Chapter Fourteen #2
A few more not-so-friendly hospital bill reminders from my time at rehab and my ER visit last year. Sighing, I make a note to send them another payment when an email from Maya dings in my inbox.
She sent a detailed wedding day schedule, almost down to the minute.
Manicures, hairstylist, makeup sittings, and another luncheon—and there are still two more hours of bullet points before we get to the ceremony.
I close my phone with a click of the button.
I’m stressed and it’s not even my wedding.
Cautiously, I knock on the camper door as I enter, the living room steamy enough to fog the windows. Tristen hollers that he’s changing in the bathroom, and I follow the delicious aroma to the full cup of coffee waiting for me on the counter.
The first sip of the day is always the best, and I savor it, closing my eyes as the last cobwebs of sleep break loose. Perhaps I should return the favor and make him breakfast.
After a few minutes of scouring the cabinets, I find the frying pan and set the eggs and butter on the counter. I’m not much of a cook . . . but I’ve seen Des make eggs a hundred times. He cracks and mixes them in the pan until they are fluffy. Easy.
Now the stove? This doesn’t look like what I’m used to. I turn the knob on and immediately turn it off when the smell of propane floods the small space.
“The bathroom is all yours—what’s that smell?”
Fresh and clean, Tristen comes barreling out of the bathroom sniffing around the kitchen.
“I think it’s the stove. I was trying to turn it on and nothing happened.”
He whips his head toward me. “You . . . were cooking?”
“Hey. I cook.”
“Since when?”
I cross my arms. “For the record, I’ve helped Des make jam.”
“Uh huh.”
“But this stove isn’t like Des’s.”
“Gary said you have to light it with a match or lighter before you can use it.”
Like, should I be adding an open flame to gas?
“Uh . . .”
Shaking his head, he laughs at me. “I do it with my camping stove all the time. Here, let me light it. It’s nice to feel useful with you doing most of the maintenance around here.”
While I fish eggshells out of the pan, Tristen practices his excerpt, repeating trouble words over and over again.
“There aren’t enough words to say how much I will miss you.
How does one say goodbye to food, water, or air?
I need all these things to live . . . just like I need you.
I’ll have to learn how to survive somehow. ”
I raise a brow but say nothing at the cheesy lines.
“Ugh, I see you smirking over there. It’s terrible, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not your performance. The monologue is a little much for me. Who wrote this thing?” I scrape the pan, the eggs sticking to the sides.
“Vivian La-da-something. Nicole said she’s a bestseller for her genre.”
I turn, eyes wide. “Do you mean Vivian Laundale? She had that blockbuster movie last summer, right? I haven’t read the book, but everyone was talking about it. I think I saw the trailer a million times. Tris, this is a big deal.”
“I guess. I’m trying to get into the character’s mind, but it’s hard.”
“Want me to help?” I lift my hand holding the spatula over my brow dramatically. “Oh, Tris. I need you more than coffee—how will I ever survive?”
His eyes twinkle as he holds in his laugh. “I think you need to worry about the eggs you’re burning first.”
Crud.
Among other terrible traits, I inherited my mother’s dismal cooking skills as well. Frowning, I scrape the spatula across the burnt crust forming in the pan.
You ruined it, just like you ruin everything. You can’t do anything right.
My jaw clenches as I feel his eyes boring into my neck. Always watching me screw up.
“Why are you staring?” I snap, turning the burner off.
“I’m taking a mental image.”
I toss the spatula on the counter, sending bits of burnt egg flying. “Real nice, Tristen. Make fun of me because I don’t know how to cook. You can’t help but memorize all my flaws.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He tosses his phone onto the bunk and rushes over to me, wrapping his arms around my rigid form. “That’s not what I meant at all. Have you eaten anything today?”
I wiggle from his hold and point a finger at him. “If you tell me one more time to eat when I’m upset . . .”
“Here.” He grabs an apple from the fridge and tosses it at me. “Trust me.”
For a millisecond, I consider beaming it at his head, but my stomach rumbles. I take a large bite, the tart juices flowing onto my tongue. So delicious that I’m chomping at it like a starved animal.
“I’m eating it because I want to,” I say between bites.
“Better?” he asks when I finish, smiling softly.
“A little,” I force out.
Maybe Tristen is right. Hunger is another trigger I didn’t realize I had. How could he know more about me than I do?
“Good. And to clarify, I wasn’t tallying all your flaws before. You were just so cute, wearing my shirt and cooking a meal for me. I could get used to it.”
“Used to me burning breakfast?”
“Reese . . . you know that’s not what I meant.”
I shake my head, hoping to dislodge the negative thoughts. “I know. I get so frustrated when everything I touch goes up in flames. Then you are conveniently around when it happens.”
His arms are back around me, and this time I sink in, hating how grouchy I was before.
“To be honest, I’m glad I’m nearby when you need me. Otherwise, I think you’d forget I existed.”
“I always noticed you. Even when I didn’t want to.”
“Me too.” He nuzzles into the spot by my ear. “I spilled too many drinks because I was distracted watching you. Now I think it might be worse because I know I can kiss you whenever I want.”
“Whenever? That’s a little presumptuous of you.”
A smug grin pulls up the corners of his mouth. “Says the girl wearing my shirt.”
He has a point.
Tristen takes over the cooking duties so we can finally eat a decent meal that doesn’t taste like burnt rubber.
Then I head outside to check how low our transmission fluid leaked while we waited for the rain to pass.
But the surprises keep coming. The simple task of starting the engine has me banging my palm against the wheel.
No matter what I do, the engine won’t start.
Grumbling Gary’s name, I stick my head under the hood and poke around, but there doesn’t seem to be an obvious reason like before.
“What’s going on now?” Tristen asks, handing me a water bottle.
“If I knew, I’d fix it. I’m still diagnosing the issue.”
“Well, we also need to fix the leak in the bedroom before it rains again.”
“I know,” I ground out. “I’m working on one thing at a time.” I lean my elbows on the grill, doing another check to make sure I didn’t miss something. “Why don’t you go work on your book while I figure this out.”
“I can’t. Every time I try to record, you growl or talk to yourself in the background.”
“It’s my process.”
Photos buzz through on my phone. Messy areas of the auto shop where I had dug through toolboxes and the drawers of the bench to find specific tools for this trip.
Lewis
Care to explain? Or have I been robbed?
Right to the point, as always.
Hey, boss. How is the fishing trip?
Lewis
Oh, just dandy. I walked through a patch of poison ivy and had to come back early. I thought I’d relieve some of my frustrations in the shop, but I walked into this mess instead.
Where are you and where are my tools?
About that, I’m in New Mexico . . . somewhere. The motorhome broke down and now we’re stuck here until I can fix it.
We? Who is we?
What is with the interrogation from everyone?
Tristen insisted on helping.
Lewis
Him? That man can’t tell a V6 engine from a V12. You’d have more help if you brought Holt, heck, or even Nova.
I glance up to see if Tristen read the message or not. His ticking jaw tells me he did.
Be nice, Lewis. He’s helping me with the remodel.
Lewis
This still doesn’t explain my missing tools.
They are with me, safe and sound. I’m sorry I didn’t ask first. I was supposed to be back already so I thought you wouldn’t miss them since the shop was closed. But now there’s a transmission leak. Which I thought was the worst of my problems, until the engine didn’t start.
When it rains, it pours. Is the engine cranking? Or is there no sound? Could be the battery.
No, the battery is good. I just—hang on, let me just video with you.
The phone rings a few times while it connects, then Lewis’s deep-set frown pops on the screen uncentered.
“What crazy problem have you gotten yourself into now, kid?” he grumbles as a greeting.
I hold the camera over the engine, showing Lewis the different angles.
“You did everything I would have done. It has to be something else. Sounds like you need to take it apart piece by piece.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. I wish I had something that could lift this higher in the air than the jack I brought. The bell housing is going to weigh a ton.”
“I said I would help,” Tristen adds.
Lewis’s eye moves in close, taking up the whole screen. The video immediately switches to a regular call.
“Put the boy on the phone.”
Tristen takes my phone with a frown. He shoots me a worried plea that I shrug off. Lewis is harmless.
“Take me off of speakerphone,” Lewis demands.
Well, he’s mostly harmless.