Chapter 4
Joe crying had not been on my bingo card for this holiday season.
And honestly? I had not been emotionally prepared to see him that way.
On my third cup of coffee of the day, overrun with tasks in my head I had yet to complete, I’d been caught off guard when I’d spotted him.
He was stiff and trembling, hovering over his apple babies like a golden mama bear, and instinct had me snapping to attention immediately.
I knew something was wrong, even if I didn’t know exactly what it was.
Not at first.
In my defense, I’d spent the last twenty-four hours in a panic trying to figure out how I felt about him. Had dark circles under my eyes that made me look like produce after it’d been rolling around in the delivery truck.
Suffice to say, I was a mess.
Exhausted.
And not bringing my A-Game.
And yet…my body seemed to know what to do before my brain had caught up.
There was no stopping the torrent of protective feelings that inspired my next actions.
It was impossible not to react with help-fix-soothe when Joe—the toughest, surliest guy I knew—was hyperventilating, his big shoulders heaving, massive body hunched like he was trying to make himself as small as possible.
I didn’t overthink it.
Not the way I’d been overthinking my “supposed crush” on him, and my feelings.
There was no denying that having Joe in my arms felt right.
Helped solidify that crush or not, I never ever wanted to see him cry like that again. And then, like an idiot, I’d opened my big mouth—I’d pushed, and…
He’d bolted.
He always fucking bolted.
I wasn’t surprised, nor was I offended. Joe had just shown me something vulnerable.
Something that cost far more than simply accepting my “help”.
He’d cracked open the shell around himself and I’d had my hands all up in his…
ah…what do you call the inner part of an egg? Yolk. Yes. I was all up in his yolk.
I had no doubt that rankled.
Especially when over the course of the last few months it’d become more and more apparent that he did not like me. Didn’t trust me. Didn’t want anything from me if he could help it. Yes, lately, we’d reached a…tentative truce but that was all it was.
Tentative.
I had no doubt this was about to skyrocket us firmly back into hostile territory.
Now he was even less likely to open up to me.
Fuck.
I wasn’t sure why that bothered me so much. Because you have a crush on him, Madison’s voice unhelpfully supplied. Some people had devils on their shoulders. Not me. I had Madison. Pointing out my inconsistencies and trying to set me on the path to the straight-and-narrow.
Only…my path, in her eyes, was far less “straight” than expected.
As Joe had lunged for the door like a clumsy panther, his hip clipped one of the displays he passed, knocking it slightly askew. Nothing fell. Which was good. I had no doubt, based on the fact he was a regular-old-Boy-Scout, that usually he would’ve paused to fix the mess he’d made.
And he clearly needed space more than anything.
For the second time since we’d met, I waited for Joe to return.
But he didn’t.
Sighing, I bent down to retrieve my coffee tumbler and grab the bruised apples that’d dropped on the floor. That was, of course, when I spotted something. Something…new. Out of place.
Huh.
There was a piece of paper on the ground where Joe had previously been standing.
It was crumpled and a bit sweat-damp, but there was no denying who had left it there.
Coffee mug tucked into my elbow—thank god for proper insulation, so I did not get burnt—I grabbed the paper before I dealt with the apples.
I didn’t even question it as I unfolded the thing and curiously read what was on it.
Sure, reading what was clearly a private note was a bit invasive, I’ll admit.
But I couldn’t help myself. I read what was written in spikey all-caps handwriting, as I smoothed out the paper’s wrinkles with care.
Some of the items were smudged. But most of them were legible enough I could guess what was missing.
It seemed to be a checklist of sorts.
A to-do list?
Along with the items that would be necessary for each job, as well as the prices beside them.
Bedroom, living room, bathroom, and kitchen all had their own separate categories.
Porch was underlined, like it was a priority.
And below that was the word “appliances” with three separate question marks beside it, and no prices.
At the bottom was a simple countdown.
Four weeks, three days.
And then, separately, the flight numbers for what I assumed to be his family traveling in, based on the fact—when I Googled it—the flight numbers said they were coming from Ohio.
It was pretty obvious what I was looking at.
As the prices climbed higher and higher, and the list grew longer and longer, and the countdown and arrival times for his family glared at me from the bottom of the page, I could hazard a guess why Joe had been panicking.
That looked like a lot of renovation, and a lot of money, with very little time to accomplish such a lofty goal. Based on the sheer number of things he’d written down that were broken, I could only assume the state of his home was abysmal.
My stomach clenched.
Thoughts whirring with ideas on how I could help, when Joe had made it pretty clear he wanted nothing to do with me ever, I pocketed the list. Then, I took a fortifying sip of my coffee, and gathered the bruised apples.
How did you help someone who refused to accept your help?
You didn’t.
Gah.
What a mess.
A complicated knot-riddled mess.
I didn’t go after Joe. I got the feeling that was the last thing he wanted. He’d shown me enough for one day. And I needed time if I was going to do something about this. I’d let Joe lick his wounds in private.
And me?
I would do what I did best.
I’d meddle.
Joe’s farmhouse was located at the edge of town. Out past the suburbs and sandwiched between the orchard and the forest. It was a cute house. On the admittedly few occasions I’d been out here—apple picking with Mary back when we’d been freshly married—I’d thought so.
However, as I drove up the gravel driveway, there was no telling how long the space had been abandoned before Joe had come to occupy it.
The driveway was overrun with weeds. Brambles created a blanket of unwalkable foliage for the majority of the drive.
Closer to the house, things were somewhat more maintained.
Less weeds, at least. Firewood was stacked in a massive pile beside the misshapen front porch. An abandoned axe sat beside it.
Piles and piles and piles of discarded saplings, brambles, and other plants were stacked along the edges of the driveway.
The back of Joe’s weathered blue truck was full of tools.
As I got out of my car and moved to inspect what he’d already purchased, I couldn’t help but be glad I’d come all this way.
Only a day had passed, and yet, Joe had been hard at work, it seemed.
There was a pizza sitting in my passenger seat, steaming up the windows.
A peace offering.
A pizza-offering.
Ha.
I hoped to break the ice. To…drop his guard a little. An apology for seeing him when he was most vulnerable. Especially when I was here to deliver what I hoped to be good news. Though, knowing Joe and his pride, I doubted he’d see it that way.
As I hopped up the front steps, the porch made a frankly terrifying sound. I paused, grimacing—just waiting for it to cave in. When it didn’t, I tested the next step much more slowly. This one also complained, but this time I was prepared for it, so I didn’t panic.
With every step I took, I felt my resolve harden.
I’d spent the rest of the previous day and night worrying about Joe. I’d called my mom—to her delight. She loved chatting. The only thing she loved more than chatting was charity.
Together we’d hatched up a harebrained scheme.
It felt rather fool-proof.
I’d come to his house—his “territory”, so to speak—and I’d offer him pizza. After he’d accepted the cheesy goodness and I’d fallen into his good graces, as much as I was able, anyway, I’d give him my pitch.
I hoped this would go better than the last time I’d tried to help him.
And I hoped…if I offered him money through the fake “charity fund” that Mom was working on legitimizing, he’d be more likely to accept than if I outright offered him cash myself.
Which, again, wasn’t something I’d ever do.
Not when I was still trying to keep my financial situation under wraps.
The charity, as a whole, was a fun idea, actually.
I was kinda annoyed that I hadn’t thought of it sooner.
And after I helped Joe, I fully intended on making it a yearly thing.
To have a wad of cash I could anonymously offer people.
A “Santa Fund” as Mom and I had decided to name it.
To help my fellow citizens behind the scenes like I was grocery-store-Batman.
It was actually more straightforward than most of my other endeavors.
Joe would make the perfect guinea pig.
Provided he actually accepted aid.
Which…I was still nervous was not going to happen.
Money was a tricky subject for a lot of people.
For good reason. Someone’s financial situation was a deeply personal thing.
Believe me, I understood that more than anyone.
The last thing I wanted to do was accidentally shame Joe for his struggles—presumed struggles, as I still had yet to one-hundred-percent confirm if the panic attack in the grocery store was caused by not being able to pay for the items on that list.
It was a good guess, yes.
But still a guess.