Chapter 31 #2
“I showed up at the diner, weary and not sure I wanted to go on. Mari fed me, forced me to stay in the apartment above the diner, and kept offering me a job until I took it. Been here ever since.”
I want to ask more questions, but I think better of it. More like, my own emotions are much too close to spilling over to carry on conversation. My mind goes back to the dark days after Mom died. To listening with my ear pressed to Tank’s door, hoping for a sound other than sobbing.
To fixing everyone frozen pizza or mac and cheese from a box.
Breaking up fights between Collin and Pat.
Tucking Harper into bed. Waking up when she had nightmares and holding her until she stopped crying.
Washing clothes and dishes and making sure everyone had on pants without holes or stains when we caught the bus for school.
Grief has a long memory, and a way of leaping up to surprise you. I always miss Mom on holidays. She’s been on my mind a lot more since my talk with Dad. I love the sense of togetherness of Sheet Cake. It’s a good thing to include people who wouldn’t have family or a celebration.
But at the same time, I hate how we’re giving up our Graham family traditions for people I barely know.
Mo tips his head toward the back of the van where a lively discussion about compression socks sounds like it’s about to turn into a full-on brawl. “Stay long enough, and it’ll be you too.”
That, I don’t know about. But I don’t have much time to consider because someone in the back calls, “Settle a debate for us, big fella. Boxers or briefs?”
* * *
The knot of tension in my chest has tightened into a solid mass by the time Big Mo and I finish collecting various older folks and those with limited mobility from around town. It’s been about three hours, but knowing Winnie, anything could happen in that time.
A fact highlighted by the giant Dark Horse banner featuring Winnie’s final logo concept hanging out in front as we pull up to the curb.
I narrow my eyes. Winnie couldn’t have whipped that up today, since it’s professionally printed.
Which means she’s been working on this and who knows what else without asking me.
The idea comes with a sharp pinch of discomfort.
The sign looks great. Be thankful not irritated , I tell myself. But I don’t like details out of my control, much less out of my knowledge. I really hate secrets and surprises, especially when it comes to things like my own business, where there should be zero surprises, even good ones.
“You coming?” Big Mo asks, and I realize I’m frozen in my seat, staring at the sign and what lies beyond.
There is a flurry of activity and people, way more than I thought would be here—and that’s not including those we need to help off the van.
I climb out, taking in everything I can at a glance.
I see folding tables, portable space heaters, and twinkling lights strung across the courtyard outside of the main building.
It’s hard to breathe. Somewhere, under the rising sense of panic, there’s a sliver of excitement, humming like a live wire. This is a tiny foreshadow of things to come, of what this place could be.
What it will be , I mentally amend. Tank and Wolf Waters appear at the shuttle steps helping folks out of the van. I stop just inside the gate to take in the full effect.
Tables are set up for at least fifty, maybe closer to seventy-five.
There are candles and tablecloths and pitchers of water and mason jars of what I’d guess is Judge Judie’s moonshine.
Collin is tossing a football with some kids.
There are a dozen or so dogs running around underfoot, and a loud hum of conversation and laughter as the tables fill up.
The Bobs, who apparently moonlight as a bluegrass band when they’re not obsessing over the high school football team, are setting up drums on a makeshift stage.
Dark Horse feels very alive. The air practically vibrates with joy and anticipation. My insides feel like they’re vibrating with exactly the opposite emotions.
I spot Winnie, floating between tables, calling out hellos as well as orders, pointing to where platters of food can go while stopping one of the dogs from eating a stick of butter right off a dish on the table.
She’s glowing brighter than all the twinkling lights, an easy smile on her face and a radiant energy practically following her in a cloud.
My heart shudders once, then struggles to find its rhythm, like a half-capsized boat wobbling its way back to upright. Winnie is so incredibly, indescribably beautiful—totally in her element. This is her JAM.
But it is not mine. Not even a little bit.
Nope. I’m ready to run, where she looks ready to grow roots.
“Can you give us a hand, James?” Big Mo passes me, an elderly woman on each arm, and I head back to the shuttle, clenching and unclenching my jaw.
I help a white-haired woman off the shuttle, trying not to flinch at her touch as she wraps her hand around my arm.
“Well, isn’t this lovely,” she says as we shuffle through the gates, and all I can manage around the knot in my throat is a grunt. I think she said her name is June, but my mind is stuck in January.
That’s when I’m supposed to have this place at least in some semblance of working order, even if not fully operational.
The Sheet Cake Festival brings thousands to this town, and Tank wants at least a half dozen shops and restaurants up and running, even some of the lofts to show people what this place could be.
More people. More activity. More noise.
“You all right there, big fella?” June eyes me with an assessing gaze behind her thick glasses.
“Yep.”
She harrumphs and looks ready to press me for more when Winnie appears suddenly. Just the sight of her makes the tension let up a tiny fraction of a bit. Then I see the light in her eyes, a massive contrast to the dark cloud pouring rain over my head, and my shoulders tense.
“Don’t mind him.” Winnie helps June into one of the folding chairs. “He’s a man of single syllables.”
“Don’t need words when you've got a body like that,” June says.
“Agreed.” Winnie gives me a smile I wish I could return and loops her arm through mine. Leaning close, she says, “Come with me for a sec. I need your help with something.”
I don’t fight as Winnie drags me toward the building. Each time a person stops her to say hello or ask a question, it’s like a kick to my gut. My mouth is desert-dry by the time we make it into the building.
More lights are strung across the ceiling here, and a series of folding tables have been set up with the food.
There are several turkeys, Tank’s brisket, and a whole platter of sausages along with multiple dishes of potatoes, rolls, and the green bean casserole I made earlier, slightly singed on top.
My stomach rumbles at the smell, but I’m not really hungry. Instead, I feel shaky and sick.
We reach a storage closet, the only one with a chair. Winnie pushes me down into it and closes the door, leaning her back against it.
The room is dim, lit only by the afternoon light coming through the dirty window. The room feels too small, too hot. I shrug off my jacket and toss it over the back of my chair.
Memories of making out with Winnie in this room yesterday shoot to the front of my mind, then fade under the weight of my overwhelm.
Winnie studies my face with a look of concern.
“Why are we here?” I bite out, my voice rougher than I mean for it to be.
Winnie doesn’t flinch at my tone. “You looked like you could use a breather.”
My shoulders loosen a little. But only a little. Winnie reads me like she wrote the manual. Right now, though, I’m not sure I want to be read.
“There are a lot of people.” I don’t mean to sound accusing, but it slips into my tone.
“I may have downplayed it a little.” Winnie’s mouth tilts up in a small smile. “I know this probably wasn’t an easy yes for you, the King of No. But it’s a really nice thing for you to do for the town.”
I didn’t do it for the town .
I swallow those words down. It’s not the right time to discuss the feelings I have for Winnie. How they’ve grown wild as weeds and taken over my lawn. How earlier, I had the realization all those unfamiliar feelings might fall under the heading of one Very Big Feeling.
And then, after seeing her in the midst of everyone outside, a dark thread of doubt stitched its way through me.
I realize she’s waiting for my answer, so I nod.
“What do you think?” Winnie twists her hands, then seems to realize she’s doing it and balls her hands into fists.
I see a crack in Winnie’s tough shell, a breathy whisper of vulnerability.
I chew the inside of my cheek as I fumble for the right words.
On the one hand, what she managed to pull together in a few hours is almost impossible.
Dark Horse for the first time, feels like a real, living thing. More than a possibility.
But my worry speaks louder. Thinking of all the people outside leaves me feeling like I’ve stepped in a fire ant pile.
They’re swarming up my legs, preparing to bite.
I scratch at my arm. Is this even what I want—to work in a business filled with people?
I’ve known that’s what I’m creating, what I’m working toward.
But it was always a concept. An idea. Now, the all-too-real reality is right outside the doors, and I’m not sure it’s what I want.
Seeing all the people, getting a real picture of what this business will be like if it succeeds has me fearing success as much as failure.
I want to brew beer. Do I want all this ?
I really didn’t think through the logistics of having the tasting room being an extension of the brewing area.
It sounded like a great idea, something many breweries are doing to create that sense of authenticity, to let the patrons really get the full experience.
But now, I can imagine working at the tanks while just a half-dozen feet away, patrons drink beer while music plays and stools scrape over the concrete.
My hands tremble at the idea of adjusting temperature, checking valves, and filling kegs with an audience. It’s too late to change the layout now that the drains are in place and the plumbing and electrical has been set in place for the bar area.
The room is cool, but sweat prickles at my hairline and along my spine.
“James?”
More than a sliver of vulnerability colors Winnie’s eyes now. She’s genuinely worried, and knowing her, I bet she’s more concerned about how I’m doing than about receiving some kind of praise for a job well done.
The light that radiated so clearly from her outside has dimmed.
I did that. I put out Winnie’s light.
Guilt gnaws at me like a dog with a bone.
I sift through possible responses, trying to find one that’s accurate but also doesn’t broadcast all the volatile things brewing inside me.
I breathe deep, thinking of Mo’s words from our ride earlier.
How he lost his family, showed up in Sheet Cake, and was given a new lease on life.
How he volunteers to drive old folks to this event.
I know for a fact he baked no less than a dozen pies for today.
In contrast, I’m a big bunch of sour grapes. I am a claustrophobic man inside an airplane bathroom at cruising altitude. There is nowhere for me to go.
Seeing Winnie’s excitement, her vulnerability, her hope for this place, for me, makes it all worse. I may love her, but am I the kind of man she needs? Disappointing her doesn’t feel like a possibility; it feels like a sure thing. She’s betting on me, and the odds are five hundred to one.
I swallow and wrangle my lips into something like a tiny smile. “You pulled off the impossible, temp. Well done.”
My tone could use some work, but the words are true. I can say them, even if I don’t fee l them.
To be very clear, I definitely do NOT feel them.
And, as Winnie’s eyes brighten and she launches herself at me, wrapping her arms around and clinging to my body for a hug I probably need but definitely don’t want, I do my best to pretend here too. The act of running my hands up and down her back is just that—an act.
I’ve read about people having skin hunger—the need for more touch when there hasn’t been enough. I’ve got the opposite problem. Mine is skin overwhelm .
And if Winnie doesn’t step away from me soon, the hot, itchy feeling clawing its way up my spine is going to end in an eruption this woman in no way deserves.
Maybe she senses it, or maybe she just needs to get back outside, but Winnie lets go.
She pats my chest twice, then a few more times with an appreciative smile.
If she notices me tensing, she probably thinks I’m just flexing for her.
I’d prefer she think that than realize I’m an overfilled balloon about to burst.
“Stay in here as long as you need.” Winnie backs toward the door. “I’ve got things under control out there. Okay?”
I nod, not able to access words over the tornado siren that is my head. And then Winnie’s gone, leaving me alone, slumped over and breathing heavy in this tiny, airless room.