Chapter 9 #2
"Yet." She turned to look at me. "Seriously, though. This is impressive. When I met you, you were just some dude with a laptop. Now you're out here going off-grid. That's real character development, dude. Plus you lost weight and got all buff. Going full mountain-man Daddy."
"Never call me that again," I laughed. "Anyway, can I offer you a shower? Hot water included."
"God, yes."
"Use as much as you want, I got plenty."
I led her inside and gave her towels, then left her alone. I went out to the porch and filled my pipe.
The vanilla Cavendish packed smooth and easy. It was a gentler blend than the Latakia I usually smoked, sweeter and more forgiving. I'd picked it up on a whim during my trip to Port Angeles, thinking I might want something different as the season changed.
I lit it and sat in my chair and watched the evening settle over the clearing.
The light was bright through the trees, long shadows stretching across the grass. Birds called from the forest. Somewhere far off, a woodpecker worked at a dead tree, the sound carrying through the still air.
I thought about the monitor I'd ordered. The keyboard. The possibility of games.
And I thought about the winter coming, the long dark evenings with the wood stove crackling and the snow piled against the windows. The books I'd read. The pipes I'd smoke.
The door opened behind me and Grace came out.
Her hair was wet, hanging loose around her head. She'd changed into clean clothes, a different hoodie and jeans that didn't have road dirt ground into the knees. The shower had brightened her skin and eased the tension around her eyes.
She sat down in the other chair and breathed deeply.
"That smells nice," she said. "Way different from last time."
"Different tobacco."
"Yeah, I figured. Last time it smelled like sweaty ass."
"Latakia. Like I said, it's an acquired taste."
"Not by me." She stretched her legs out, crossing her ankles. "What is this one?"
"Vanilla Cavendish."
"It's yummy."
We sat in comfortable silence for a while. The birds settled. The light continued to fade. The pipe burned slow and steady, its smoke rising in lazy spirals toward the darkening sky.
"So," Grace said eventually. "You want to hear about the most unhinged interaction I've ever had with a guest?"
"Yes."
"Okay, so. Tuesday night. Like two in the morning. I'm doing the front desk because Rita called in sick. And this guy comes in. Tourist, obviously. Khakis, fleece vest, the whole vibe. And he's carrying a Diet Coke."
She paused for effect.
"He walks up to the desk and he goes, 'Excuse me, I have a complaint about the vending machine.
' And I'm like, 'Okay, what's the problem?
' And he goes, 'It gave me this Diet Coke.
' And I'm like, '...yes? Is it flat or something?
' And he goes, 'No, I wanted a regular Coke.
' And I'm like, 'Oh, it must have been mislabeled.
Let me get you a refund.' And he goes, 'I don't want a refund. I want you to fix the machine.'"
"Fix the machine?" I raised my eyebrows. "At two in the morning?"
"At two in the morning. So I explain that I'm not a vending machine technician and the best I can do is report it to the vending guy in the morning.
And he goes, 'This is unacceptable. I specifically pressed the button for regular Coke.
' And I'm like, 'I understand, sir, sometimes these things happen, let me just refund you and you can try again.
' And he goes, 'The problem isn't the money.
The problem is that I trusted your machine and your machine betrayed me. '"
She let that hang in the air.
"The machine betrayed him," I repeated.
"His exact words. The machine betrayed him.
He said 'betrayed' like he was talking about a lover who cheated on him.
Real genuine emotion. And I'm standing there at two in the morning thinking, how do I respond to this?
Like, what is the protocol for a man who feels emotionally wounded by a soda dispenser? "
"What did you do?"
"I apologized on behalf of the machine. I said, 'Sir, I'm very sorry the vending machine didn't meet your expectations.
I understand how frustrating it can be when you're counting on something and it lets you down.
In the future, that machine will not betray our guests like this again.
I give you my word.' And he just nodded, all solemn, like we were at a funeral.
He said, 'I appreciate that.' And he walked away.
Still carrying the Diet Coke. Didn't drink it, didn't throw it away.
Just took it with him. Like a reminder of the betrayal. "
I was laughing now, picturing the scene.
"The next morning," Grace continued, "I found the Diet Coke on the windowsill in the hallway outside his room. Just sitting there. Like a monument."
I laughed harder. She was laughing too now, her whole face transformed by it, the tiredness falling away for a moment.
"People are so weird," she said. "Like, I know I'm weird. But other people are weird in ways I cannot even begin to comprehend."
We laughed together as the last light faded and the stars began to appear through the gaps in the trees.
"And then there was this lady and her dog..."
I listened to Grace tell her stories, enjoying how animated and funny she was. Then we settled into comfortable silence, listening to the sounds around us.
Later, when the pipe was done and the night had settled in, I turned to Grace.
"The Airstream's empty," I said. "I was thinking you could use it if you want a real bed."
She shook her head. "Nah, I'm good."
"It's no trouble. The trailer is just sitting there."
"I know." She pulled her feet up, tucking them under herself in the chair. "The car is fine. I like it. I feel safe inside it."
I didn't push, but I heard what she didn't say. The car was safe in a way a bed wasn't. The car could move if it needed to. The car had locks she controlled and windows she could see out of and an engine that would start if things went wrong.
Life without a home had taught her that. And I would not argue with lessons that hard-won.
"Wi-Fi works out there," I said instead.
Her face lit up. "Oh hell yes. I've been playing this game on my phone, but I keep burning through my data. Can I actually use it?"
"That's what it's there for."
"Password?"
"No password since who would be around to use it out here?"
"You're a hero, Thomas Harmon. Actual fricken hero." She stood up, stretched. "I'm going to stay up way too late slaughtering fictional people in a fictional war and I'm going to love every minute of it."
"Sounds like a good night. Charge your phone in the trailer, if you need to."
"You're the best, for real." She headed toward her car, then turned back. "Hey. Thanks. For you know. The spot. The shower. The Wi-Fi. All of it."
"You're welcome."
"I mean it."
"I know you do."
She nodded once, something passing across her face that I couldn't quite read. Then she walked to her car and climbed inside and closed the door, and a moment later I saw the glow of her phone through the windshield.
I sat on the porch for a while longer.
The stars were thick now. The air was cool but not cold, that perfect temperature of early summer when the days are warm and the nights washed by the coastal breeze.
Grace was safe. For tonight, at least. Parked in my clearing with my Wi-Fi and access to my bathroom and a standing invitation to use my shower. It wasn't much. It wasn't a solution to whatever had put her in that car in the first place.
But it was something.
I thought about what Scout had said once, about how her father helped people. Not by fixing their problems for them, but by giving them room to fix their own. A place to stand. Tools they could use.
Maybe that's what I was doing. Or maybe I was just a guy with a spare clearing and a conscience that wouldn't let him ignore a young woman living in her car.
Either way, she was here now. And the question of why a car felt safer than a bed would wait for another night, if it ever got answered at all.
I knocked my pipe against the porch rail, emptying the ash into the dirt below. Then I went inside and turned off the lights, still smiling at the simple pleasure of having electricity, and went to bed.