Chapter 4
FOUR
AMELIA
The tow truck pulls off the single lane of the road and backs up until it’s just in front of the van.
When the driver’s side door opens and a man jumps down out of the tall cab, I’m caught bouncing my head between him and Weston.
It’s not so much their physical characteristics, but something about this guy is similar to the one next to me. Stature more than mannerisms. Not sure I can even pinpoint what it is, but I can tell they’re related.
Maybe it’s the awkward tension between them.
Yep, that’s the dead giveaway.
They’re related.
Or they made eye contact during a devil’s three-way and haven’t figured out how to act around each other since. But nah, the dark-haired guy walking toward me now doesn’t look like the sharing type.
I’m sticking with familial relations. Those can be all kinds of fucked up. Ask me how I’d know.
“Evenin’,” he says, tipping the brim of his dark ballcap my way, before heading over to Weston, who’s waiting by the open hood.
The two of them duck under there, muttering between themselves, pointing at various parts and conferring before they both pop back out of it. They turn and walk back toward me, almost in tandem.
Weston, early thirties, golden skin and hair, in a white tee with khaki cargo pants and brown boots, those dark green eyes just like those of the man next to him. The other man is later thirties, with darkly tanned skin, dark hair and features, and scruff on his face that probably never goes away, shadowing his cut jawline above his Henley and Dickies. The band on his ring finger glints in the moonlight, which somehow makes him feel more foreboding rather than safer.
Everything about the new arrival says hands off , whereas everything about Weston says stay awhile . It’s a dichotomy between them that I’d like to propose be more closely inspected, maybe a study could be conducted on. I’m certainly fascinated. For all their similarities, their differences jump out at me louder.
Warm and fuzzy versus cold and sharp.
Messy, precise.
Casual, uptight.
“I’m gonna have to take a better look at it in my shop, but it looks like your engine’s done for,” the tow truck driver says in a gruff, rather solemn voice.
My eyes flash to Weston’s, much more comforting than the other pair. “Amelia, this is Wyatt,” he says. “The local mechanic here in Smoky Heights.”
Oh. Not just a tow truck driver then.
“And my brother,” he tacks on after a second.
Double oh. Not just any mechanic-slash-tow truck driver either.
“He’s still learning the basic human skill called manners,” Weston says pointedly, with lighter delivery than most could pull off, but the levity doesn’t stop the blow from hitting its intended target.
Wyatt makes a noncommittal sound from somewhere deep in his throat in response, and I nod back at him, giving him a tiny finger wave. “Total pleasure,” I say with zero inflection, and without a pause, I ask, “What do you mean done for ?”
“I mean if this were a hospital waiting room, I’d have brought Kleenex for you,” he says dryly.
Weston scoffs a disbelieving laugh. “Jesus, man, can you cut her some slack?”
Wyatt turns his head to look at his brother and then looks back at me.
“I’ll see if there’s anything that can be done for it, but I’ve got a full garage right now. It might take me a couple days to get a good look at it.”
“A couple days?” I shriek back.
“You’re welcome to find someone else to take a look at it sooner,” he retorts, managing an even drier tone than before.
“Great!” I leap on the optimism, which I’m guessing is rare for him. “Is there another shop nearby we can tow it to?”
“No.” Flatter than my chest before the boob job, it’s the only answer he gives.
I’d like to add another dichotomy to the list.
Polite, jackass .
Weston steps in front of his brother and blocks off my line of sight to the talkative, super helpful individual and takes over. When he jumps in, he makes an effort to be a lot more reassuring.
“Smoky Heights is a pretty small town. Only a few thousand residents. Wyatt’s garage is kinda the only option.” Weston shrugs, like he wishes it weren’t so. “Were you headed somewhere urgent?”
My shoulders drop back, instantly slightly more relaxed for some reason.
“It’s not that I’m headed anywhere urgent, really, it’s just that I don’t want to live out of his garage for a couple of days until we have an answer, and who knows how long it’ll even take to fix after that, and?—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Wyatt steps out from behind Weston and barges into the conversation again. “You aren’t living out of my garage. I don’t even know you. I wouldn’t even let him live out of my shop.” He hikes a thumb in the direction of his brother. “Not a chance,” he says with finality.
“My van is my house,” I argue back. “What else am I supposed to do? Just trust that I can leave everything I own with the grumpiest person I’ve ever met and curl up beneath my failed hopes and dreams to stay warm on the side of the road? No thanks.” I cross my arms and scowl at him, face pinched up.
“Good lord.” It sounds more like why me . Wyatt blows out a heavy breath, head falling back to look at the sky.
“Okay, how about this,” Weston chimes in. “We obviously don’t want to leave you on the side of the road, even if this is a safe town, that wouldn’t be very chivalrous of us, and the Grady men are at least considered that, aren’t we?”
Weston sneaks a glance at his brother, who nods his head in a way that isn’t very convincing, then mutters, “Yep, that’s us. Just a couple of Southern fuckin’ gentlemen.”
My preferred brother keeps talking. “I’m open to other options, but here’s what might be an idea. Wyatt takes your van to his shop and finds a way to fit in an assessment tomorrow, even if he has to stay a little late to do it.”
Those dark green eyes flit away to the man with the matching pair once more.
“As for your living arrangements, I have a hunch his wife can help find an opening for you, even this late on a Sunday night, somewhere safe for you to crash.”
“You don’t even have a hotel? Where the hell am I, the 1800s?”
Weston lets out a hoot of laughter and shakes his head. “We have an inn, but it’s full right now with all the workers who are here to help with redoing the town. Rory’s who found a place for me to stay while I’m here, she’s kind of overseeing this whole project in town, and she’s good at logistics and shit. I’ll call her and see if she has any ideas.”
When I nod back at him, he steps off to the side and gets back on the phone again.
A minute or so of awkward silence goes by, when finally Wyatt eyes Van Gogh wearily. “You’re not going to get my shop raided for smuggling weed or something, are you?”
“You think I’m a hippie because I live in a van? Fantastic worldview you’ve got there. Incredible stereotyping skills. Does that come in handy as a mechanic? Alienating your clientele?”
“Awful defensive when I just wanna know my shop won’t be harboring any illegal substances.”
Narrow my eyes at the prick, I bite out, “I’m not a dealer, dude. I write code. Hardest thing I keep in my van is Alani, so unless there’s a caffeine raid, your precious shop should be safe.”
He ignores my dig. “What do you mean code? Like messages for pigeons to deliver?”
I snort derisively. “You’re unreal.”
“Thanks, my wife says the same.” He gives me a cocky look that I might call a smirk if his face moved more than an eighth of an inch as he did it.
I mime typing on a keyboard. “Coding? Programming? You ever used a computer before, or are wrenches the most advanced technology you’ve touched?”
“I’m a simple guy,” he says with a shrug.
“My god, you’re insufferable,” I bemoan.
This is who I’m trusting Van Gogh to?
“Good news!” Weston bursts in cheerfully, moving in between us once again. “She thinks the bed & breakfast might have something open, which is just off of Main Street near downtown, not five minutes away from his shop, where Van Gogh will be.”
Not that I’m paying him any attention, but out of the corner of my eye I see Wyatt mouth “Van Gogh?” to himself, like the name offends him. Maybe he’s more of a Monet fan.
I pop a brow at Weston. The man owes me nothing, yet he’s going this far out of his way to help me? “You’re really earning this mac’n’cheese, aren’t you?”
He gives me a casual shrug in return. “What can I say? I’m a devoted father. Dedication costs nothing.”
Something in my chest pinches, and I plaster a smile onto my face.
His phone lights up in his hand and so does his face as he checks the message. “All right, you’re all set. She’s got the B&B waiting for you. I can take you there after the van is squared away. Unless you rethought the side of the road.”
He shoots me a wink as I shake my head, then looks back at his brother.
“All good, Wyatt?”
Wyatt gives him a single, wordless nod, and I stand by and watch as the two men get my baby loaded up onto the back of the tow truck and prepare to spend the first night apart since I got her, all those years ago, fresh out of my failed college experiment.
The grouchy mechanic was nice enough—if that’s what you wanna call it—to let me pack my necessities before hoisting her up, so my laptop, chargers, toiletries, and tomorrow’s outfit are now all I’ve got with me.
Not even my vibrator made the cut, and after all this tension, that might be a mistake. The universe is being cruel, knowing I could use a release with the stress today brought.
I’m used to living a minimalist lifestyle, but traveling this light is new for me. I won’t be four steps away from my bed, my kitchen, my worktable, and a seat with two pedals that’ll take me anywhere I wanna go at any given time of the day for once.
Hopefully I’ve gotten everything I need to work from wherever I’ll be until Wyatt calls me with the news. We did at least agree that if nothing else, I’ll come to the shop late tomorrow to see Van Gogh and refresh my bag.
As someone who only has a handful of outfits total, I’m not exactly prepared to pack for a long time away from my roving home. I’m going to need to find somewhere to do laundry here shortly, I was planning a whole refresh and reset at the next campsite.
Wyatt’s reply to the plan was grumbled, but I’m going to pretend he said, “No problem, thanks for your business, ma’am, it’s a pleasure being able to check on your precious van for you. Welcome to Smoky Heights, and I hope you have sweet dreams.”
But as Weston drops me off at the adorable B&B and wishes me well ten minutes later, it’s another fantasy my mind is entertaining.
My eyes drag over the tee clinging to his firm chest, those corded arms, and the black and gray tattoo of something mechanical on the back of one of them.
I find myself wondering if being here for a couple of days is too long to allow myself to see him again? If that’s more time than the emotionless flings I prefer mandate, for my own wellbeing?
There’s a reason I only do one-night stands.
And I already feel like this man knows too much about me, like he sees deeper than I let others go, after an hour or two of nothing much more than joking around. Adding sex into that mix? Might only work if I’m on the road the next day.
Otherwise, I can already feel a tempting pull to let him further in. To get closer.
And I’ll never be doing that again.
All right, this town is cute, I’ll give it that much.
And no one else has been as much of a grumpy fucker as that tow truck driver either, and I’ve run into a surprising amount of people as I explored the quaint little downtown this morning.
I’m waiting for Sookie or maybe Luke himself to walk out of one of these buildings any minute now, this place is that damn charming.
The bed and breakfast was less than a five minute walk to the stretch of road they call downtown. It’s just a couple of blocks once you cross under the big metal archway that says “Welcome to Downtown Smoky Heights.”
It shouldn’t be as endearing and welcoming as it is, with the variety of places I’ve seen, but somehow it’s getting its claws deeper in me the longer I look around.
Adorable one and two-story brick buildings line both sides of the street, most under construction, several with banners hanging that say “Now Open.” Wrought iron lampposts stand tall with colorful flower baskets hanging from them every so many feet along the walkways.
The sidewalks are also brick and look to have been there since the eighteen hundreds, if I had to guess. Not the sixteen hundreds of St. Augustine, or the seventeen hundreds of Baltimore, Boston, and the rest New England. I might not be a history buff, but I’ve seen enough of this country to get by on a pop quiz. When you’re on the run for eight years, you end up seeing a lot. But I haven’t been somewhere quite like this.
Planted on either side of Main Street are trees that cushion the sidewalk from the newly paved road. Different types of young trees appear to have been rehomed along the length of the street, and every third or fourth one is flowering a white delicate bud that almost reminds me of a cherry blossom. A grassy median separates the single lane of traffic designated for each direction, with more trees planted in the middle. Metal benches, merchandise displays, or bistro tables with chairs can be found outside of most open storefronts—those that aren’t under construction—inviting the townsfolk to stop and stay a while.
I moseyed by and took my time inspecting several of the storefronts earlier this morning, perusing the local offerings and being besieged with well-wishes from strangers.
A salon, a hardware store, and a pharmacy all seemed to be bustling, while many more locations had plywood in the windows or scaffolding outside the perimeter as they’re brought back to life.
Outside the hardware store at the edge of the downtown strip, a group of mostly middle-aged and older men sat on the benches, chatting. They stopped as I got close, all eyes falling on me. It should’ve made me uncomfortable, feeling like the center of attention, so much male gaze my way. But there was nothing creepy present, no weird vibes from any of them, something I’ve been highly attuned to for way too long now.
“Well, howdy there, miss,” called the oldest of the group. “Been expecting you downtown. Welcome to Smoky Heights!”
I startled, stopping still and facing the small congregation, all watching me.
“Me?”
“You’re the one who got stuck on the side of the road, aren’t you?” another older man spoke up, gesturing with his arm toward the main road off in the distance.
Nodding, I grabbed my arm with the other and shifted my stance. “That’s me. The unlucky one.”
The man who spoke up next was the youngest of them all, handsome, probably not much older than me, with a dark mustache, and a navy blue t-shirt with the initials SHVFPD on it in white, above a fireman’s cross. “Or maybe it was your lucky break to wind up on a detour here in the Heights.” He winked, but it wasn’t salacious, I think this guy is just the kind of optimist half of me could never live up to.
“You’re in good hands with the Gradys,” another man with a hook nose said from the far right of the bench.
“You trained him well, Gonzo,” the second one told him.
When it hit me that the man with the nose was called Gonzo, I choked on my air rather than let the laugh come out and seem rude.
“Not just Wyatt, Ernie,” the man called Gonzo replied. “The younger Grady is a good fellow too. And of course we all love Rory.” He gestured up the street, like she was there.
Murmurs of agreement sounded from the entire group, and a bittersweet smile tugged at the corner of my mouth at the closeness evident between the residents in the town. I thought last night was a fluke, but I might have stepped into a vortex when I got out to wave Weston down. It looks like I’ve ended up somewhere people know their neighbors, and choose to interact with them rather than stay in their own bubbles, watching TV alone, or on their phones.
I’m still not entirely convinced I didn’t walk into some version of The Truman Show .
“Are you boys giving this young lady a hard time?” A middle-aged Black woman asked, kind eyes crinkled in a knowing smile. She came up right beside me and crossed her arms, staring the men down.
“Ms. Snow,” the youngest one with the mustache said as he stood up taller.
“I’m not your teacher anymore, Charlie, you can call me Wanda.”
The man’s cheeks heated, and he looked down at the ground, scuffing a boot. “Yes, ma’am.”
She chuckled, turning to face me. “Do you need an excuse to get away from these old codgers and coots?”
“We were just welcoming her to town! And telling her the Grady boys will take care of her,” another of the older men defended.
“Mmm,” Wanda murmured. “Well, you welcomed her. Now it’s my turn.”
She linked her arm through mine and steered me up the street, away from the men, most of whom were protesting at our retreating forms.
When we were a storefront or two away, she unhooked our arms and spoke up again. “Sorry about that, but I didn’t want you to get stuck there all day. Ernie would’ve kept you there until the bar opened, and too much excitement isn’t good for Gonzo’s heart. Most of them, like Samuel and Charlie, are harmless, but I thought I’d do you the favor.”
A warm smile brushed my cheeks, and I didn’t bother hiding it from her. “People here are, um, friendly.”
“That’s one word for it,” she said, clucking her tongue. “Nosy, more like it.”
As we wandered, one office caught my eye, New Heights Headquarters according to the sign in the window, but we walked right past it.
“Now I don’t know how long you’ll be here, but you need a woman’s ear on somethin’, you come find me or one of the others.” Wanda pointed across the street, to the pharmacy at the far end of the downtown stretch, where a similar group was huddled around the bistro tables out front, made up of entirely women. One had blueish white curls I could see all the way from here. “We’re never too far away,” she said with a wink, and she headed away.
“Thank you, Wanda,” I called after her.
Taking my bearings now that I could see more of the street, I let myself be pulled into the coffee shop, Foamy Heights, on the same block, but the opposite side of the street.
And it’s made for a great temporary workstation all morning long, what with easy access to pastries (Made Local read the sign), a damn good London Fog, and Wi-Fi to give my hotspot a break as I cozied up at a corner table, slipped on my over-ear headphones and knocked out a few hours of code.
The large plate glass windows overlooking the center of downtown mean passersby wrapped in overcoats or hoodies dot my periphery as I work away on the current project I’ve been assigned.
As a freelance developer, my workload is sometimes lighter and sometimes a bit more full-on, depending on what the firm I contract with has available. I love the flexibility of what I do, but it’s not always the most reliable when it comes to volume of work. Lately, it’s been a little lighter than I wish it were, especially with Van Gogh on the fritz.
For the fortieth time today, a thought about my poor van hits me, and I remember why I’m sitting here, wondering about the status of Van Gogh instead of inside her at our next campsite. With those thoughts, the familiar tightening in my stomach comes back. The knots that drop lower and lower at the thought of what this will cost me.
One thing feels certain, it’s more than my measly budget is prepared for.
When I wrap up for the day, I shoot a quick email to my contact at the firm, asking if there are any additional projects I could be an asset on in the near future.
Here’s hoping they’ve got a little something more for me to get my van up and running again, so I can do what I’ve been doing for close to a decade: Keep moving.
A tinny, robotic sound plays in my headphones that alerts me the email has been sent, and I stare at the screen in front of me. The empty inbox in my encrypted email—one that’s generally favored by international hackers due to being virtually untraceable and anonymous—might as well have crickets chirping while tumbleweeds roll through the desert for all the correspondence I have. It’s a reminder of the loneliness my life entails.
Ignoring the pinch in my chest, the sting that always accompanies my regret, I start a new email.
Hi,
Me again. I am on the move once more. It’s not so warm where I am now. Makes me wonder how chilly you must be right about now. Good thing is, spring is already springing! I hope you send me a picture when your tulips start to bloom. What colors will you have this year?
Had a slight hiccup but should be on the go again in no time. Will tell you more about it later.
I’d love to hear what you’ve been up to!
Sorry again we couldn’t be together on your favorite day. Maybe this is the year we can meet somewhere? Let’s start dreaming. Where would you want to go?
Look out for a postcard from me before long.
Miss you always. Love you longer.
A
I’ve heard spring allergies in the South can be a real bitch. Once I put away my laptop, toss my recycling, hit the restroom, and step outside into the nippy early evening air on Main Street, I chalk it up to some henceforth unknown allergies that have me wiping my eyes as I head back toward the B&B.
Eyes still glistening, I don’t make it more than a couple of doors down—the hammering and whirring noises of construction having died down for the day—when a tall brunette woman across the street waves me down.
“Amelia!” she hollers, bouncing a baby in one arm, waving somehow both frantically and elegantly with the other. Once she has my attention, she returns to finishing locking the door on the New Heights Headquarters behind her, then hustles over to me. I’ve never seen someone move so quickly in a pencil skirt and heels, much less while holding a cooing infant, but she’s giving anomaly vibes all around. Definitely doesn’t look like most of the local women I’ve run into so far, I’ll say that much.
“Rory Weiss-Grady,” she introduces once she’s close enough. “Head of the New Heights committee. Wyatt’s wife, Weston’s sister-in-law. I’m the one who?—”
“Got me the place to stay,” I finish her sentence as she nods, a warm smile on her oval face.
“Right. Are you headed to the garage?”
I pull out my phone to check the time and see a missed call from an area code I don’t recognize.
Rory’s eyes follow my motion. “My husband tried to call you,” she says, not apologizing for snooping on my phone screen. I have a feeling she makes sure to notice more than most. “He had a look at your van today. He’s got a grasp on your options and is ready for you.”
Well, that doesn’t sound promising. Even the optimist in me is hiding from the outcome when she puts it like that.
“Right.” Not sure what to say now. I rock forward on the balls of my feet, trying not to shiver in my athletic shorts that leave most of my legs exposed to the breeze. Just because I’m short doesn’t mean there’s not plenty of skin to still freeze. I bury my hands in the long sleeves of my sweatshirt and nod up at the gorgeous woman who would still tower over me even if she weren’t in heels.
“I’m headed there now, he’s got a late night ahead of him, just thought I’d offer you a ride if you’d like one. Save you from this breeze as the sun starts to sink.”
The baby in her arms reaches for something, leaning out of her mom’s arms and giggling. Rory kisses her on the side of her head, indulgent, and then looks back at me expectantly.
I practically trip over my tongue accepting her offer. “Yeah, that’d be great, thank you.”
“This way,” she says briskly, and marches off toward a parking lot nestled behind the row of buildings I hadn’t even noticed on my first walkthrough of downtown. The air of authority around her is mesmerizing and I follow, entranced by this woman after just a few words. She has more confidence and swagger than the women I’ve been exposed to in my life.
That intensity stirring behind her brown eyes makes everything I’ve done to appear bigger and stronger feel almost childlike in comparison.
I bet no one considers her fragile or delicate, or in need of defending.
I think she’s my new hero.