Chapter Twenty-Nine
Nick nearly slammed Duncan’s hand in a car door.
Duncan stopped him, only because he shoved his shoulder in the way just before Nick could do something monumentally stupid, which would get him both fired and sued—if Duncan was the kind of guy to do those things, which he wasn’t.
Duncan would probably tell Nick to quit it with the long face and whack him good-naturedly with his hand cast.
But Duncan jammed his shoulder in the way before it could land on his hand. Then he sat up and gave Nick a look that was, in Nick’s opinion, not harsh enough.
“I said I was almost done with the seat,” Duncan said dryly.
Nick scrubbed his hands down his face. They were shaking, which was not ideal for a mechanic.
He kept getting distracted and zoning out at inopportune times.
He’d been double- and triple-checking every screw he tightened since he came back from his week of the flu, which nobody knew was rejection sickness except Jasper.
He was terrified he would accidentally send someone off with a car with tires that would roll off while speeding down the highway.
“Shit,” he said. “I’m sorry, man.”
Duncan was already shaking his head. He hauled himself up, wiping his hand on his overalls, which, at this point, had to be mostly chemicals and only partly denim.
“Look,” Duncan said. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”
“I’m feeling better,” Nick insisted. “Seriously.”
He pulled up a wan smile, hoping it distracted from the deep bags under his eyes. He’d stopped sweating, thank god, but the shaking that had started a few days back was stubbornly sticking around. Exhausted, distracted, nauseated—maybe Duncan should send him home.
“Not about that,” Duncan said, though he looked dubious. “Where do you see yourself in five years?”
Nick looked around the garage. It was empty. They had no customers waiting out front, and Wyatt had gone on an errand to fix his work boots while the shoe repair shop was open.
“Holy shit,” Nick said. “Are you firing me?”
Duncan snorted, mustache moving in the breeze. “Kid, you got a place here as long as you want it. I’m just . . . not sure you want it.”
Nick stared at him. The radio played over the speakers Nick convinced Duncan to put in ten years ago, hazy with static. Some old ballad about chasing your love.
Duncan toyed with the bands of his overalls, looking at anything but Nick. “I’m happy here. Wyatt’s happy. It’s not fancy work, but we like it.”
“I like it,” Nick said.
“I know. You like it enough.” Duncan scratched his mouth, pulled his mustache, eyes still going everywhere but him. Not because he was bad at eye contact; he was actually quite good at it. But he knew how much it spooked Nick. “Can’t help thinking you want more than enough.”
Nick laughed stiffly. “What’s more? Duncan, I like it here. I do. When you two aren’t pissing me off.”
Duncan nodded. Nick could see how much he wanted to end the conversion there, and how much he wasn’t going to do that. Duncan, damn him, was always the one to start hard conversations.
“Never thought about trying anything else?”
“Like what?” Nick rubbed his sweaty palms on his work shirt. At some point, Duncan was going to look at him and it was going to wreck him. “What do you want me to do, Duncan? Go work at the tourist center? Serve food at Cozy Grotto? What are you saying?”
“I’m not saying. I’m asking. What do you want to be doing in ten years? Forget work,” he said as Nick opened his mouth. “What do you want?”
Nick cringed. Duncan had asked him this same question when he turned thirty. He’d hoped he could cross that off his list for another ten years. It was two weeks after he met Vi for the first time, and he was still deep in the humiliation of that barbecue.
“I . . .” Nick said. He couldn’t think of a joke. Why couldn’t he think of a joke? Worst came to worst, he’d say something serious but make it sound sarcastic. “Come on, Duncan. You know I don’t think ahead.”
“Well, try. If you wanna be here, we’re happy to have you. If it’s not here, I’m still happy.” Finally, the kicker: Duncan looked up, gray eyes drilling steadily into Nick’s. “You can go away and come back, y’know. Try something new. See if it sticks.”
Nick shrugged. The sweat was coming back, sticking his shirt to his back.
Duncan bent his head, chasing eye contact as Nick squirmed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah! Yeah.” Nick scratched his empty fingers, wishing he didn’t have to take his rings off for the job. “I’ll think about it.”
* * *
When Nick went home, he did something entirely unexpected:
First, he made a peach cobbler. And second, while the peach cobbler was browning in the oven, he lay down on the kitchen floor, cheek pressed to the cool wood, and wondered where he wanted to be in five years.
What he wanted to do. His future still looked like a long, boring chasm of sameness, but if he squinted, he could make out vague shapes.
Friends. Community. Birthday parties. Quiz nights and charity and barbecues on the weekends.
All those things he’d started gaining in the past few months thanks to Vi and book club; everything he was recently convinced was over.
Maybe he couldn’t have all of it—a huge part of what he wanted was relying on Vi wanting him back—but he could have some of it.
He’d always assumed he would spend the rest of his life at the garage.
Not a bad life, but not a very fun one, either.
The idea of leaving and then coming back years later was a new one, and it appealed to him.
He had a safety net, something comfortable waiting for him if he slipped off his new path. Now he just needed a new path.
The timer dinged.
Nick got up, sliding on his oven mitts. He’d thrown the rest of Vi’s cobbler out ages ago. It was a waste, one spoonful eaten and the rest in the trash, but looking at it made his stomach turn. He was relieved to find this peach cobbler didn’t have the same effect.
There was a strange thump at the front door. It didn’t sound like a knock. It sounded like someone had thrown something at the door.
Nick paused, cobbler in his mitt-clad hands. Another dull thump.
“Alright,” Nick called, putting the cobbler down on the stovetop. “Don’t chip the paint.”
He ran to the front door, opening it just in time to dodge a decently sized rock.
“About time,” yelled Chester from his wheelchair, sitting on the path below the porch. “I was out of rocks. Where’s your ramp? What if a mer wants to come around?”
“It’s getting repaired,” Nick said guiltily. It had been getting repaired for over a year now. “What are you doing here?”
“Heard you aren’t doing book club anymore. Aren’t doing much of anything anymore, actually.”
“I’ve been sick.”
Chester eyed him suspiciously. “This is more than that. Hiding yourself away—that doesn’t sound like you.”
Nick let out a startled laugh. He couldn’t help it. “Yes, it goddamn does! You just don’t know me that well, old man.”
Chester snorted, claws tapping the plastic wheel guards.
He looked awkward in the wheelchair, like he hadn’t quite gotten used to it.
How had he even made it here? Someone must’ve driven him.
The seat folded upward enough to fit in a back seat, something Nick learned when Chester goaded him into taking him for a ride through the park last month.
Chester had gotten into an argument with a passing mom about whether squirrels had emotions—winner: the mom. Squirrels had emotions.
“I know you well enough,” Chester said. “You don’t discuss books with someone as much as we have and not learn a thing or two about them. You, you young, idiotic orc, are trying to change. A noble thing to do.”
Nick had never been called noble unironically before. His knee-jerk reaction was uncomfortable mumbling, immediately followed by a joke. He didn’t even get one word into it before Chester cut him off.
“Quit wallowing, you dolt. You tried it for years. Did it make you happy? Did any of it?”
Nick mumbled some more, twisting his rings wildly around his fingers. He didn’t think he’d revealed much about his life to Chester, but now he had a sinking feeling the old bastard picked up on things Nick preferred not to broadcast.
“I was like you,” Chester continued. “Didn’t want anything to do with anybody. Thank god I had good friends who dragged me out of my own ass. Dragged me into life. Who knows how things will go with you? But you can’t start hiding again. The world is better with you in it.”
Two gut-punching conversations in one day was enough for Nick. He cleared his throat, hoping Chester didn’t notice how rough his voice was.
“You done, old man?”
“Depends.” Chester huffed. “Are you gonna stop being an idiot? Because I can find more rocks.”
“Maybe,” Nick said. He swallowed, thinking about the peach cobbler cooling on the stovetop. About the hazy shapes floating in the dark stretch of his future, waiting to materialize if Nick started walking toward them. He needed to tell Vi. Let her reject him properly, or . . .
When he looked back up, Chester was scrutinizing him. What was wrong with Nick that made all these old monsters want to give Nick life advice today?
He asked, “Can I help you get anywhere?”
“Wheel me back to the car,” Chester answered. “And help lift me in. Triss did it the first time and it took forever. Would’ve been easier with a strong young orc to help us out.”
He could’ve gotten Triss to walk up the porch, Nick realized. Could’ve gotten her to knock. And he chose to throw shit at my door instead.
“You got it,” Nick said, unable to keep the smile off his face as he climbed down the porch steps.
* * *
That evening, Nick rode to Sweethelm Books with a backpack full of peach cobbler, a barely roiling stomach, and a heart full of cautious hope.
Maybe he didn’t have to burn down his life because of one stupid mistake.
Maybe he could have nice things, be a nice thing, help Rosie grab peanut butter from tall shelves and watch Suze’s kids while she got her claws filed and pick up the quiz nights again.
Maybe he could do that even if his mate rejected him.
Maybe she wouldn’t reject him. Maybe she’d want to see where things went.
He repeated his lines to himself as he walked down the snowy Main Street just before closing time: Hi, Vi. Could we talk? I wanted to ask if I can be in the book club again. Also, you’re my mate. I know I should’ve told you earlier—
Vi’s laugh froze his thoughts in his head. He turned, helmet in one hand and backpack in the other.
Vi was on the stoop, in the middle of closing the door. Her hair was perfectly put together, her button-down tucked neatly into her billowing skirt. She was smiling at Jared Wessen, who was standing . . . very close.
Nick blinked, the hope in his heart solidifying to stone.
It wasn’t the hand on Jared’s arm. It wasn’t how close they were standing. It was the way their bodies turned into each other, attentive and, if not entirely open, then getting there.
Nick turned the laugh over in his mind. Was it real? It was short, but that didn’t mean it was fake. He cursed himself for not paying more attention earlier.
Vi went to close the bookshop door. Then, for reasons Nick didn’t understand, she hesitated. Then she turned and looked straight at him.
Nick stared back at her. He knew he should do something—nod or wave or even smile like a normal person—but he couldn’t do any of it. He just stood there, clutching his backpack straps, the warmth of the peach cobbler drifting through the worn material.
Vi’s hand flexed around the door handle.
The door was still open. Which shouldn’t have mattered—the door was always open.
It opened and closed a hundred times a day, locals and tourists alike streaming in through the welcoming door to check out the books and, of course, the most charming cat in town.
But tonight, the door being open did matter. Because that aforementioned cat did something he had never done since he was a kitten: He streaked past Vi’s motionless legs and into the cold street.
For a moment, neither Vi nor Nick moved. They simply stood there, gaping at the famous indoor cat running outside for the first time in years.
Mosey meowed loudly, wings flaring as he jogged into the road. For a moment it looked like he was running toward Nick. Even despite his panic, it warmed Nick’s heart. The little guy had missed him so much, he’d run out of his bookshop?
Then reality set in. A car screeched to a stop in front of Mosey, who yowled and took off. Not toward Nick this time, but into an alleyway and out of sight.
“Oh,” Nick said weakly. “Shit.”