Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Town
Ten minutes later, Brooks found me sitting on a bench outside the bank trying to forget about my shame. But I was wearing my shame. Literally. Because it was all over the front of my shirt.
He slid onto the bench next to me.
“I didn’t mean to overstep,” he said, shattering the tense silence. “I just wanted to help.”
“I don’t want to be taken care of.” My tone was soft, but firm. “My friends have always . . . coddled me. And in the past, I’ve let them. But it’s time I stand on my own. I have to be independent.”
I finally summoned the strength to look at him.
He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Freckles. I’m an older brother. A fixer by nature. It’s what I did for the club. I fixed things.”
I frowned. “Club?”
“I used to be in a motorcycle club. Archer, too.”
“Oh.”
The ink stamped across his skin. An ex-con who’d once been in a motorcycle club. The film of Brooks was slowly developing.
I wanted to ask a dozen questions. About his past. Why he wasn’t in the club anymore. His time in prison.
But I had enough problems on my plate without adding a heaping scoop of bad boy to it.
Even though I was attracted to him. Even though I liked being around him. Even though he made me want to throw out my new-fangled declaration of independence.
That was the danger.
Because it would be so easy to fall into the same old patterns.
Brooks’ phone chimed with a text.
Saved by the bell.
He pulled out his phone and looked at the screen. “It’s Milton. Ready to go see him?”
I glanced down at my shirt. “Can I change first?”
“Sure thing.” He looked at me, whiskey eyes earnest. “Forgive me, Freckles?”
I took a deep breath and steeled my spine. “Yeah, Beanstalk. I forgive you.”
The owner of Sandusky’s Auto Repair Shop looked like a balding owl with his squat body and tuft of hair on top of his head.
“Two thousand dollars!” I shouted.
Milton peered at me and nodded.
“Two thousand dollars,” I repeated, forcing myself to take a calming tone.
He chewed on his cinnamon toothpick. “Yep.”
“How about eighteen hundred?”
“Two thousand.”
“How about sixteen hundred?” I asked with what I hoped was a winning smile.
“Two thousand.”
“Come on, this is a small town! Haggle with me.”
“Okay. Two thousand dollars.”
“If I cry will you knock off fifty bucks?” I pleaded.
Brooks choked on his laugh.
Milton leaned forward. “I’ve got three daughters under the age of ten. I’m immune to tears. Two thousand dollars.”
My shoulders slumped. “Will you excuse me just a second?”
“Sure thing,” Milton said, tonguing the cinnamon toothpick to the other side of his mouth.
I looked at Brooks. “Don’t follow me.”
He frowned. “Okay.”
I rushed out of the lobby of the auto repair shop and went around to the side of the building and heaved up my insides.
You should never eat breakfast before going to an auto repair shop and finding out the cost of damage to your rental car.
Why hadn’t I gotten insurance on the dang thing? Because I’d been trying to save a couple of bucks. And now I owed two grand.
Pay now or pay later.
I wiped my mouth and stood. When I turned, Brooks was there, holding out a bottle of water.
“I told you not to follow me,” I snapped.
“Drink,” he commanded.
With a sigh, I grasped the water bottle and took a swig, rinsing my mouth out before spitting.
“God, I’m so embarrassed,” I muttered. “Did you see me throw up?”
“No. Heard it, though. As did the two mechanics in the garage. The gate was open.”
“Oh, God, why did you tell me that?” I pushed the bridge of my glasses up my nose. “Brooks, I don’t have two thousand dollars. That’s it then—I’ll have to call my grandfather and tell him I quit my job and that I need to borrow money.”
“Wait . . . he doesn’t know you quit?”
“He doesn’t even know I’m in Huckleberry Hill.”
“Why not?”
“Maybe because I was too ashamed to tell him? Plus, he’s having the time of his life right now.
He’s living it up in England, drinking pints of ale in taverns, talking history with anyone that will listen.
What am I supposed to do—ruin his trip? I don’t need to give him something to worry about.
I don’t want him to rush home thinking he needs to save me.
He’s waited his whole life for this trip.
I’m not going to be the reason he comes home early. ”
“So, what are your options?” he asked.
“Sell a kidney.”
“Right. Okay—let’s start with something less invasive than that.”
“I could put it on my credit card . . . with a really high interest rate and no job to pay it off.”
“Keep going.”
“Sell feet pics. I have cute toes.”
“Poet,” he snapped.
“I could ask my friends. Hadley and Salem are rich—they wouldn’t even miss the money. But . . . independence.”
“Asking for help has nothing to do with independence.”
“Fine. This is pride we’re talking about. My pride. Not that I have much left of it anyway.” When he remained silent, I let out an embarrassed laugh. “You’re going to make me ask you, aren’t you?”
“Ask me for what?”
“The money. To fix the car.”
“No, I’m not going to make you ask. You need the money? I’ve got the money. I can take care of it.”
“You sure?”
“Wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t sure, Freckles.”
“I’ll pay you back. I swear I will.”
“Okay,” he said easily.
“I mean it,” I insisted. “I’m going to pay you back.”
“Whatever you tell yourself.” He shrugged.
“This doesn’t count,” I said.
“What doesn’t?”
“Me asking for help. Because you were going to offer it all along, weren’t you?”
“God, the mental gymnastics,” he muttered.
“We met not even twenty-four hours ago, and you’re loaning me two grand. That’s nuts. Why would you do it? And don’t give me the excuse that it’s because you’re a fixer.”
“Because I like you, Poet. I like you a lot.”
I liked him too. He made desire dance along my skin. He made the noise in my head not seem as loud. He made me feel—
“I don’t want you to make this a habit,” I stated.
“A habit of what?”
“Rescuing me. First from the ditch and now from this financial crisis I got myself into because I should’ve gotten insurance, but I went the bare minimum to save money. See how well that worked out?”
“You’re babbling again,” he said with amusement.
“Brooks?”
“Yeah?”
I paused. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
I stood there for a moment and then asked, “Do you really think Milton has three daughters?”
“No,” he said. “If that man had daughters, there’s no way he’d actually be immune to crying.”
“I knew it,” I said with a sigh. “Hold on, let me see if I can muster up some saltwater.”
Brooks let out a laugh and then wrapped an arm around my shoulder, pulling me into his side. “He already knocked 100 bucks off the price tag.”
“Really? He was that afraid to see me cry?”
“Nah, he heard you puke.”