Chapter 7
February
Ishould have left my number for Mikey or asked for hers before I left her tiny apartment.
All I could think about when I was there was she needs a place with a garage.
A place with a room big enough to hold all the books her heart desires, instead of needing to stack them on the floor because the only book shelf she has was full.
She needs a proper kitchen to cook in, and if cooking isn’t her thing, I’ll cook for her. She shouldn’t have to sleep on a full-size bed. She should have the best mattress, a California King, with ample room to spread out on satin sheets.
My kitchen. My bed. My sheets. My house.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
For the past three months, I’ve had to stop myself from calling the shop to hear her voice and make sure she’s safe.
I’ve had to hold myself back from driving down there to check on her.
I need to see her in person. My imagination has been running away with scenarios where someone breaks into her apartment because of her shitty-ass lock and hurts her.
Do I know she can probably handle herself if something were to happen? Yes. Do I recognize she’s lived this long without me getting all protective of her? Also yes.
But I’ve still spent the last three months riddled with anxiety about her getting murdered in her sleep. The thought of potentially losing her before I’ve even had the chance to have her threatens to give me an ulcer.
Which is why I’m once again driving to Salem the day before Cupid’s Cove’s biggest celebration of the year. It’s officially been one year since I met Mikey.
I don’t even know her last name.
If I can’t find the nerve to ask her out today, I’m going to have to buy a new car to start breaking because I think I’ve exhausted pretty much all of the things I can reasonably do to the van.
Slater told me if I don’t do it today, I have to move on. He refuses to give me any other tips for breaking my van, saying a year is too long, and he’s not helping my pathetic ass anymore.
Rude.
But he’s right. A year is long enough. I can’t let it play out any longer.
I just don’t know why I haven’t made a move yet. I can’t put my finger on what’s keeping me back. I’m not usually so… shy. I mean, my whole thing is helping people take the leap to find love.
Why the hell is it so hard to do it for myself?
Pulling off to the side of the road, I open the hood and grab the screwdriver Slater gave me.
I scan the contents, trying to remember which shiny, silver thing I'm supposed to disconnect.
With a shrug, I start trying to pull off a steel hose.
There are no screws, which is strange, but the screwdriver is thin enough to help pry it off, I guess.
It takes some effort, but it finally disconnects and liquid starts dripping out, and the scent of gas permeates my nose.
Huh. I thought this was connected to an air thingy.
Wiping my hands on a rag, I get back in the van and turn the key.
It dies immediately.
Slater said it wouldn't start the first time, so turn it again.
Nothing.
I try a third, fourth, fifth time hoping it’s just taking its sweet time, but it never works.
Oh shit.
No, no, no.
Slater said it wouldn’t damage the van! He said it would still be drivable!
Yanking my phone from the holder on the dashboard, I click on his contact information.
“This is Slater,” he answers.
“I know it’s you, asshole. My van won’t start.”
The line goes so silent I pull it away from my ear to make sure it’s still connected.
Finally, he clears his throat. “Come again?”
“My van won’t start! I did what you said. I stuck my screwdriver into the connector and pried it open.”
“Pried? You should have been able to twist the screw off. Hence the screwdriver.”
“I didn’t see a screw. I saw a shiny, silver connector like you described, and I shoved the screwdriver in and pried it off.
I don’t remember you saying anything about any liquid, so I was surprised when it started dripping, and now my van won’t start.
” Boisterous laughter bursts through the speaker, and my stomach sinks.
“Why are you laughing? You said it would still be driveable.”
“Y-you’re fucked, man. I said to unscrew the silver connector with the plus-shaped screw.
Sounds like you broke your fuel line. Knowing you, you pried it too hard, and it’ll need to be replaced.
I’m guessing you tried to start it fifteen times, so your solenoid might be burned, too.
Call the shop. Get a tow. I’d offer to come pick you up, but I’m slammed today, so you’ll need to call Ruby. ”
But I can’t call my sister and ask her to come get me because she’s running the café alone again. With the tourists and guests in Cupid’s Cove for Valentine’s Day, we’re swamped. I shouldn’t even be down here, but I just had to come see Mikey.
Fuck my life.
“I’ll figure something out. Thanks for nothing.”
“Hey, I’m not the one who broke it. Make sure you can get back here before tomorrow, or the town will riot, and Loralee will fine you for something stupid like failure to do your town duty.”
“I know. I’ll keep you posted. Check on Ruby if you have time, please.”
“Uh, sure. Okay. Good luck.”
“Thanks.” I hang up and seriously consider pounding my head into the steering wheel. I can’t believe how severely I’ve fumbled this.
The van, the girl, my role as Cupid.
At least I still get to see her.
Though, with the luck I’m having, it would track if she isn’t at the shop.
I dial the shop. “Merv’s, how can I help you?” Her soft voice immediately calms my frayed nerves, and a rush of relief washes over me.
“Hey, Mikey, it’s Saint. Valentine.”
“Oh.” A brief pause. “Hi, Saint. How can I help you?”
“My van broke down on Elmer and 17th, and I need a tow to the shop, if it’s possible.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Yes, Rob can be there in ten minutes if that works.”
Who the fuck is Rob?
“Sounds good. Thank you.”
“It’s no problem. I—we will see you soon.”
“Looking forward to it.”
She hangs up, and I already miss the sound of her voice. I know she’s probably trying to be efficient with her time, but part of me wishes she stayed on the phone. Has she thought about me at all since November?
God, I hope so.
Ten minutes later, the same truck Patrick arrived in a year ago pulls up in front of my van. Though, instead of his black hair and gangly limbs, a man my age with a neatly trimmed mustache and brunette mullet hops out.
“You Saint?”
“Yeah. You’re Rob?”
He flashes me a smile. “That’s me. My girl said your van’s broken down, but she didn’t say what was wrong.”
Irritation and jealousy burn a hot streak down my esophagus followed quickly by dread. Is Mikey dating this guy? Did she not feel our connection at all?
“Yep. Won’t start. Not sure why,” I lie.
“Well, we’ll take a look and get her all fixed up at the shop. Don’t you worry.”
“Mikey’s worked on it before, so I trust she’ll take good care of it.”
“Ah, yeah. Mikey’s great with her hands, isn’t she?”
I think I’m going to puke on Rob’s shoes.
I don’t say anything in reply. I can’t say anything. If I open my mouth, I’ll demand answers I’m not sure I want. The thought of Mikey with her hands on this guy makes me green with jealousy. It’s an unfamiliar, uncomfortable feeling.
I don’t have a reason to be jealous. I don’t have a claim on her.
We haven’t seen each other in three months. We haven’t exchanged numbers. We shared a few brief meals, not love confessions, but my heart has decided I’m hers.
But that doesn’t mean she’s mine.
Fuck.
When we finally pull up to the shop, I nearly sigh with relief. If I have to hear Rob talk about his high school baseball career and how he could have played in the majors if not for his tragic wrist injury any longer, I’m going to lose it.
He drops me off at the front while he pulls my van around. Through the door, I see a familiar head of cocoa hair sitting at the front desk and relief fills my lungs.
Her head pops up as the door jingles, and her pretty lips part as her teal eyes bounce around my figure. Her hair is different today. She’s cut some wispy bangs so they fall along her forehead and frame her full cheeks while the rest is pulled back into two plaited braids.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she teases as she stands, handing me a clipboard.
“Can’t seem to catch a break,” I muse as I sign, handing it back to her. Our fingers brush, and goosebumps erupt under my flannel.
“I’ll say. Four times in—hey, it’s been exactly one year since your first time here. Happy anniversary.” She chuckles. “What are the odds?”
Pretty high since I planned this.
“You keeping track of me, sweetheart?” I lean against the counter, angling myself closer to her. Mikey’s lips part at the term of endearment.
Oops. That wasn’t supposed to slip out.
Go bold or go home alone, I guess.
Mikey flicks one braid over her shoulder and shrugs demurely. “Kind of hard to forget a guy like you.”
I lean forward, spurred on to keep flirting with her. If she’s not going to shut me down, I’m not going to stop now that I’ve started. “A guy like me, huh? What kind of guy is that, Mikey?” My voice turns low and husky as my eyes lock on hers, and I wonder if she can sense the undertone of desire.
My eyes catch the movement of her tongue swiping across her bottom lip, but I keep my gaze firmly stuck on hers.
“You know,” she waves a hand in my direction, “a big lumberjack, Viking of a man.”
A wave of satisfaction rolls through me at the way she says it, with a hint of appreciation in her tone. My deflated hope from earlier bursts back to life. Maybe I have a chance after all.
“Not a lumberjack. Or a Viking. Just a baker.”
Mikey rolls her eyes, breaking our staring contest. “I know that now. But I assumed lumberjack was your profession with the flannel, beard, and, ya know… the muscles.”