13. Chapter 13 #2
I don’t hit send, though. I lie back on the bed, my legs dangling off the side, gravity tugging me toward the middle of it.
I really do need new mattresses.
“I guess they’ll have to go in the entryway. That’s going to be such a pain.”
“Or we could move the truck ourselves.”
I lift my head so I can see his face when I give him my own straight line of disapproval.
“It doesn’t run.”
“It doesn’t have to run.”
“Push it ourselves? That’s a terrible idea.”
He shrugs and then puts his hands in his pockets, and I flop my head back on the mattress, feeling defeated.
It’s quiet while I stare at the ceiling, trying to think of what else we could do.
“How would we even do it?” I ask.
“Put it in neutral and push it to a spot on Main Street,” he says.
I lift my head again. “That’s it? That’s the whole plan?”
“It’s a flat street.”
“No,” I say. “We’re not doing that.”
“Okay,” he says.
It’s silent again.
I let out a breath. It’s not a terrible idea. If we move the truck onto the street, it’ll make it easier for Hal to come get it. I’d be doing him a favor. Sort of.
“Fine,” I say.
“Fine?”
I sit up too fast, and my head spins for a second.
“Let’s move the truck,” I say.
His lips pull up at the corners, giving me his signature smile. The one without teeth. Dean really does smile a lot; I just never gave him credit for them.
But this one is tinged with something else. Something like mischief. Like if Dean had a tiny little mustache, he’d be twirling the ends of it with his finger.
“Come on,” he says, grabbing me by the hand and pulling me off the bed.
“Dean, we shouldn’t be doing this,” I say as we get ready to push the old blue truck out of the garage, running shoes and jackets on.
“Probably not,” he says.
The plan is to put the truck in neutral, roll it down the driveway, and park it somewhere along Main Street. I’ll steer while Dean pushes.
It’s a stupid plan. But the truth is it really would be a pain to have those tables in my front entry. However, that’s not stopping me from feeling bad about doing this.
I climb into the driver’s seat while Dean goes around to the back of the truck. The cab smells like sunbaked vinyl, stale air, and whatever old trucks collect after sitting untouched for years.
The keys were sitting on the seat when we first checked it out, but apparently we don’t even need them. The truck shifts into neutral easily enough.
“Keep your foot on the brake until I tell you,” he calls from behind me.
“I don’t like this,” I loud-whisper through the open window, which I had to manually roll down. I feel like I need to voice it one more time before we go through with it.
“I know,” he says. “Ready?”
“No.”
“Rosie.”
“Okay, fine.”
“Take your foot off the brake.”
I do, and he starts pushing. It takes some effort, but the truck begins to roll. The steering wheel barely wants to move beneath my hands. Either this thing doesn’t have power steering, or it only works when the engine does.
But once we get going, it seems pretty easy. When we reach the curb, I hit the brake, stopping the truck.
“What’s wrong?” Dean asks, and I gesture for him to come up to the window.
“Do you think we could push this thing to Hal’s house? It’s only two streets over. Flat all the way.”
Dean shrugs. “Yeah, we could do that if you want.”
“I’ll feel better if we just bring it to his house.”
He’s quiet for a second. Then he gives me a nod. “Okay,” he says. “Wait for me to tell you to take your foot off the brake.” Then he jogs around to the rear of the truck.
“Go,” I hear him say.
And that’s how I ended up driving a dead truck down Main Street.
There isn’t another car in sight, and we keep our pace slow. By the time we reach his house, Dean is breathing hard.
We debate briefly whether we should push it all the way up Hal’s long driveway but decide to leave it parked at the curb. Once we’ve wrestled it into place, I shift it back into park and pull the parking brake as hard as I can.
Dean comes up to the door and holds it open for me, and I put the keys in the glove box before climbing out.
“Nice work,” he says, giving me a bigger smile than his usual standard one.
“You too,” I say.
I think the adrenaline of moving this thing was keeping me going, because now that we’re here and it’s done, I’m feeling guilty about it.
“What if Hal’s mad?” I ask, my stomach doing a little flip.
Dean wipes his hands on his jeans. “He might be.”
Very comforting.
“You needed the garage,” he says, “and now you’ve got the garage.”
“I probably should send him a text, though,” I say, pulling my phone out of my back pocket.
I write a shorter note than my first one, letting him know how sorry I am for returning his truck, but that we took really good care of it, and that I hope this doesn’t inconvenience him. There were lots of emojis and exclamation points.
“Will you make sure this sounds okay before I send it?” I hand the phone to Dean.
He reads it, brows furrowed. “Mind if I make a couple of changes?”
“Oh, yeah, thanks. My grammar is atrocious.”
He runs his thumbs lightly over the keyboard and then hands it back to me.
I look down at my screen.
Me: Needed the garage. Truck’s in front of your house, keys in the glove box.
“Dean,” I say, appalled but also laughing as I hold up my screen.
“You don’t owe him any explanation.”
I sigh. He’s probably right, even if it makes me feel itchy again. Hal’s been borrowing my garage. Why am I making this so hard on myself?
“I’ll add a little heart at the end, so it sounds nicer.”
“Good plan.”
I press send, and we start walking back toward the inn.
Somewhere around the corner from Hal’s place, the itchy feeling stops.
Something else shows up in its place, and I don’t know what to call it. My shoulders have come down from wherever they’ve been hanging out since I got the text from Pam.
I have a garage again. Tomorrow morning a truck is going to pull up with a pile of tables on it, and I am going to know exactly where they go.
Weird.
“The moon is so bright tonight,” I say to Dean as we stroll, my hands going into the pockets of my jacket. It’s chilly out, but not unbearably so. “It would be a great night to go up to the Ridge.”
“Where’s the Ridge?”
I stop in my tracks. “It’s the highest point of the town. You can practically see to Burlington from there. Have you never been?”
He shakes his head. “My grandparents didn’t take me, that I can remember anyway.”
“I’ve kept you from enjoying the town,” I say, still feeling remnants of guilt about Hal’s truck—and now about how much time Dean has spent working on the inn instead of seeing anything Autumn Ridge has to offer.
Which, to be fair, is not a ton. But still, he’s been cooped up in princess-themed rooms, finishing floors and painting walls. Not taking in the town at all, except for his runs.
“You haven’t kept me from anything,” he says. “I wanted to help.”
“Why?” I ask him.