3. Brodie
THREE
brODIE
“Aw, Bro, you look terrible.”
I walk into my sister’s coffee shop in what used to be our grandpa’s hardware store, with a bundle of large print books under my arm.
I live in the apartment above the shop, which always holds a pleasant smell of coffee and pastries.
I was jealous that Grandpa left the building to her and not me, but to her credit, she’s really turned it into a community hub.
Thanks to my department’s fundraising efforts with our fireman calendar, she runs the county’s food pantry out of the back of the shop.
Despite her grouchy exterior, she’s got a big heart.
Skye rounds the counter, extending her arms to me.
It’s been two days since Aria fell on me, stabbed me in the shoulder with her mushroom knife, and dropped my ass at the hospital without so much as a backward glance.
My left arm’s in a sling, so I turn to the side so she doesn’t smush my arm.
She squeezes me, pats my cheek, and lightly touches her fingertips to the shiner under my left eye.
“You sure you don’t need to come stay with us?
Isn’t it hard only having one arm? What about Templeton? ”
I laugh. “Geez, if I wanted to be fussed over, I would have called Mom.”
“Brodie,” she huffs.
Skye does this a lot: treats me like I’m still her baby brother and I’m helpless. Just like everyone in my family. I should be grateful—and I am. She and her fiancé Simon have me over for dinner at least once a week and I love playing with my nieces, Luna and Halley.
“I’m fine. It’s not like Templeton is dragging me down Main Street.”
Yes, my dog is named Templeton. Yes, like Charlotte’s Web . Yes, he does kind of look like a rat.
I love him in all of his leg-humping, older-than-dirt glory. I know I’m a walking stereotype: I’m the small town fire captain with a dog I literally rescued from a fire and nursed back to health. Cradled him in my arms through his nightmares and pain.
Honestly, if the vet hadn’t confirmed it, I wouldn’t be so sure he was a dog. Did the vet really know?
Skye’s scathing glance passes over me. “This is quite a look. Arm in a sling, a shiner, and your big nerdy glasses. Better watch out or Shannon’ll be after you again.”
I sigh. “Shannon’s married and moved to Piqua.”
“She’s divorced ,” Skye says. She extracts her phone from her back pocket, raising it to take my picture. “I’ll put your picture online and I bet it’s less than an hour before she’s texting you.”
I put my hand in front of the camera. “I don’t want to date Shannon again. Ari’s back.”
Skye stills. “ Ari Ari? First kiss Ari? Aria Johnson? How do you know?”
I grind my teeth. “She’s the reason I fell.” I’d chosen not to disclose the circumstances around my injury to my family, just saying I fell on a run. It’s half-true anyway. I huff. “Hey, what’s it take to get service around here?”
She ignores my question. “Are you carrying books to look smart? Because your crush is a doctor?”
“No, it’s large print because I can’t look at screens and I’m not supposed to strain—wait, Ari’s a doctor? Like medical?”
That explains why she administered decent first aid after she fell on me. And I guess she was bound by some Hippocratic oath rigmarole to not leave me for dead in the woods.
“HA!” Skye points at me. “So you do have a crush on her!”
I stick my tongue out at her. “Get my coffee! You’re a terrible business owner.”
Skye puffs out her lip. “Baby Bwodie’s gwumpy. He needs his bottle.”
I snort in a breath and set my jaw, my headache pulsing back into my forehead.
I slide into my usual spot at the bar and embark on the single-handed journey to get money out of my wallet.
I know people function with one arm or one hand all the time, but I’m not used to it yet.
Plus, Aria stabbed the top of my left arm with her knife, and I’m a south paw.
I’m comically bad at using my right hand.
Skye waves a hand at me. “Psh. I’m not charging you when you look that pathetic.”
I sniff. “Thanks.”
“I’m being an ass. I’m sorry. You know when I pick on you, it means I’m worried about you.”
The bell over the door chimes and on an October breeze, Aria enters, holding the door for Richard.
She wears a shin-length, flower-patterned dress with leggings underneath, socks pulled up over the leggings, and boots on her feet.
Eclectic, but pretty. Aria’s always been pretty.
I remember thinking that before we were even old enough to know what people do when they think someone’s pretty.
Her hunter green beanie brings out the green in her eyes, and I’m not sure if I can blame my staring on the concussion she gave me.
Skye shoots me a way-too-obvious look. “Well, if it isn’t Aria Johnson. What are you doing back in town?”
Aria elbows Richard. “This guy needed some mushroom doctor help.”
“That’s right!” Skye says. “I saw online that you got your PhD. Congrats. And your page came up on my feed. I love all your mushroom videos!”
“Thanks,” Aria says, a little pink tinging her freckled cheeks.
What videos? Aria has some online presence I know nothing about?
I keep a page going about fire safety, and Mindy, the town admin, forces me to make thirst traps to sell the fire department calendars.
My sluggish brain is still cogitating all that when, apparently, I speak.
“Let me get your drink. To thank you for helping me the other day.”
All heads snap to me, probably because I delivered that at top volume. Really wish I could blame that on the concussion.
“I . . .” Ari starts. “I was the one who injured you. I should get yours.”
I swallow hard. Yes, she hurt me the other day, but I’d done much worse when we were in high school. Based on her behavior when she fell on me, she’s not over that hurt, no matter how many years have passed. I’ve got a hole to dig out of.
Aria grimaces. “I’ve gotta take off and see my granny anyway. Just dropping this guy off for his playdate.” She pats Richard on the back. “I’ll be back around 11:30 so we can have lunch and hike?”
“Sounds good, hon,” Richard says.
“Unless you want to come with me,” Ari goes on. “Granny does love you.”
Richard holds up a hand. “I am all set there, thanks.”
“Here,” Skye says, stepping to the drip coffees and filling a cup. “How do you take your coffee? Take some for the road.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—” Ari starts.
“A welcome back to town present,” Skye insists, pushing the cup into her hand. “Bro, go get her one of those danishes. Mindy just pulled them out of the oven.”
“I don’t work here,” I object, but get off my stool and head for the back anyway.
“Oh! And, you should come over tonight. It’s been ages since we hung out. Iris comes over for wine and Real Housewives .” Skye brandishes her phone from her back pocket and hands it to Ari. “Here, put your number in.”
“Oh, uh, okay,” Ari says with a reluctant smile. “Should I . . . bring anything?”
Their voices fade as I pop into the kitchen, grab a piece of wax paper, and pull a pastry off the pan, grimacing an apology to Mindy.
I make it back to Skye’s side, who babbles about the weird snack foods she and Iris like. I thrust the pastry toward Aria. She regards it like I’m offering her a hissing cockroach.
“Really,” Ari backs toward the door. “I’ve got to get going.”
The bell tinkles again and Aria bumps into Iris, Skye’s best friend, the mayor, and our local florist.
Small towns. We wear all the hats.
Iris carries a vase of flowers, which she brings to Skye’s shop every morning. A little water sloshes out of the vase and onto the floor.
Excuses fly out of Aria’s mouth, and she looks mortified. I wince as I rush to the counter to get a bar towel and walk to the door to sop up the mess.
It’s chaotic in here, and if I know anything about Aria, she wants to shrivel up and die right now.
“Oh, I’ve got it—” Ari starts.
“Aria, is that you? You’re back in town!” Iris cries.
“Yeah! She’s going to come over for Housewives night!” Skye adds.
“No, I’ve got it—” I say, stooping to sop up the mess.
This cacophony ends with Ari and I bumping heads on our way to the floor.
“I said I had it!” Ari snaps, and I’m taken aback.
“I was just trying to help,” I mumble, rubbing my forehead. I hold out the danish. “Will you at least take this, or are you too stubborn for sugar too?”
She scowls and snatches the pastry out of my hand. “The problem is, now you’re more hurt than you were. And now I have to feel even worse about that.”
I’ve had about enough of Aria’s shit this morning. I’m being nice, and she’s treating me like the scum of the earth. “Blame the victim, why don’t you?”
Those marbled green eyes narrow at me and her voice lowers. “You’re right, Brodie. You’re always the victim.”
A lump rises in my throat as Aria scrubs the last of the water off the floor and stands. She tosses the towel into a dish bin by the door and takes a big, honkin’ bite off the danish. The bell over the door heralds her exit as she leaves without a word.