27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Trent
O nce a week when my mother is manning the reception desk, I go get coffee and pastries for the crew.
Today, all three bays are booked solid, and it feels like a gigantic win.
Looking at the rest of this week and next, there are hardly any spots unfilled.
That might mean a lot of overtime after hours for me and, possibly, Brett because I’ve committed to not turning anyone away.
When people in Little Falls think of getting their vehicle repaired, their oil changed, or troubleshooting a tricky electrical problem, I want my shop to be at the forefront of their minds.
Each week I’ve picked up coffee and pastries, I’ve avoided Kathy’s Café. Everyone says it’s the best, but I went to high school with Kathy, and I’ve heard through the Little Falls gossip grapevine that she’s not my biggest fan.
So it’s with a fair bit of trepidation that I enter her packed café this morning.
People who’ve been to the shop or who remember me from high school call out a “hello” as they collect their orders and breeze past me.
It helps that Grady is so popular in town.
His bid for mayor a couple of years ago helped restore the Castillo name.
The shop has large, curved windows at the front, and there are people dotted at the tables all around.
The line is substantial, but if I want local people to support me, I need to do the same for them.
The big-box stores and the chain restaurants aren’t as small-town minded as the grassroots ones like Kathy’s Café, where she and Sabrina know everyone who enters.
“What can I get for you?” Kathy asks when I get to the till.
The drink orders are memorized after so many weeks of coffee runs, and I rattle them off with ease. Then I scan the rows of pastries behind clear glass.
“Just an assortment, I guess,” I say, unsure of what’s even any good.
I probably should have asked everyone before I left the shop, but I wasn’t sure I’d actually get up the guts to come in here.
“A dozen or so.” My mom will give the rest to customers who stick around while we work on their vehicle.
“Sure,” Kathy says, ringing up the order and then grabbing a strip of wax paper to put pastries into two large boxes. “Anything else?” she says when she returns.
“No,” I say. “That’ll be all.”
She clicks through the total, and as the machine to pay loads, Kathy’s gaze rakes over me. I brace myself for some snide comment. I do have slightly more respect for people who can say shitty things to my face and not just behind my back.
“Heard a lot of good things about your shop,” she says as I dig out my credit card. “Bit of a buzz in the café about how good you are, specifically.”
“Oh,” I say, completely taken aback by her compliments. “That’s—that’s good to hear.”
“I’m just glad you’re not dragging another Sullivan into some shitshow.”
Ah, there it is.
“Em and I are just friends.” It irks me to say the words.
“Still,” she says, “what you do impacts her, since you’re living in her house, spending time with her kid. I’m just glad you’ve turned into a positive influence. Couldn’t have said that in high school.”
“People can change,” I say, paying for my order and tucking my card back in my pocket before sweeping the boxes off the counter.
“It appears so,” she says. “Collect your coffees from Sabrina over there.” She nods toward the back and left where a chest-high counter sits and Sabrina seems to be frantically making drinks.
When I get to Sabrina, she passes over the drinks stacked in some fancy carrier thing. I’d been a bit worried about how I’d handle everything when I had to park a couple of blocks away, but it appears Kathy’s Café is used to big orders from the local crowd.
“How are you, Trent?” Sabrina asks as she reads the order screen and starts mixing more drinks.
“I’m good, and you?”
“I heard your shop’s doing really well, and Grady’s studio is booked solid for months. Look at you Castillo boys, huh? Who’d have thought?”
“Who’d have thought…” I say, and I don’t add anything more as I turn to head out the door. As I go, other people stop me to say “hello” or to talk about some issue they’re having with their vehicle.
“Sounds like a fuel pump,” I say to Mike McGregor. “Bring it by, and we’ll get it fixed for you.”
“Glad I ran into you,” he says just before I squeeze out the front door and breathe a sigh of relief.
I’ve always liked talking to people—more of an extravert than an introvert—but coming back to live in this town has been harder than I expected.
I just never know what people are going to say to me, and I hate the uncertainty of not knowing where I stand.
At least in Utica, coming out of jail, my life had felt like a clean slate. In a lot of ways, it feels like I took a giant step forward in my career, and a massive step backward in my personal interactions by coming back here.
I just have to keep reminding myself that the personal will catch up with the professional if I just keep myself moving forward, doing what I know I’m good at, making a difference for people in the community.
When I get back to the shop, everyone cheers as I bring in the coffee and pastries.
We take a communal fifteen-minute break to chat, eat, and drink coffee, and it fills my soul back up a little from my interactions in town.
Seeing how much they all enjoy the pastries and coffee makes the stop at Kathy’s worth it.
At the end of the day, just as people are leaving to go home, a Lexus arrives on the back of a tow truck. With a frown, I go into the lot to greet the driver.
“Trent?” the driver asks, hopping down out of the front seat. “Earl Runions paid to have this brought here. Some sort of electrical and mechanical issue.”
“Where’s the owner?” I ask. While I appreciate Earl sending me clients, I prefer a head’s up rather than receiving a car on a tow truck just before closing.
“You’ll have to call Earl,” he says. “Where do you want this?”
“Load it off in one of the bays,” I say. No matter what, I can’t leave a car this expensive sitting on the lot when I don’t know what’s going on.
I step away from the driver as he reverses to get it off-loaded.
“What’s going on?” Brett asks.
“Referral from Earl, except he didn’t tell me it was coming.”
“Want me to stay late?” Brett asks.
“Won’t be straightforward if Earl sent it,” I say. “I don’t know if I’ll need the help. Up to you.”
“If you don’t need it, no need to pay me the overtime,” Brett says. “I just want to see you work through the problem.”
“You’re welcome to stay,” I say.
Then I call Earl to find out what he knows about the car. Once I have all the details jotted down from him, I text Emily to let her know I won’t be home in time for dinner and not to wait up. She texts back a thumbs up, and then I take Brett over to the car.
“Here’s what I know,” I say, giving him the starting place for our troubleshooting project.
By the time I get home, it’s close to midnight, and I’m worn out. Brett and I managed to get to the root of the problem, but we had to rush-order some parts. I sent Earl an update to pass along to the owner.
I root around in the fridge to find a covered plate of food with my name on top. I’m not sure why Emily puts my name on a sticky note, but she always does. Maybe I wouldn’t be as inclined to eat it, worried she’d made it for her own lunch tomorrow.
While the pasta and chicken heats in the microwave, I peer at the calendar. I don’t know when she filled it out, but she’s not crossing off the days like she normally does.
Honestly, I’m not even sure what to think about what’s happening between us. Most of the time, I deliberately avoid thinking about it. Telling Kathy today that we’re friends didn’t feel right, but I also wouldn’t want to put any other label on it.
After I eat, I head up the stairs, and when I get to Emily’s door, it’s propped open. That’s been Emily’s unspoken symbol that I’m welcome in her room for the last few weeks. I hesitate because it’s so late, and I can tell she’s already sleeping. The house is dead quiet.
I brush my teeth and get changed into my pajama pants, and then I stand in the hallway again. What I want to do is right there , but I’m not sure if it’s the right thing to do.
Fuck it. All of this means whatever we say it means, nothing more.
I enter her room and I shut the door, locking it. My phone is in my hand, and I set an alarm for stupid early to make sure I’m out of here before Amir is awake.
When I slide under the covers beside her and rest my hand on her hip, she rotates into me, curling up against me, all of her soft parts molding to me.
“The door was open,” I whisper.
“I know,” she says, “I left it open for you.”
Neither of us makes any move to turn this sexual, and I don’t bring up that we’re not just tiptoeing over the line, but rather leaving it so far behind that I’m not even sure it exists.
The things happening between us, the rhythms we’re establishing, I’ve never done any of them with another woman. Couldn’t even imagine being this close, this content, with someone else.
Instead of analyzing it, I tuck her a little tighter into my side, kiss the top of her head, and I relish the soft sigh of contentment that escapes her. Maybe that sound isn’t because of me, but at this moment, it sure feels like it is.