Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
RILEY
The next Monday at the garage, I keep thinking about Finn from the barbecue.
Right when I was making my escape from the overly chatty crowd, he seemed to appear out of nowhere. The guy was all smiles and wide, brown eyes, easy laughs and conversation. He was nice, but more than that, he was… hot.
It’s fine to think a guy is hot, I remind myself.
I notice attractive men all the time. It’s just that Finn is this particular kind of geeky hot that can trip me up.
His neat khaki trousers hugged him beneath a crisp, baby blue T-shirt.
His ears stuck out, just a little bit, cute as hell, and he gestured a lot with his hands when he talked, animated.
He’s handsome, with a nice voice, curly hair that moves when he bobs his head, and high cheekbones against his warm brown skin.
I liked looking at him. So what? Everyone says Allentown is a small town in a big city, but he didn’t seem like a biker, so I’ll probably never see him again.
The possibility does excite me, though. I had considered a vow of celibacy for the next year just to spite Chase after he suggested I need to get laid.
But Finn was interesting, and he didn’t seem to hate talking to me, or at least he tolerated talking to me, despite how rude I certainly came across.
And it’s not often that I spark with someone.
I recall his delighted smile when that damn butterfly landed on my nose, then scrub my hand over my face.
“Good to see you in a better mood.” Chase smirks.
I frown at him while the garage buzzes around us. “You here to ruin it?”
Chase adjusts one of his nose rings. “Not exactly. But I am going to need you to get an ice cream cone. The owner of the shop introduced himself to me at the barbecue, but you’d already taken off. Seems best if you meet the neighbors. Do you have time?”
“Not really. But I’m not the kind of mechanic to turn down ice cream, either.”
“The guy was friendly,” he explains, “but word around town is that our neighbors are already getting frustrated with the noise. Considering we haven’t even hosted a party yet, we should build up some goodwill.”
“You know me. I’m a ray of sunshine.”
I stop to wash up on the way, figuring I need to fight my instincts and make a good impression here.
We’re probably nightmare neighbors to this ice cream shop.
This owner might hate us. But it’s best to open a line of communication anyway, and hiding will only let problems fester.
Chase is right. It’s time to face this head-on.
The little ice cream shop sits across from us, the sun shining down brightly on it.
The patio furniture out front is unoccupied, the ruffles over the window flutter in the breeze, and a hand-painted sign advertises The Sweetest Scoop In Town.
After knocking off my dirty boots, I pull open the door, step inside, and freeze in my tracks.
“Finn?”
I blurt out his name like a knucklehead. The guy from the barbecue is standing behind the glass counter, a blue-striped apron hanging over his shoulders. There’s doo-wop music on the speakers, and a couple customers chatting in a booth.
Finn works at the ice cream shop.
No, even worse. He was at the small-business barbecue. Finn owns the ice cream shop.
His face lights up with surprise. “Riley!” he says, apparently glad to see me. One hand goes to his hip, his elbow jutting out. “Did I mention this is my place?” he asks. “Or is it only a happy coincidence that you’re stopping by?”
I rub the back of my head. Ah, fuck.
“Actually, neither,” I answer honestly, and take another step inside the pristine shop. “Didn’t realize this was your business. Came here to introduce myself.” I jut a thumb over my shoulder, gesturing back. “I’m managing the motorcycle garage with my buddy Chase.”
Finn’s face falls, and right on time, a chopper roars down the street, motor coughing as it rumbles into the garage. I glance over my shoulder and see a dark cloud of exhaust.
Definitely enough to make him hate us. Shit.
“Oh,” he says, his brow tightening slightly as the chopper passes. “I suppose that makes sense. You do seem like a biker.”
“That a bad thing?” I ask, suddenly defensive, my voice accidentally harsh.
This is supposed to be about good impressions, not picking an argument.
But if he’s already got a problem with bikers, what am I supposed to do about it?
I’m caught on my back foot, not prepared to see him, and now this.
I should have kept my ass in the garage today.
“Not a bad thing,” he says quickly, and manages to pull together a friendly, diplomatic smile. He’s definitely better with people than I am. “I’m still learning about my new neighbors, that’s all! Can I offer you a scoop?”
“Sure,” I say, and carefully move closer to the counter. The flavors sit in two colorful rows as cool air radiates off the display. I look across the names, but I’m too flustered to take the information in. “Whatever you recommend.”
“Try the new flavor we’re testing out,” he says as he grabs a cone. “Butter fudge sugar cookie.”
“I’m sure it’s not easy having a garage open up across the street,” I offer, pivoting to business and trying again to do this right. “That’s why I came to introduce myself.”
“Since you mention it...” Another motorcycle rumbles by, even louder than the chopper, and he has to raise his voice. “Any chance you’re planning to turn the volume down?”
“Unfortunately, no. This is what a garage sounds like.” No use in pretending otherwise.
Finn hands off the cone, topped with a generous, creamy scoop, golden cookie bits glistening. “I get it. Motorcycles are loud. But do they have to be so loud they drive my foot traffic away?”
I take the cone over the counter, wordless. I’m not prepared to offer a solution or negotiate this conversation right now. Especially not with the hot guy from the barbecue. I need to exit as soon as possible.
All I manage is an “uh” before I lick the cone.
Finn’s smile twitches, like he’s modulating his reactions to me. “Okay, then. What do you think of the new flavor?”
I swallow, thinking carefully. “It should be snickerdoodles,” I say.
That makes the smile finally disappear, my rude ass wearing him down.
Finn sputters. “Okay!” he says. “Sure! I guess… snickerdoodles….” I watch the expressions dance over his features as he struggles to stay friendly.
He clearly doesn’t like my suggestion, but I’m pretty sure it’s just because it’s a good idea.
Typical me, I don’t have the common sense to drop the topic when I should.
“I’m right. Snickerdoodles would work better, right? Big chunks like this.”
“Big chunks, no.” Finn swallows. “And there’s not better,” he objects. “There’s just different flavor sensations.”
“Flavor sensations?”
He gestures to the sign across the front of the counter.
Try All Sixteen Flavor Sensations! I spot a couple Star Trek figures set up above it, Sulu and Data posed in a showdown over an ice cream cone with a Borg.
Great characters, although the scene raises questions about continuity, but I don’t let that distract me.
I lick the ice cream again. “It’s fine like this. But if you want to use my idea and change it to snickerdoodles, go right ahead.”
“Well, thank you for your permission,” he says, as though exasperated.
“You asked,” I counter. Why the hell do people ask your opinion when they don’t want it?
“And I’m also asking you to find a way to quiet the ruckus across the street, but it might be difficult to hear that request over your noisy shop.
” His lips purse tight, like he’s surprised to hear his own words.
It’s obvious to me that he’s not typically someone who likes to bicker, or whatever the hell it is we’re doing.
“I heard you. You want us to stop being a motorcycle shop.” I lick more ice cream, aware that I need to end this conversation and get away before I permanently fuck our relationship with our neighbor. “But we can’t.”
“If you’d spend some time around the gayborhood, you’d see that we nurture a friendly atmosphere.
When one neighbor has an issue, everyone works to resolve any conflict without lingering acrimony.
” He scoops some peppermint, then flings it back into the bucket, his friendly demeanor continuing to deteriorate.
“Acrimony,” I repeat. I bite the cone, feeling embarrassed that I thought he might be interested in me at the barbecue.
We obviously clash. And telling me Chase’s business can’t exist here, that’s acrimony.
I bite the cone again, then gesture to him with it.
“In that case, I should go before I blame your poor foot traffic on picking the wrong cookie.”
Finn throws his hands up. “Well I’m certainly delighted that you came to say hello, Riley!”
I harrumph. “Best of luck with your flavor sensations,” I say, slap a ten on the counter for the cone despite his objections, and turn on my heel to march out.
When I get on the street, my heart is beating fast.
What the fuck just happened?
I feel like I stepped off a roller coaster. Part of me knows I need to march back in to The Scoop and apologize, but I don’t even let myself glance over my shoulder. I’d probably just fuck the whole thing up more.
Anyway, he’s the one who has the problem with me, apparently.
When I get to the garage, Chase sees the expression on my face and frowns. “Not good?”
“You’re right,” I tell him. “He’s upset about the noise.”
I go straight to work, throwing myself into the day’s jobs to distract from the disaster that just unfolded.
Whatever spark I thought I felt at the picnic, it combusted into something upsetting and confusing.
The first guy I’ve taken an interest in since I don’t know when, probably the nicest guy in town, and somehow I still manage to make an argument out of it.
Even worse, he looked just as cute arguing with me as he did smiling at the park.
Great job, me.
When I get home after work, I decide to turn my attention to the latest chapter for MorningEnthusiast, retreating into my safe space.
First, though, I sit at the tiny kitchen table and start a new message to him.
Despite remaining anonymous, there’s no one in my life I open up to like I do to him, and I immediately pour my feelings out.
Don’t you hate it when something that seems potentially very good instead turns to shit immediately? And you know I pretty much never expect something to turn out good.
Like getting an ice cream cone, then dropping it on the sidewalk before you take a lick. Pure disappointment, no satisfaction whatsoever. Just plop! And then it’s all over.
Maybe that doesn’t happen for you. You always say you’re an optimist. Is it because you never drop your ice cream cones, or are you just good at taking the disappointments in stride and continuing on your way? No crying over spilled frozen milk confections.
I prefer to think you’re the rare person who gets what you want (outside of when you encounter illogical plot holes in your novels). Someone in this world has to be walking around and having things go right. And you like mornings, for fuck’s sake, so it might as well be you.
I, however, continue to stack up disappointments. This time I have no one but myself to blame, at least.
Enough bellyaching from your favorite cynic. Hope your day was better than mine.