Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
FINN
Kavya, Nicholas, and I stand in the park, watching the barbecue of local business owners as I try to locate the proprietor of the motorcycle shop.
“This is your second Allentown Business Association Barbecue,” Kavya points out as the sun shines brightly overhead, butterflies dancing about us. “Wild that The Scoop has been open an entire year.”
“That’s true,” Nicholas adds. His eyes light up as he raises a slice of grilled zucchini on his fork. “You’re an ABAB veteran.”
I nod. “It’s been one year, one month, and four days, to be precise.
Although it somehow feels simultaneously longer and shorter than that.
Living your dream really fills your days up.
” A large, scowling man in a black leather jacket lumbers across the gathering, and I stand up straight, nodding toward him as subtly as possible.
“Who is that?” I ask, still learning my way around the small business social scene.
“Never seen him. There’s a new record shop opening, though. Maybe he runs that,” Kavya offers.
“As long as he’s not a biker from the garage. That sourpuss has bad news written all over it.”
Kavya casts her eyes around the bustling barbecue.
“The restaurateurs are gathering under the old oak,” she says, and turns back to me.
“Have you considered some new collaborations? One out of every ten flowers that we sell are sold through other local businesses. Meaning, in your case, businesses that aren’t directly adjacent to a motorcycle shop. ”
Nicholas perks up. “That’s a great idea,” he says. “Just because your shop is too noisy to visit…” He trails off with a wince when he hears his words. “That didn’t come out how I meant it.”
“It’s fine. My shop is too noisy to visit this week! And I’d love to build more collaborations. I can’t imagine they’ll be quite as fruitful as your work with the flower farm,” I tease Kavya, referencing the romance she found at Starlight Farms. “But extra padding in the profit would help.”
Kavya pushes her sunglasses up on her nose. “No reason you can’t fall in love with one of the restaurant owners.”
I look back to the group under the oak tree. “Hilaria has a wife, Zeke is a leather dom, and Roger is my landlord.”
Kavya shrugs. “Okay. Maybe love is too high of an expectation. But increased revenue streams aren’t.”
“Oh,” Nicholas says as he grabs my elbow. “There he is! Motorcycle guy, four o’clock.”
I turn slightly and spot the tall, pierced man with red hair. He’s alone, loading up his plate with potato salad, not scowling like the guy in the leather jacket I just noticed but not exactly friendly in his demeanor, either.
Kavya hums ominously, and we all laugh.
“It’s not like that,” I insist. “I’m going to resist making this man my enemy. This calls for honey, not vinegar.”
“You see nearly every problem as a honey situation,” Nicholas says cheerfully.
I toss my plate in a trash can. “As do you. That’s an appropriate attitude for people slinging ice cream and flowers. And now it’s time for me to honey my way over and make introductions.”
“I spot the finance director,” Kavya says. “This might be our chance to ask about the shrinking budget to support the street festivals.”
Nicholas tosses his plate, too. “What else are these barbecues for, if not budgetary chitchat?”
I part ways with my friends and head toward the biker on the other side of the barbecue.
While I have an urge to lay out my complaints and seek some clarification on this noise issue, I’ve already decided to tread carefully.
Ideally, we emerge from this encounter as friends, not enemies.
I’ll start with an affable introduction, test the waters, and possibly wait to address the massive headache he’s causing the rest of the block in a follow-up conversation, somewhere less public.
As I purposefully round a picnic table, though, I somehow walk straight into the man in the leather jacket, a full shoulder-to-shoulder collision that sends his bottle of soda to the ground and me stumbling backward. He’s so solid, it’s like walking into a wall.
“Fuck!” he grunts and steps back. There’s a dragon on his old T-shirt, I notice, a style that reminds me of the cover of a fantasy novel from the nineties. “Damn sun in my eyes.”
“Shoot, sorry,” I manage, sharing in the responsibility. “I was rushing.”
The man frowns at his soda bottle before he mumbles something I can’t hear and squats to pick it up.
I take him in for a moment. A few inches taller than me and bulky, too, he kind of lumbers from side to side, shifting his weight.
About my age, he has pale skin, dark scruff, and broad features.
Inky black tattoos peak up his neck and onto his hand, fantasy creatures I can’t discern.
He’s handsomely disheveled, his hair messy and the fabric of his shirt worn.
But his hazel eyes are bright and clear.
He’s attractive, I note, despite the frown and furrowed brow.
My cheeks flush when our eyes catch, and he immediately tears his gaze away.
I glance around him and see that the owner of the bike shop has disappeared. Damn.
“I should keep moving,” the man says, and then mumbles to himself, “don’t know why I agreed to come to this thing in the first place.”
I shrug. “It’s a beautiful day to spend in the park,” I offer. “Although I’d probably be sweating my butt off if I were in a leather jacket.” I hesitate, fishing to see if he happens to work at the bike shop before he goes. “Did you ride your motorcycle here?”
The man tugs on his jacket. “I’m fine,” he says defensively, although I see there’s some perspiration on his brow. “And no. I walked. I’m new to town. Guess I thought Buffalo was going to be colder.” He huffs. “Just couldn’t find a place to put the jacket down.”
Nicholas and Kavya have disappeared into the crowd, too, so I decide to be friendly to the newcomer. “I’m Finn,” I say and offer my hand.
“Riley,” he answers with a brief, firm shake.
“We’re colder most of the year, but we still get hot summer days. Thankfully!” I add with a smile. “Half of the businesses here rely on the summer tourism.”
Riley adjusts his jacket. “Hell of a lot of businesses,” he says as he looks around. “Every owner in the neighborhood must be here.”
“Pretty much, except for Xander. That’s the proprietor of the lube shop at the top of the hill. He’s kind of a recluse. But we’re basically a small town in a big city. Most everyone is friendly and welcoming.”
“The lube shop? Is that the old building with the sign, Glub or something?”
He says it in a way that rhymes with nub, and I chuckle and shake my head. “It’s supposed to be a combination of goo and lube. Glube. And yes, that’s the place.”
He frowns. “Sounds like glue lube.” The frown deepens. “Ouch.”
“The name is probably not doing the business any favors,” I acknowledge with a laugh. “I’m not even sure how it stays open. What’s your business, by the way?”
Before he can answer, there’s an explosion of pop music. Across from us, someone has turned on a speaker, and a small group dances in a clearing, a few drag queens leading the way with cheers.
Riley glances at them. “What the hell,” he grumbles.
“Not a fan of dance parties, either?” I venture. His energy is standoffish. I should just part ways and continue mingling, but I’m remembering what it was like when I was first navigating this world. I had two great friends to help me, and it feels good to pay the favor forward.
If it weren’t for the obvious grumpiness, I’d decide Riley was hot.
He’s burly and maybe a little geeky, too, which is a plus.
I like the faded dragon on his shirt, and the fact that he’s wearing his jacket and sweating because he can’t figure out where to leave it is almost charming.
A slight social awkwardness that I would find endearing, if it weren’t paired with a constant scowl.
“No. Guess I’m just a music snob,” he says. “Pop music is fine, but seriously, ‘Thunder?’ We’re starting off this party with that Imagine Dragons song?”
Definitely the record shop guy.
“If you’re new to the neighborhood and trying to make friends, word of advice, don’t criticize the music. Especially when it was selected by drag queens.”
He snorts. It’s halfway to a laugh. “Noted. Although I never said I’m trying to make friends.”
I lean forward a little and lower my voice. “Truthfully, I agree with you about the song. You should always open with a pop diva, in my opinion.”
He opens his mouth to reply, but before he can get a word out, an orange-and-blue butterfly flits between us, circles his face once, and lands on his nose. Riley goes cross-eyed and tilts his head to the side, and I blurt out a surprised laugh.
“What the hell, bug?” he says under his breath. He remains still as a statue as I laugh in delight.
The butterfly flutters its wings. That’s one way to deal with a scowl.
“That’s got to be good luck!” I offer.
Riley raises a hand slowly toward his face.
“Don’t swat it!” I yelp. “Oh my god!”
“I’m not an asshole,” he grunts at me, then waves his hand around frantically near the butterfly, causing it to gently rise and float away. “I just don’t like bugs on my nose.”
It amuses me that he keeps calling it a bug.
When he’s recovered, Riley huffs. “That’s it. I’m barbecued out. I’ve got to hit the bookstore and pizza shop on my way home, then I’m done with today.”
“Oh come on,” I say, teasing a little, and make a mental note that he’s a reader. “You can’t seriously act like a butterfly ruined your day.”
He waves his big hand in front of his face again, even though it’s gone. “I’m going to be twitching my nose all afternoon. Day ruined.”
“I suppose pizza and a good novel will fix just about anything. Even rogue bugs.”
“Book three in a trilogy. I’ve got big expectations and a weekend to disappoint them.”
“Book threes are hard. Book ones are often my favorite. So much possibility at the start of things.”
“I’m all about the middle book,” he says. “That’s when shit totally falls apart.”
I nearly relay a comment that NotAnOgre made once, that the only way to make a third book work is to have it be an even bigger disaster for the characters than the previous books, up until the satisfying ending at least. After much discussion, he won me over to the theory.
But all this talk of book ones, twos, and threes falls out of mind when I spot the owner of the motorcycle garage across the barbecue, and I realize I need to grab the opportunity.
“Hope the novel surpasses your expectations,” I say, and pull myself away.
Riley is gruff, but as he lumbers away from the barbecue, I remember how cute he looked with that butterfly on his nose.
If it weren’t for his obvious pessimism, I’d ask around and figure out who he is.
I’ve been considering a return to the dating game, and a fellow reader would be an exciting prospect.
For now, though, I push that thought out of my mind. It’s time to honey my way over to the owner of the garage and make these introductions.