15
I have to say, I’ve picked a very inconvenient week to suddenly become attracted to John. After more than a year of basically ignoring me at work, all of a
sudden he’s at the front desk, like, every five minutes. By five o’clock on Monday, we’ve spent an hour adjusting the shop
schedule so he can fit in some appointments for his race car friends, a half hour figuring out how to order a tire balancer
(I guess he finally convinced Fred to buy a new one), and then another hour at lunchtime doing Wordle (CHOIR, on the fourth
guess) and talking about the Barrel Into Summer event. And that’s not even counting all the times he’s popped to the front
desk to write out a receipt or double-check an appointment time.
What would be really helpful to dispel this teensy little attraction is some classic John behavior, like staring at me blankly
when I make a joke or saying something snippy to a customer.
On Thursday morning, it seems like my wish might be granted. A middle-aged woman with very bright orange hair and slightly
eccentric clothes has come in for a tire change, and while John is writing out her receipt, she asks him the same question
no fewer than five times. Even I’m getting a little annoyed with her.
“So you’re sure the tires are on firmly ?” she says. “They aren’t going to fly off?”
I glance at John, waiting for the explosion.
“Nope,” he says.
“Because I read online that tires can fly off while you’re driving if they’re not put on firmly.”
“They’re on firmly,” John says.
She frowns suspiciously. “You’ve tested them properly? Not just by hand, but with a proper tire machine?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “We use the Tire Flex 3000 to check that all tires are on firmly. But,” he adds, as she snatches a
breath to speak again, “I also used the Tirenator 4000 on your car, just to be extra sure.”
“Hmm.” The woman looks mollified. “Well, as long as you checked it on both.”
“Of course,” John says.
I run her credit card, give her a copy of the receipt, and bid her a good day, to which she responds with a pessimistic “We’ll
see.”
When she’s gone, John gives me a sly grin, a sharp glimmer in his eyes.
“What?” I ask warily. “You did double-check her tires, didn’t you?”
“I did,” he says. “But I didn’t use the Tire Flex 3000 or the Tirenator 4000. Mostly because neither of those actually exist.”
I let out a startled snort. “John!” I say, half-reproachfully. “That’s terrible.”
“What? You told me to be more polite to people.”
“I didn’t tell you to lie to them.”
“And how was that any different than you and that rich girl the other day, exactly?”
“I—well—”
He raises an eyebrow. “Well, what?”
The corner of my mouth twists up. “I suppose it’s better than your usual approach to customer service.”
He grins. “Thanks. Now you have to try my way.”
“What, be rude to people for no reason?”
“Not for no reason,” he says. “But the next time someone’s a jerk, you’re not allowed to smile and be polite to them.” He
sticks out his hand. “Deal?”
“I suppose,” I say grudgingly, shaking his hand. His grip is warm and strong, and there are callouses on his fingers. I let
go very quickly and clear my throat. “I should get back to work.”
“Right.” He pushes himself off the counter. “Are you doing your old-people job tonight? ’Cause Trey and I were thinking we’d
finish up the exhibit.”
“I do my caregiving job every night,” I say. “But I can come by afterward.”
“Sounds good,” he says, then heads off to the garage. I turn back to my desk, biting down on a tiny grin. Then I shake my
head at myself.
“Get a grip, Emily,” I say firmly.
The rest of the day passes by pretty uneventfully, except for this one time when I pop back to the garage to bring the phone
to Dave and accidentally witness John using the hem of his T-shirt to wipe his face, revealing a very impressive set of abs.
After work, I pop over to Mrs. Finnamore’s to see if she needs anything, and also to dig into the situation with her late
husband a little more. I think that’s what I need right now: a cold, cautionary tale on the dangers of settling for the wrong
man.
“I was at Jim’s house last weekend,” I tell her, while she makes us a pot of tea. “His wife’s birthday would have been this week.”
“Poor Jim,” Mrs. Finnamore says. “That must be hard.”
I nod, and then ask casually, as though it’s just occurred to me, “When was your husband’s birthday?”
“March,” Mrs. Finnamore says, rummaging through her cupboards. “When you go to the store next, can you get some more of those
wafer biscuits? The ones with the vanilla filling. The chocolate ones are too rich.”
“Er—sure,” I say distractedly.
“I like the lemon ones too. They’re not too tart. Most lemon biscuits are much too tart.”
“Vanilla or lemon,” I repeat. “Got it.” Then I clear my throat and try again. “Do you get a little down when his birthday
comes around?”
“When whose birthday comes around?” she asks, pouring us both a cup of tea.
“Your husband’s.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she says vaguely.
I hesitate, then decide to dive in. “It’s just that the other day, when you were talking about him, it seemed like—I don’t
know, like maybe you two weren’t always perfectly happy all the time?”
She gives me a sharp look. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Bill was a very good provider. He was a senior manager at
the fish plant, you know.”
“That’s really impressive,” I say hastily. “I didn’t mean to pry. I was just... looking for advice, I guess.”
“Advice?”
“Yeah. Just, like... how to know which guys to date. Not that I have anyone specific in mind,” I add. “I’m just worried about settling down with the wrong person, you know?”
Mrs. Finnamore looks more interested now. I swear, if there’s one thing people love more than talking about themselves, it’s
giving advice.
“Well, you won’t find any good men on those silly apps you young girls use,” she says briskly. “You should get your mother
to suggest someone for you. That way you can be sure he’s got a good character.”
“Er—right,” I say politely.
I’m pretty sure if I asked my mother to set me up with someone, she’d think I’d lost my mind. Plus, my mother spends all her
time these days on bus tours for over-sixties. Where exactly is she supposed to be meeting men my age?
I take a sip of tea. “When you say a good character,” I say, “you mean someone who’s like... respectful?”
“Kind, respectful, that sort of thing,” she says, with an absent wave of her hand. I settle back in my chair, feeling a bit
disappointed. That wasn’t exactly the groundbreaking advice I was hoping for.
But then she fidgets with the handle of her teacup and adds, “You should find someone who’s helpful. Most men aren’t, you
know. It isn’t in their nature.”
“Helpful,” I repeat.
“Mm.”
I hesitate for a second, then ask, “Was Bill helpful?”
“Oh, he always did things when I asked him to,” she says, in that airy tone I’m starting to realize is her way of deflecting. “But I suppose it would have been nice,” she adds, “if I hadn’t had to ask.”
My brow furrows thoughtfully. I think I know what she means. My university boyfriend was like that. He was always happy to
do things for me if I asked him to, but he never did anything spontaneously. Like, we had one class together in our fourth
year, and he always used to go to the coffee shop near his house before class. He never once brought me coffee, even though
he knew it was my favorite coffee place. I’m sure he would have, if I had asked him to, but that wasn’t really the point.
When someone does something for you, without you having to ask, it’s just really nice, isn’t it? It shows that they’re thinking
about you, even when you aren’t around.
“That’s good advice,” I tell Mrs. Finnamore. “Thanks.”
“No problem, dear.”
“I’ve got to run,” I say, rising. “I’ve got about a million things to do before the weekend. You’re going to come, right?”
“If you want me to,” Mrs. Finnamore says.
She doesn’t sound particularly enthusiastic, but I’ll take it.
I head straight to my car without going into my house. I’m absolutely starving, but I don’t have time to make anything. The
Barrel Into Summer event is the day after tomorrow, and I still haven’t picked up paper plates and cups or figured out prizes
for the scavenger hunt.
My phone dings in my pocket.
[5:57] John: what do you think?
I tilt my head, confused, but a second later, an image comes through. It’s a box full of medals, the kind you get for high school sports.
[5:57] John: they’re my sister’s old volleyball medals
[5:57] John: fortunately our school was too cheap to buy specific medals for different sports, so they just have a generic pattern on
them
[5:57] John: I thought you could use them for the scavenger hunt
[5:58]: That would be perfect!!
[5:58]: Thanks ?
[5:59] John: no problem
[5:59] John: heading to the museum soon, just going to grab pizza
[5:59] John: want me to see if they sell paper cups/plates?
Yes!!! I type frantically. That would be so—
My fingers still on the word.
Helpful.
That would be so helpful.
I bite hard into my lip. Dammit. Talking to Mrs. Finnamore was supposed to warn me off of John, not make him seem more appealing.
With a resigned sort of sigh, I delete my half-written text and start again.
[6:01]: Yes, please!
[6:01]: That would be great. ?