15. Annabelle
Annabelle
The next morning, I’m still thinking about the way Grant scared Luther Detro away before we could exchange two words.
It turns out that Grant was absolutely right.
I checked with Lia and June, and they both told me that Luther Detro is bad news.
But Grant was also absolutely wrong, because he should have let me find that out for myself.
I’m grown. I can have coffee with a man and decide if I like him.
I don’t need Grant vetting my dates for me.
Or maybe I do. Because I left my Escape parked at the curb in front of my building last night and this morning, it’s completely covered in snow.
Not snow that fell, snow that was dumped.
The plow came for me personally, picking up grimy, icy chunks and packing them against the sides of my SUV.
Snow covers the windows and I can barely see the roof.
How many passes did Luther have to make up and down the street to get that much snow?
I stand there in shock. My first thought is to look for Grant’s truck, to see how bad it is, but his truck is pristine, with nothing on it that didn’t come from the sky.
That’s when I lose it, yelling every curse word I can think of into the empty street.
I pace up and down the sidewalk, which is also clean.
Did Luther use that snow too? Now I’m even angrier.
Face hot. Blood boiling. Muscles tense. It’s coupled with the most frustrating helpless feeling.
There’s no one to punch. No one’s gonads I can kick.
I’m in this all alone. I don’t even have a shovel.
Traffic slows as people gawk at the spectacle of my car fully plowed in and my hysterical dance on the sidewalk.
Someone’s got her camera out, filming as she passes.
“Yeah?” I yell after her. “Keep looking!” I want to flip her the bird, but I can’t.
She’s got kids in the car, and they’re probably on their way to church.
Hot tears hit my cheeks and freeze on the corners of my eyes. Dammit, that stings, and now I’m angry at my own eyes. Fuck my life.
A red jeep does a U-turn in front of the building and then pulls into the side lot.
What now? I’m getting ready for another round of cursing, but my anger dies when I see that it’s Sophie.
She’s dressed for the weather in heavy overalls and a warm coat.
She pulls on thick gloves and gets two shovels out of the back of the jeep.
“I saw it this morning,” she calls. “Circled back home to get some shovels is all.” She hands me one and slaps me on the back. “Let’s go.”
“But…I…” I swipe at my eyes with a gloved hand. “It’s so much.”
“Just get started,” she says calmly. “I already called Lia and June. We’ll make it a group project.”
“I’m so pissed right now, Sophie. I’m going to explode.”
“Take it out on the snow.” She’s already moved two shovelfuls. “Digging helps.”
She’s right, of course. Standing here cursing and crying doesn’t get the job done. I start in the front, hoping we can clear enough snow for me to drive out. It’s hard, heavy work, and after six shovelfuls, I still can’t see my windshield.
I tell Sophie what happened last night. How Luther and I matched on Hinge—which I’m deleting today—and how Grant tried to intimidate him, and how it almost instantly worked, which was very odd at the time but now makes sense.
“Because Luther knew this would be his next move,” I say, gesturing to my poor Escape.
“But I don’t understand why he targeted my car and not Grant’s. ”
Sophie grunts and takes another shovelful of snow. “Because men like that always punch down.”
“Asshole,” I say.
“This is incredible.” Grant’s on the sidewalk, zipping his coat and tugging on gloves.
I lean on my shovel and glare at him.
“I’ve never seen anything like this.” He cranes his neck to look up and down the street. “Usually we wait days for a plow to get to Elk Street, and you got him here in twelve hours.”
I grip the handle of my shovel like I’m ringing someone’s neck. “Don’t talk to me unless you’re here to help.”
“Is this the part where I get to say I told you so?” he asks.
“Don’t be a jerk.” I fling a scoop of snow toward him. “I’m having a very bad day.”
“I know. Let me take care of this.” He gently takes my shovel, waits for me to step back, and starts scooping snow off the car’s front bumper. “And Sophie? You can call off the girl gang. I already talked to June, and you can tell Lia not to come. I’ve got this.”
“By yourself?” I screech. “My car will be here until spring.”
“Nah. Felix has a scoop on the front of his truck.”
Sophie’s head snaps up at the mention of Felix. “Welp, since you and your idiot brother have this under control…”
“Do they, though?” I ask Sophie.
She holds her shovel over her shoulder and takes the other one from Grant. “Annabelle would love to buy you a coffee as a thank you for taking care of this. Wouldn’t you, Annabelle?”
“No way. It’s his fault in the first place that—”
“I’d love a coffee,” Grant interrupts. “Thanks.”
“Let’s go.” Sophie links an arm through mine and pulls me toward her car, ignoring my protests. “We’ll meet you at The Lovey Dove,” Sophie calls to Grant before bundling me in and closing the door.
I fume as Sophie drives us five blocks to the bakery. But once we’re inside, the warmth thaws me a little. The line is long but it moves quickly. Soon we’re settled at a table with sweet lattes and buttery croissants.
“In the future, you should ask your friends before accepting any dates,” Sophie tells me. “You’re lucky Grant was there.”
“Yeah, so lucky that my car is currently buried under Mount Butthurt.” But as much as I’d love to blame Grant, I’m the idiot who made the date with an unvetted man. I look out at Cedar Street, its charm faded under weak winter sun. I guess I still have a lot to learn about small town living.
Twenty minutes later, Grant sails into the bakery, cheeks rosy, eyes bright. He throws himself into the seat across from me and shrugs out of his coat. “Done.”
“Thank you. And thank Felix.”
“I also took some pictures to send to the county,” Grant says. “Looks like our friend Luther will be out of a job again.”
I gasp. “Won’t that make him madder?”
“Nah. For a guy like that, getting fired feels normal.”
Sophie nudges me and tilts her head toward the counter. “What?” I ask.
“Aren’t you buying coffee?”
“I have coffee.” I pull my delicious vanilla latte closer.
“What about Grant?”
“Oh, um. Yeah. I suppose that was the deal.” I fish my wallet out of my bag.
“I’ve got it.” Grant is halfway out of his chair.
“No, no, sit. I should buy you a coffee.” I get a flash of last night in the parking lot, when Grant asked me out for coffee. What even was that? What even is this? “It’s the least I can do,” I say. “You were right. About everything.”
“I was what?”
“You were right.”
Grant touches his ear. “Come again?”
“You were right!” I say loud enough for everyone in the bakery to swivel in our direction. My cheeks heat as the buzz of conversation returns, and I wonder how much of it is about us.
Grant flings an arm over the back of his chair with a satisfied smile. “I could get used to that.”