Chapter 22
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
APRIL
Rebel stretches her arms over her head and then rotates her neck to the left and right. She mindlessly reaches for her granola bowl and somehow picks out only the m&ms to toss into her mouth.
“This is exhausting ,” she says.
I resurface from the engine I’d been half-buried in and glare over my shoulder. “Quilting is tiring you out?” I point between me and the stubborn engine. “Really?”
“First of all, this isn’t quilting. It’s embroidery. Second of all, don’t start huffing at me. You’re the one who wants to work until eight p.m. on a Friday night. I’m only here for best friend moral support.”
“You’re here because you don’t want to go grocery shopping.” I wiggle my wrench at her.
She throws her hands up as if to say ‘guilty’. “Being an adult is over-rated. Why do I have to buy my own groceries? Why aren’t my cupboards magically re-stocked without me doing anything?”
“You know there’s an app that hires someone to grocery shop for you?”
“It’s cheaper if I just get in the car and do it myself.”
“So do it yourself.”
She sinks lower into the chair, groaning, “Noooo.”
I smirk at her dramatics and remove my gloves.
“What are you sewing anyway?” I wonder.
“Can’t you tell?” She holds the stitching up.
I scrunch my nose. “Is it… a dog?”
“No, it’s a polar bear. Where do you see a dog in this?” She shakes the embroidery close to my face.
“I guess… if I twist my head to the side and close one eye, it does kind of look like a dog.”
Rebel tucks the bowl to her stomach. “That’s it. No granola for you.”
I let loose a loud, unladylike guffaw. The sound echoes around the garage. When I realize my voice is echoing because we have no cars in the bay and no potential customers in sight, my laughter dies and my smile freezes.
Rebel sees my panicked expression. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head. “I’m just frustrated with my progress on the car.”
“Don’t let it get to you. I even splurged to update our auto software and couldn’t figure it out. From the diagrams, we’ll probably need to take the car apart.”
“Before we take anything down, I need to locate the problem first. The car hasn’t been showing any of the symptoms the customer described.” I pull my ponytail out, scoop up all my hair again and fix it into a bun. In direct defiance, the bun slips right out of the clip and caramel-streaked strands fall around my shoulders.
My hair has a mind of its own whether it’s straight or curly.
“I’m going to take the car for a test drive. The symptoms might show up if I move around town.”
“Or you could, you know, not .”
“Are you coming or are you going grocery shopping?”
Rebel skates across the garage and jumps into the passenger seat.
I climb in and start the car.
“My back is killing me.” My best friend makes a fist and punches her lower back. “How those ladies in the embroidering club walk around without hunching over is mind-boggling.”
“Why are you even in the lady’s embroidering club?” I flick the indicator and turn onto Main Street.
Her shoulders tighten. “Is there a reason someone like me can’t be in a club like that?”
“If you enjoy it, I guess… I just know those ladies tend to be the prissy, uptight types.”
“It’s a club for people who enjoy sewing. And I happen to be one of those people.”
I slant her a suspicious look.
Rebel pretends not to notice. Tapping a manicured finger on her necklace, she muses, “Where should we go? The park? The lake?”
“It doesn’t matter where we go. Can you record the screen please? I want to study the engine levels later.”
Rebel accepts the computer from me with a disapproving sound. “Seriously, April? Do you not have an off button?”
“The only reason this client came to us is because no one else could fix his problem. So even if it means I stay up all night with the help of energy drinks, I’m repairing this car.”
She sighs heavily. “I’m not saying we don’t fix the car, but the thing is… you need balance. Even May is hanging out with her friends tonight.”
“And I’m hanging out with you.”
“Exactly. Which is why,” she thrusts a finger forward, “forget the lake or the hills. We’re going to The Tipsy Tuna.”
The Tipsy Tuna is a wooden bar and restaurant next to the lake. It’s got a long pier where the wealthier townsfolk who own boats can jet over, dock and enjoy a perfectly fried snapper.
The rest of us regular folks park in the parking lot.
It seems like everyone has the idea to eat at The Tipsy Tuna tonight because it takes me forever to find a parking spot. I finally locate an open space, but instead of getting out, I keep studying the engine levels.
“Come on,” Rebel whines, tugging on my arm.
“Just a second.” My eyes are glued to the screen. I press the brakes, listen to the engine roar and watch the lines on the diagnostic program jump. Concerned, I turn to Rebel, “This shouldn’t be happening. See? This is the fuel injector line and this is?—”
“April put that laptop away before I turn you into a tipsy tuna.”
With a sigh, I slap the laptop closed and follow her outside. “I didn’t plan on going inside tonight. I didn’t even wash my hands before coming here.”
“They have a bathroom.” She drags me up the stairs, her blonde hair trailing in the wind. “Besides, the only way we’re not walking in there is if you want to go home, shower and change into one of your new outfits.”
“Nope. I’m good in my jumper.”
“Then let’s go.”
I trail her, keeping a frown on my face as protest. But internally, I’m grateful for the break.
Regardless of what Rebel thinks about my work-life balance, I do enjoy going out every once in a while. The Tipsy Tuna has a great, friendly atmosphere and I love all the sea food platters. Except their tuna dishes. Which is ironic.
Golden lights beam from the windows. I can hear the laughter and trendy pop music blasting.
Just before we reach the entrance, the door bursts open and two extremely beautiful, tall women strut out. They’re wearing crop tops with some kind of bedazzled star and leather shorts with stockings and cowboy boots.
“Excuse us,” they say, giggling.
Rebel and I step aside so they can pass.
As we enter the bar, we exchange quiet looks with eyebrows raised.
‘Is there a festival going on?’ I silently communicate.
Rebel pushes out her lips and shrugs. ‘ Don’t think so .’
Inside The Tipsy Tuna is crawling with gorgeous women dressed in the same star logo crop-tops, shorts and stockings.
“Let’s order,” Rebel says, pointing to the counter.
We wade through the mass of human bodies and are greeted by Mauve, Bobby’s wife.
“Hey, Mauve.”
“Hey, sweetie.” Mauve lifts a dark hand and uses the back of it to wipe the sweat on her face. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“That’s because she lives inside the garage,” Rebel teases.
“Ah, yes. Bobby told me all about how you swooped in to save the day with the Zamboni.”
“It was nothing.” I wave.
“You two are very talented ladies.” She winks. “Now, what can I getchya?”
We give our orders and Mauve slips into the back.
Bopping my head to the beat, I glance around. I’m glad Rebel convinced me to do this. I’m already feeling a lot calmer.
In the corner of my eye, I notice a guy pat his friend and point in our direction. He’s not the only one. Many of the male patrons have taken notice and are staring at us.
Well, not us .
They’re staring at Rebel, who looks like a model as she casually sits, one leg folded over the other and neat pink nails drumming the shiny bar. If my profile looked that stunning, I’d walk around sideways for the rest of my life.
“Doesn’t it get exhausting having this much attention?” I squirm. I’m not even the one they’re looking at, but it still makes me self-conscious.
“What?” Rebel leans toward me.
I start to repeat myself, but my words are swallowed up by a loud and sudden roar. It’s coming from the game section at the rear of the bar.
We both crane our necks to get a better look.
I immediately notice the Lucky Strikers jerseys. With their cool confidence, fancy jackets, and towering height, the hockey players are hard to miss.
“Gunner’s here,” I point him out to Rebel.
As expected, her eyes go dark and she scowls. Suddenly, her expression clears and she points, “I think that’s Chance.”
“Chance isn’t here.”
“Are you sure?”
“He would have texted me if he was back,” I say confidently.
I felt awkward around Chance after Derek’s comments in the nursing home. It was my intention to avoid him until absolutely necessary. However, Chance texted me while he was away, and it felt rude not to answer. Then eventually, I started looking forward to answering.
We’ve texted every day since. We don’t talk for long, since we’re both pretty busy, but I know he would have let me know if he was here.
“No, April.” Rebel’s somber gaze makes me uneasy. “It really is him.”
I look over just as Chance tosses a dart and hits the bulls eye. A cheer erupts from the crowd and, suddenly, a tall, gorgeous woman with the most magazine-worthy curves and shampoo-commercial hair throws her arms around him, hugging him tightly.
My heart wrenches in my chest and I spin back around as if I caught my mom and dad kissing.
Rebel looks furious. “Why didn’t he tell you he was back? And who’s that girl?” She smacks her hand on the bar and scrambles to her feet. “I’m going over there.”
“No.” I pull her down.
“But, Chance, he?—”
“He what?” I meet her gaze desperately, ignoring the pain gushing through my heart. “Needs to report his every move to me? Can’t hang out with other women? He’s not my real boyfriend, remember?”
“Then why do you look so upset?” Rebel asks.
“I’m not.” I slither off the bar stool. “It’s too loud in here and I need to get back to work.”
“April…”
“I’ll wait for you in the car.”
Hurrying out of The Tipsy Tuna, I tell myself I’m being foolish. Why am I in pain when I meant every word I said to Rebel?
Chance owes me nothing.
He and I are barely friends.
At best, we’re co-workers.
It doesn’t matter to me if he didn’t tell me he was in town. It doesn’t matter if he finds that girl more attractive than me. It doesn’t even matter if he goes home with her tonight.
It means nothing at all.