24. Aaron
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
AARON
Another one bites the dust. The song lyrics run through my mind as I solve yet another problem on this horrible Monday. As if coming back to work after a day off isn’t hard enough, today feels like someone turned the irritate-Aaron knob all the way to eleven.
I’m so going to be the one biting the dust, especially if I can’t find the Mellow Yellow paint Mrs. Pickering is coming to pick up in the next hour.
Or the lumber shipment that didn’t arrive by noon today, the way I’d been told. There are people waiting on that lumber, and I hate that I can’t meet their needs as promised.
The start to a new week is always a little crazy, because so many builders and general contractors rely on the hardware store for their projects. They need a ton of materials, from lumber, to screws, to paint, to flooring.
I’m grateful for them. I am. The construction and automotive needs of the community is what keeps me in business. They pay my bills, and I can’t imagine my life being anything but the hardware store.
But sometimes, the moon must be in perfect alignment with Mars or something, and when that lands on Monday, it makes everything go wrong.
Things hum away in the front of the store, thanks to amazing employees—and Fonda. But the moment I step beyond the customer service desk that she usually mans, pure chaos takes over. I take a breath while two phones ring somewhere back here in the storage area of the store.
Andy, my loading and unloading manager, approaches. “Hey, Aaron, do you have a second?”
“So many,” I say, though I just want to retreat to my office and try to figure out what I need to do next. When the store matches my frenzied mind, things tend to go bad.
Andy takes off his ballcap and wipes his hand through his hair. “I just sent Flint away without the lumber he needs.”
“Yeah, I’ve been promised the shipment will be here tonight.”
“I told him that, but he said he has to have it this afternoon, and he’s going to the store over in Sugar Creek.”
“Okay,” I say, because there’s nothing I can do about that. “We never have a problem selling lumber.” I turn and pick up the clipboard from the counter to see what Flint Sanders had ordered. He’s one of my best customers, and he builds barns and sheds for people who are raising chickens and horses and goats. Semi-homesteaders, I call them.
“Why do you have my clipboard?” Fonda snatches it from my hands. “I leave for five minutes, and you’re in my space.”
She hasn’t had a great day either, and that’s the only reason I don’t bark back at her. “Did we find that paint?”
“Have you found it?”
“No, ma’am.” I give her a smile. “I can focus on that.” I look over to Andy. “And you need me to…”
“Get that lumber here before Jenkins gets wind that it’s not in-stock.” He wears concern on his face. “And maybe disconnect my line?”
I chuckle and say, “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“Maybe we could close early,” Fonda says.
I don’t tell her there’s no way that’s happening. I’ve seen my daddy work through a hurricane, for crying out loud, just so he could be in the store when it passed and people showed up needing tools and supplies. Not only that, but I’ve been promised that lumber by eight p.m., and someone has to be here to receive it.
That someone is me.
Snapdragons , I think, mimicking a flower-swear I’ve heard Emma use.
My brain is like a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing, and it’s all I can do to keep from panicking. “I’m going to go make a call,” I say, only so I can get away from the customer service desk and my employees who are carrying so much of the load too.
“I’ll let you know when Mrs. Pickering comes looking for that paint,” Fonda says.
“And I’ll keep you up-to-date with the lumber should I see it,” Andy says.
“Thanks, guys,” I manage to say before I retreat to my rat-packed mess. I close the door behind me, so many things tangling together in my brain. Paint. Screws. Shipments. Customers. Fonda. Andy. The phone. The clipboard. My scattered mind.
The pressure builds in my chest, a heavy, suffocating weight. I feel like I’m drowning, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get my head above water.
“Just take it one step at a time,” I say out loud to myself, and I move over to my computer. If I ordered the Mellow Yellow paint, I should have a record of it. And the Past-Me that can focus and get things done always makes sure Future-Me is taken care of. I have to believe I did that for this too.
A few clicks and search terms later, and I find the order. “Great, so it’s coming from Walden’s,” I say, and I’ll never forget that paint color and brand again. “So, where is it?”
We have systems here for when product arrives, especially special-ordered product. And trust me, no one under the age of sixty-six would order Mellow Yellow paint. I’ll have to ask Claudia what it could be used for, as Emma’s told me Claudia knows a plethora of paint colors and where they’d be best utilized.
I find the email confirmation that says the paint has shipped, and the one that says it was delivered on Saturday. I lean back and try to get my mind to think, think, think.
“Saturday was only two days ago.” I spent a lot of time over at the park plot, building the picnic table Emma wanted in the corner. That’s done, except for the staining and sealing, and thankfully, there’s been no rain. Double-thankfully, the park plot has to be finished by Thursday next week, and then it gets turned over to the public.
But once that project finishes, Emma has her third wedding to prep for, and I need to complete the build at the Lindsey’s, so I can get paid and stop working out in the summer sun. How Liam does this year-round, I can’t fathom.
“Aaron?” Fonda’s voice cuts through the thoughts. “Mrs. Pickering is here.”
“Right.” I lean back into my computer. “This says the paint was delivered on Saturday, and that JP signed for it.”
“Oh, that boy.” Fonda rolls her eyes. “I know right where that paint is. ”
“Great.” I jump to my feet. “Point me in the right direction, and I’ll get it.”
Fonda looks over her shoulder and brings the door closed. “Aaron.”
I pause, because Fonda’s gone through a transformation right in front of my eyes. “What is it?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“I don’t like not knowing where the supplies are either,” I say. “Or that my lumber order got tied up in Tennessee.” I fold my arms. “Just tell me.”
“I think you’re probably going to want to let JP go after you find out.”
I sigh. “It’s his girlfriend, isn’t it?” I suddenly know where the paint is too. “That paint is sitting on the shelving across from the bathrooms, isn’t it?”
“I’d bet my life on it.”
I sigh with all the air in my lungs, a frustrated hissing sound coming out at the end. “You’re right. I’m going to have to let him go.” At the very least, I’m going to have to talk to him, and I’m not the greatest at being the boss.
I don’t like having those hard conversations, but I also can’t have special-order paint going on a Nothing Shelf, because the employee who signed for it was kissing his girlfriend.
“I’ll go get the paint,” I say. “Will you look and see when JP is working again?”
“Yes, sir.” Fonda turns and leaves my office, and I follow her.
I see Mrs. Pickering, and I paste a smile on my face. “Mrs. Pickering.” I lean in and give her a Southern kiss on the cheek. “I’m on my way to grab your paint. Give me two minutes.”
“I’ve waited nine days, I suppose I can give you two more minutes.”
My smile drops as I walk away, and I pray harder than I ever have on my way to the employee restrooms. Across from it, in the hall, is our Nothing Shelf. It’s where we put things that I don’t know what to do with. Sometimes I find things there I can use on a build, and sometimes I send materials home with someone if they see them and have a use for them.
I have Nothing Drawers and Nothing Cabinets in my house, and every once in a while, I go through them and clean them all out.
I arrive at the Nothing Shelf, my eyes flitting from a mismatched set of screwdrivers to an opened package of picture hanging nails. I don’t see any paint cans, and my pulse throbs through my whole body. If they’re not here, where else would they be?
Pulling out my phone, I quickly send a text to JP, hoping he’s awake. His job here is his second job, and he works a graveyard shift at a salt-packing factory. You received some yellow paint on Saturday, and the customer is here. Where is it?
I hesitate to tell him he can’t have his girlfriend here while he’s working, though closing time is generally a super-slow time. Still, I need my most responsible people here, so the store is ready to open the next day, with paint where everyone and anyone can find it.
I stare at my phone, willing JP to text so my brain will stop buzzing. It’s like there’s a swarm of bees in my head, each one carrying a different thought, and they’re all colliding into each other at once.
I can’t focus. I can’t think. I can’t find that paint. I can’t?—
“Aaron?”
Everything freezes at the sound of Emma’s voice.
I turn to see her standing at the corner, her honey-colored hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, her blue-green eyes scanning the hallway with concern. She’s wearing a floral dress, her Pretty in Petals apron still tied around her waist, and she looks like she just stepped out of a picture-perfect small-town postcard.
“Hey,” I say, my voice hoarse. “What are you doing here?”
“I came by for our breakfast-for-late-lunch date,” she says, her tone light but her gaze sharp. “But Fonda said you were back here, so I thought I’d see if you needed help.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, running a hand through my hair. “I lost track of time.”
She steps closer, her eyes narrowing as she studies my face. “Are you okay? ”
“Yeah,” I lie, turning back to the Nothing Shelf. “Just a busy day. Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Aaron,” she says, her voice soft but firm. “Look at me.”
I don’t want to. I don’t want her to see me like this—frazzled, overwhelmed, barely holding it together. But something in her tone leaves no room for argument, so I turn to face her, my shoulders slumping in defeat.
“I’m not okay,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve got late shipments, customers going to other stores because I don’t have what they need, and missing paint in the ugliest color you can imagine.”
I reach out and flip the stupid picture nails. “And my brain—it’s just like, firing something new at me every half-second.”
Her expression softens, and she reaches out to take my hand, her touch warm and steady. “Okay, what are we looking for?”
The way she steadies me, simply accepts me for this quivering mess I am, and tries to help makes me feel so many things at the same time. Guilt, because I shouldn’t need her like this, and she’s willing to give herself to me like this. Relief, because I need her like this, and she’s willing to give herself to me like this.
“Paint,” I manage to push out of my throat. “Mrs. Pickering needs her yellow paint.”
She squeezes my hand. “Okay, paint. I at least know what that looks like. ”
Releasing her hand, I turn away from her. “I’m the forgetful one today, honeybee. I forgot you were coming with breakfast.”
“It’s okay,” she says. “There’s a lot going on here today. We can just have it for dinner tonight.” She touches my shoulder, but I don’t face her. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t want you to see me like this,” I admit, my throat tightening. “I don’t want you to think I can’t handle things.”
“Aaron.” She moves around me and stands right in front of me. “I don’t think that. I’ve never thought that. You’re one of the strongest, most capable people I know.”
I shake my head, looking down at the floor. “It’s not just today, Em. It’s every day. I’m always losing track of time, getting overwhelmed. I feel like I’m always one step behind everyone else. And I hate it. I hate feeling like I’m not enough.”
Her grip on my hand tightens, and she reaches up to cup my cheek, forcing me to meet her gaze. “Aaron, listen to me. You are more than enough. And I don’t care if you lose track of time or get overwhelmed. I care about you. All of you. The good, the bad, the messy.” She scoffs and lowers her hand. “Heck, I set four alarms for our breakfast-lunch today, and I still almost missed it.”
I smile at her. “But you’re here.”
“I’m here. ”
“Thanks, honeybee,” I whisper, pulling her into a hug. The frenzy in my mind quiets, and my phone rings. I step back and take a breath as I check my device. Then I swipe on the call. “JP. Four cans of Mellow Yellow paint. Tell me you know where it is.”
“Uh,” JP says. “I do remember getting it, but I’m not sure where I set it down.”
“It was a special order,” I say, turning away from the Nothing Shelf. “Did you put it out on the floor?” It would’ve been delivered near closing-time, and perhaps he shelved it and moved on with his night. Maybe he wasn’t making out with his girlfriend.
“I think I gave it to Belinda to put on the shelf, yes,” he says.
I give my heavy hiss-sigh again, heading for the paint aisle. We’re closed on Sunday, and we’ve only been open for eight hours today. No one would ever buy that paint—that’s why I had to order it for Mrs. Pickering in the first place.
“Listen, man,” I say. “Belinda can’t be here during your working hours.”
“I know,” JP says in a resigned voice. “I’m sorry.”
“If I can’t find this paint…” I let the threat hang there as I enter the paint aisle. Of course, now there are dozens and dozens of paint cans, and I’ve gone way past the two minutes I said it would take to find Mrs. Pickering’s paint. “Did she at least put it with the other yellows?”
“I texted her, and she said she did it alphabetically. ”
“Mellow Yellow,” I mutter when I really want to bust out “We’re not gonna take it!” but I swallow the Twisted Sister scream.
After all, only Emma will get it, and that fact makes me smile.
But nothing makes me happier than spotting the four cans of Mellow Yellow paint. “I got it,” I say, and JP’s sigh of relief on the other end of the line comes through loud and clear. Mine matches his, and I add, “No more Belinda, buddy, or I’m gonna have to let you go.”
“I need this job,” JP says. “No more Belinda.”
I can’t carry all four cans of paint and stay on the phone. “I have to go, JP. You’re awesome, okay?”
The call ends, and I gather all four gallons and head for the customer service desk. When I see Emma standing there chatting it up with Fonda and Mrs. Pickering, all of them smiling, a twinge of guilt pinches through me. So I can have my girlfriend here, but JP can’t?
Yes , I tell myself. Because I’m not making out with her when I should be working.
“Mrs. Pickering,” I practically bellow, drawing the attention of all three women there. I hold up the heavy paint with a wide smile on my face. “I’ve got your paint.”
“That was way more than two minutes, young man,” she says.
I grin at her and then over to Emma, and she takes a couple of the gallons from me. “Let’s get you out of here, Mrs. Pickering,” she says. “I’ll go with you, so you can finish telling me about your grandson.”
I hand the other two gallons of paint to a worker and nod after them, then I stand there and watch my pretty girlfriend charm the pants off prickly Mrs. Pickering, thinking, Maybe we can still have our breakfast-for-late-lunch date after all.