously. Ewan and I had become instant friends nearly thirty years ago when he and his mom moved into my apartment building after his dad passed. He’d shared delicious foods his mom made, like kimchi and tteokbokki, and had become my ride-or-die video game partner.
We’d supported each other through so much. Breakups, his mom remarrying, my parents divorcing, financial hardships, career uncertainties, and the usual drama of adulthood. He’d finally met someone who deserved him. He and Miguel were serious couple goals. I hoped to be lucky enough to someday meet someone who made me as happy as Miguel made Ewan.
Ewan: Great, thanks! Yeah, starting at the brewery. Chett says he has something planned. Do you know what it is?
Garrison: No, but if he’s planning something, it’s probably going to involve a lot of booze or people getting naked.
Ewan: Or both. Ugh. I don’t want to get naked.
Garrison: You won’t have to do anything you don’t want to. If you’re uncomfortable at all, just tell me, and I’ll fix it.
As a project manager for a tech company, fixing things was my job.
Ewan: Thanks, G. You’re the best. I’d better get back to work. See you Friday!
Finally. Sandwich time. My stomach growled its enthusiasm.
I finished unwrapping the sandwich paper and inhaled the aroma of bread with notes of spicy mustard. Wait. Something was off. I sniffed, frowned, and then lifted the top slice of bread.
“Goddammit.”
A pile of pickles tainted the stack of ham. The nasty juice had already seeped into the bread, ruining it.
Scowling, I wrapped it back up, shoved it in the bag, and tossed it on the passenger-side floorboard. No way I’d eat that shit. I’d written no pickles, not extra pickles , on the form. That guy might be good at singing, but he was shit at making sandwiches. His hotness took a nosedive. I ground my teeth as I detoured toward the nearby Burgerville.