10. Willy
CHAPTER TEN
Willy
My grandmother has two favorite hobbies.
The first is gardening. That one’s easy to understand. The woman can bully vegetables into existence in soil that looks like it filed a formal complaint against farming.
The second hobby is collecting information nobody’s offered her. That’s the one I’ve never figured out.
June Kane knows things long before any reasonable person should.
I’ve spent years trying to crack the code. Maybe she’s got a network of retirees stationed around Colter Creek like surveillance drones armed with casseroles. Maybe reaching eighty unlocks abilities the rest of us don’t get.
Or maybe after decades of watching people make bad decisions and then insist they’re making excellent decisions, old women develop an instinct that borders on witchcraft.
Whatever the explanation, her success rate is annoying.
Which is why the look she’s giving me across the kitchen table makes the back of my neck itch.
“I know that expression.”
I nearly choke on a bite of cinnamon roll. “Considering it’s attached to my face, I’d think I’d be the expert.”
She flicks her fingers at me. “Not your regular expression. Your interested-in-a-woman expression.”
I stare at her.
She stares right back.
Most people blink during conversations. Grandma treats blinking as a sign of weakness.
“I don’t have an interested-in-a-woman expression.”
“You do.”
“No.”
“Willy, when you were fourteen and crushing on your English teacher, you wore that exact look.”
Coffee heads for the wrong pipe.
Across from me, Grandma beams like she’s just won a prize at the county fair.
“That isn’t remotely the same situation.”
“You’re right.” She takes a sip of coffee. “Your knees made less noise back then.”
I point at her. “That was mean.”
“That was efficient. Mean would’ve taken longer.”
The irritating part is that she says it with complete sincerity.
Rain clouds are stacking themselves over the mountains outside the kitchen window. A fresh loaf cools on the counter, filling the room with the smell of warm bread.
Usually, sitting at Grandma’s table feels like a break from the rest of the world. Today it feels like I’ve been summoned for questioning by a cheerful dictator who keeps baked goods on hand to lower her prisoners’ defenses.
“You’re imagining things.”
“Willy.”
“Grandma.”
The exchange earns me the look. The one that says she’s about to wait me out and knows she’ll win.
I lean back in my chair, and that’s when I make my mistake. Because Arizona walks straight into my thoughts.
Her copper hair catches sunlight like it was invented specifically for the job. The guitar slung over her shoulder. The laugh that escapes before she thinks about whether she should hold it back.
The way she slides into a room full of strangers and somehow leaves with people acting like they’ve known her for years.
By the time I realize I’ve drifted off into my own head, Grandma’s grin has widened enough to be concerning.
“Oh, there she is.”
I close my eyes. “This feels illegal.”
“You made it easy.”
“You just reached into my brain and pulled out evidence.”
“Nonsense.” She waves a hand. “I didn’t have to reach for anything. You stared off into the distance like a cowboy in one of those old romance movies.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
I point at her again. “You keep saying ‘absolutely’ like you’ve prepared opening statements.”
“That’s because the case is airtight.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it, which is unfortunate, because now she knows she’s winning.
There’s never much point arguing with Grandma once she’s decided she’s right. Eventually, I give up pretending this conversation is headed anywhere else and let out a breath.
“I met someone.”
The change in Grandma is immediate.
The teasing doesn’t disappear entirely, but it settles into the background as she studies me over the rim of her coffee mug. Her expression softens in a way that makes me wish she’d go back to accusing me of making lovesick faces.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“Don’t start.”
A smile tugs at her mouth. “That’s not a very specific instruction.”
“You know exactly what I mean. Don’t get all tender and wise.”
“Tender and wise?” She presses a hand to her chest. “Well, that’s lovely. Usually people call me nosy and stubborn.”
“Those are still the top two contenders.”
Grandma laughs, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
I’ve never understood how she manages it. Most people make caring feel awkward. Like they’re trying to pry open a locked door with a crowbar.
Grandma does it with a grin and a cinnamon roll and somehow you’re halfway through confessing your problems before you realize you’ve been trapped.
I’ve spent thirty one years falling for that trick.
“Tell me about her,” she says.
I tip my head back and study the ceiling. That seems safer than looking directly at her. “There’s not much to tell.”
“That statement alone tells me there’s plenty to tell.”
“She’s just passing through.”
Grandma reaches across the table and rests her hand over mine. “People surprise you, Willy.”
“Occasionally.”
Grandma takes another sip of coffee, then sets the mug down and studies me with the kind of patience that only comes from raising children, grandchildren, and probably a few stubborn farm animals over the years. “You know what your problem is?”
“I can already tell I’m not going to enjoy this.”
“You treat disappointment like it’s a weather forecast.”
That earns a frown. “What does that even mean?”
“It means the clouds show up and you start carrying an umbrella.” She points at me. “Half the time it doesn’t even rain, but there you are, preparing for a flood.”
I’ve spent years convincing myself it’s smarter not to expect much from people. If you don’t hope for anything, you don’t have to watch it slip away. If you never build a future in your head, nobody gets the chance to knock it down.
It’s a tidy system.
Lonely, maybe. But tidy.
Grandma seems to read every bit of that off my face. She gives my hand another squeeze before letting go. “Just don’t hand your fears the steering wheel.”
I rub a hand across my jaw. “That’s annoyingly good advice.”
“I’ve had eighty years to practice.”
“The real tragedy is that you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right.”
I shake my head. “The second tragedy is that I’m probably going to ignore you.”
“That’s fine.” She reaches for another cinnamon roll. “You usually need three or four demonstrations before a lesson sticks.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
After another cup of coffee and one final argument about whether I eat enough vegetables, I pull Grandma into a hug and head for the door. She sends me off with a container of leftovers I never ask for and always leave with anyway.
Outside, the weather has spent the afternoon making good on its threats.
The sky hangs over the valley in thick bands of charcoal gray, and every few minutes lightning flashes behind the mountains, turning the distant ridgelines into brief silhouettes before swallowing them again.
Thunder follows close behind, rolling across Colter Creek with enough force to rattle windows.
A storm is coming. The kind that usually encourages people to wrap up whatever they’re doing and head home.
Of course, common sense has never been one of this town’s defining qualities.
By the time I’m twenty minutes down the road, the storm finally catches up. Rain taps against the windshield at first, scattered droplets racing each other across the glass. Then the clouds seem to decide subtlety is overrated.
Water crashes down hard enough that visibility shrinks by the minute, and my windshield wipers throw themselves into the fight with the enthusiasm of underpaid employees who’ve already submitted resignation letters.
Thunder echoes across the valley as I make my way down Main Street.
Most of the businesses have closed for the evening. The bakery’s lights are off. The hardware store sits dark.
A handful of storefronts still cast warm rectangles across the pavement, their reflections stretching through puddles that are growing deeper by the minute, but the town itself has largely retreated indoors.
Which makes the figure standing outside Larsen’s General Store feel less surprising than it probably should.
Arizona McCay has never struck me as a woman who lets practicality interfere with curiosity.
Even through the curtain of rain, I recognize her right away.
Her hair gives her away before anything else. The copper color has deepened beneath the downpour, strands slipping loose beneath her hat and clinging to the collar of her jacket.
She’s hugging a weather-beaten notebook against her chest like it contains classified government documents instead of half-finished lyrics, and despite the protection of the awning, she’s soaked enough that it hardly matters.
I pull alongside the curb and lower the passenger window.
That decision lasts roughly one second before rain blasts directly into the truck and cold water smacks me across the face.
Arizona turns toward the sound. The grin that spreads across her face tells me she’s enjoying this far too much.
“Good evening,” she says. “You look refreshed.”
I wipe rainwater from my eyes. “I’ve been assaulted by the atmosphere.”
Her smile widens. “And yet you’re persevering.”
“It’s important to remain brave during difficult times.”
“You’re an inspiration to us all.”
The laughter in her eyes hits me before the actual laugh does, and against my better judgment I feel ridiculously pleased with myself for earning it.
Another flash of lightning cuts through the clouds behind the buildings.
I glance toward it, then back at her. “You know, most people see a storm rolling in and decide it’s a great time to be somewhere with walls.”
Arizona follows my gaze toward the dark sky. “I came out looking for inspiration.”
“How’s that working out?”
She tilts her head. “I got several pages.”
“Really?”
“Mmhmm.”
I nod toward the flooded street. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like inspiration tricked you into standing outside while nature attempts a hostile takeover.”