13. y #2
And then
Oh.
Oh, I’m a genius!
I grab the cat pillow off the couch. “Talk this through with me, Herman. Mystery Man was taking photos at the festival, right? Which means he’s going to want to print them. Obviously.”
I plump the pillow so it looks like he’s actually listening and not just recently been used as a cushion for a steamroller to sit on.
“And lucky for me, and my pride, there is exactly one printing/custom frame/office/wire transfer/money order/custom pet tag store in this town.”
Pause.
“Possibly the world.”
I nod like Herman agrees.
“So, if there’s only one printing/custom frame/office/wire transfer/money order/custom pet tag store, that means he has no choice.”
I lean in.
“He has to go there.”
I kiss Herman straight on the face. “Thank you for your contribution. You’ve been invaluable.”
I toss him back onto the couch. He immediately rolls off. She shoots, she doesn’t score.
I sigh, pick him up, and put him back properly. “Don’t look at me like that. A tidy home is a tidy mind.”
Pause.
“Don’t judge, you’re not even real.”
Another pause.
“I just had a conversation with a pillow.”
I stare at him.
“Still better than stress eating.”
Last week, I ate an entire box of ice creams because my conditioner order was delayed. Do you have any idea what happens to frizzy, red hair without the right products? Exactly.
I grab my keys and jacket and bolt before I start telling Herman about my man woes. I shake my head. “You don’t have man woes, Shelly. You learned your lesson the hard way.”
The bell above the diner door jingles as I step inside.
It’s funny, I barely notice it when I’m working, but now it hits me right in the chest.
Home.
I spot Mrs. Chester, Dannica’s mom, filling ketchup bottles as soon as I walk in.
“Hey, Mrs. C,” I call. “How’s business?”
“Great, honey,” she says, looking up. “You’re not on shift until tomorrow.”
“Oh, I know,” I say, already moving. “I just need to make something real quick.”
She smiles knowingly. “Forgot to buy groceries again?”
I laugh, probably a little too fast, a little too guilty. “Wow. You got me.” I pat my stomach. “Starving over here.”
She shakes her head, amused. “For the most organized girl I know, you really do have a talent for forgetting the important things.”
Grinning, I slip through the kitchen doors before she can ask any follow-up questions.
The kitchen is quiet, thank God. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see Josh behind the fryer. If Llewellen were here, I’d be answering questions until next week.
“Hey, Josh. Just making a quick snack.”
He grunts to acknowledge that he heard me. I grab an apron and get to work.
Country fried steak—double fried. Extra mash. Extra gravy. A side of broccoli that has absolutely no business being called a vegetable anymore with the amount of butter I’m about to add.
Perfect.
I pack it up carefully, sealing the container like it’s precious cargo. It is. If this doesn’t work, nothing will. I grab the bag, ditch the apron, and head straight for the print/custom frame/office/wire transfer/money order/custom pet tag store.
The bell jingles as I step into the store.
The owner looks up from behind the counter, glasses halfway down his nose. “Shelly.”
“Hi Paul!” I chirp, setting the insulated bag down like I’m not about to change the trajectory of his business decisions.
We exchange about three seconds of polite small talk before I lean against the counter.
“So… how’s business on Sundays?”
He blows out a breath.
Oh, this is going to be easy.
“Slow,” he says. “Real slow. I’ve actually been thinking of just closing on Sundays altogether.”
I gasp loudly, possibly a touch dramatically. “No.”
He blinks at me.
“You can’t do that,” I say, lowering my voice like we’re discussing something deeply serious. “People rely on you.”
He frowns. “They do?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “You are the only specialist store in this town.”
Pause.
“That’s not even an exaggeration.”
He considers that. Hook set.
“But if no one’s coming in…” he starts.
“Then you’re not giving them a reason to,” I cut in smoothly.
He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”
I lean my elbows on the counter like I do this sort of thing all the time.
“Happy hour.”
He stares at me.
“For printing?”
“Yes.”
His face does a full reset.
“Think about it,” I continue, warming up now. “Limited-time deals. Three to five on Sundays. You create urgency, people come in, they bring things they’ve been putting off. Frames, printing, whatever else you do in this…” I gesture broadly, “…multi-purpose empire.”
His mouth twitches and I hold my breath.
“Three to five?” he repeats.
“Three to five,” I confirm. “After church, before dinner. You catch them right in the middle of the day when they’re already out.”
He crosses his arms, thinking. I wait and don’t push, which isn’t easy for me. I need for him to feel like it’s his idea.
“That could actually work,” he says slowly.
“It will work,” I say, with absolute confidence I have not earned.
He studies me for a second, then nods. “All right. I’ll try it.”
Victory.
He points at me. “I owe you one.”
Oh.
Oh, he really shouldn’t have said that.
I smile sweetly. “Funny you should mention that…”
He narrows his eyes slightly.
Good instincts.
“So,” I say, leaning in like we’re about to discuss something confidential, “if you happen to see someone come in… tall, like properly tall, broad shoulders, camera permanently attached to his hand like it’s an extra limb…”
He blinks and I take this as my cue to keep going.
“Dark hair, a little messy but in a way that feels intentional, like he woke up and still somehow looks better than the rest of us who actually try…”
His expression turns cautious. Should I keep going? I might be losing him, but I can’t stop now, can I? What would Herman think?
“And he has that whole broody, mysterious, tragic-backstory-but-won’t-talk-about-it vibe?—”
“Shelly.”
“And he looks like he belongs in a black-and-white photo more than real life?—”
“Shelly.”
I stop. “What?”
He stares at me. “That’s… very specific.”
I nod. “I like details.”
He exhales slowly. “And what, exactly, am I supposed to do if this very specific man walks in?”
“Simple,” I say brightly. “You tell him he’s the ten-thousandth customer of the year.”
He frowns. “I don’t track customers like that.”
“Details.” I wave my hand dismissively. “Unimportant.”
He continues to frown. “And then?”
“And then,” I say, like this is completely normal, “you tell him he’s won a prize.”
“Shelly.”
“A tandem bike.”
Silence.
He just… stares at me.
“I don’t have a tandem bike,” he says slowly.
“You’re in luck,” I reply without missing a beat. “I do.”
He shakes his head. “Why would anyone want a tandem bike?”
“Because,” I say, already pivoting, “it’s a birthday gift.”
“For?”
“My friend.”
He narrows his eyes. “Which one?”
I don’t even hesitate. “The one that’s impossible to shop for.”
Technically not a lie. He still looks suspicious, which is fair. I slide the insulated bag toward him.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“Open it.”
When he does, his entire face changes.
“That’s—”
“Country fried steak,” I say, calm and composed. “Double fried. Extra mash. Extra gravy. And broccoli with enough butter to make a cardiologist nervous.”
“That’s exactly how I order it.”
“I know. I also packed some cutlery.”
Another pause, longer this time.
“You’re manipulating me,” he says.
“I prefer the term influencing,” I correct.
He huffs a laugh despite himself and takes a bite, closes his eyes. And that’s it. I’ve won.
“All right,” he says around a mouthful. “I’ll do it.”
“Wonderful!” I clap my hands once. “I’ll drop the bike off Sunday morning.”
He nods, still chewing, already halfway gone to another plane of existence thanks to gravy.
I lean casually on the counter. “Since we’re doing this… do you want help drafting that email?”
He gestures vaguely with his fork. “Mm—yeah. That’d be—mm—good.”
“Perfect,” I say, moving behind the counter. “Let’s make this official.”
He’s halfway through the meal, fully committed, when I slide the keyboard a little closer.
“Okay,” I say, finishing up the last line of the email. “That should do it.”
Perfect. Time for phase three. I pull out my phone and hit call.
Dannica answers on the second ring. “Hey.”
“Hi! Quick favor?”
A pause. “Why does that sound like it’s going to inconvenience me?”
“Wow. The lack of trust.”
“Shelly.”
“Okay, rude but fair. I need to have a poster printed, but it’s only going to be ready during your shift on Sunday. Can you pick it up for me between three and five?”
“Why that specific timeframe?”
I glance at the screen, finger hovering over the send button.
“Because of the happy hour special,” I say casually. “Three to five.”
“There’s a happy hour special?”
I blink at the screen like she can see me. “Yeah,” I say. “I got an email about it earlier.”
I hit send and wait. “Oh,” Dannica says. “Wait?—”
I hold my breath.
“I think I just got it.”
I smile. “See?”
She huffs lightly. “Fine. I’ll pick it up.”
“You’re the best,” I say sweetly. “I owe you.”
“You already owe me,” she mutters.
“Details.”
I hang up before she can ask anything else and glance over at the shop owner, who’s still eating like the world might end if he slows down.
Email sent.
Bike in progress.
Pickup arranged.
Everything is moving exactly as it should.
I pull out my phone because, clearly, I’m doing great decision-making today. I open my browser and type:
how to damage a bike so it still works for ten minutes
I stare at the screen.
Then add:
hypothetically