9
“No one's gonna buy this, mom. I mean, dating brothers?” I exhale the words as I thump another box of marketing materials into my back seat.
She waves off my concern, “That happens all the time, it’s logical. Same families, same looks, same values. Plus, Susan, you have the gift, like your father. Samantha too. You’re so passionate and articulate, so very likable. Whatever you’re selling, so to speak, anyone and everyone will line up to buy it.”
She beams at me. She fell for my dad as a tween, basically. They were neighbors and childhood best friends through school and college and, according to my dad, he was dumb and blind for most of that time.
To tell me I am like him is quite the compliment from her, I know. But I don’t return the smile.
“Give me something better to sell, at least! Going out to job sites is not exactly a fairytale.”
“I disagree. Forced proximity has sparked many a romance. Furthermore, it doesn’t really matter if people buy it,” she put the words in air quotes. “Does it? Because after this summer you’ll be together at school, seen together all the time, and then you’ll be engaged and finally married, whether people ever believed it was real or not.”
I grab a small box from her and add it to the pile. “Gosh, mom, thanks for sugar coating it.”
“I don’t sugar coat because this is your life, not a tiny ball of milk chocolate.”
“Unfortunately. I love tiny balls of chocolate.”
After a beat her smile falls. She studies me, choosing her words. “Listen. Give him a chance this summer, see if there could be anything romantic there, a metaphorical spark. Try for your father, for the business. But if Adam is cold, mean, or, God forbid, anything like his brother turned out to be— drugs, secrets, questionable consent—any of that, promise me you will call this off.”
My chin and my brows both snap up an inch. “What?”
“It will be hard on your father and grandfather, but it won’t be the end. It will be difficult for the staff and all the families, painful even, but we’ll rebuild somehow. This is your life, Susan. If he’s not a good man, you call it off. Promise me.”
“O-o-kay,” I stutter. My eyes burn as she pulls me in for a hug. I close my eyes and breathe her in, soft floral scents from her favorite lotion, warring with the bleach she uses to keep her lab coats pristine.
She pats my back and straightens. My family is not the best with feelings. Dad is an emotional basket case hidden underneath an old-school stoicism passed down from father to son for generations like a fifty-ton boulder. Hard to get out from under that.
Mom is…logical. She does have emotions and she’s not against showing them, but only for a moment. Then they’ve served their purpose and it’s time to move on, press forward, use our time wisely.
A Canton does not wallow.
But boy howdy, do I want to.
I don’t. I pack myself up and get in my car.
I feel like even my car is driving slower, resisting its own momentum all the way to Bell Construction’s main office. There the growly bear waits for me, probably already in his truck just sighing and grunting. My stomach twists at the thought of climbing back up in that cab, stuck for hours on end with him.
Forced proximity romance? Yeah, right. This is going to suck.
Called it.
There he is. Not sitting in his truck but standing outside it, leaning, waiting, grimacing. Again, he is remarkable against his contrasting surroundings. The towering building is reflections of silver and gunmetal, the parking lot around us is shades of gray and the truck is a cold shimmering black.
He’s all earthy tones.
Bronzed skin, dark brown hair that catches the light and a chiseled, curving outline of shoulders arms and abs, all popping against the backdrop in a white dry-fit company polo with jeans. He has on huge tan work boots. The boots are dirty, the jeans are worn. My eyes travel upward…he honestly has a hot fireman type of vibe almost…except, nope.
One look at his face ruins it.
It’s not the scowl.
It’s the absolute dread.
I can feel it radiating off of him from here. And, I mean, really? Where does he get off dreading time with me?
Am I the one who hates his family?
Am I the one who refuses to talk, sitting at that stupid banquet the other night like a statue? Not offering one helpful story, not even chiming in to agree with the flattery I was passing around to the hospital board like an hors d’oeuvres. Not even a nod here and there?
No, that was all him.
Yet he’s the one who looks like he’s headed to get his teeth cleaned during a colonoscopy. A cleanoscopy. About me!
Rude!
I’m beyond pissy as I park next to him, get out, and open my trunk. His mood matches mine as he starts moving boxes from my car to the bed of his truck. I don’t offer a greeting, he doesn’t offer me even a hint of eye contact. I grab a box from the back seat but he takes it from my hands.
I start to object, “I can—”
“This’ll be faster.” He puts it down, yanks the other three boxes from my back seat, loads them on top of each other, bends and lifts all four in one smooth movement.
My mouth falls open and I snap it shut, hoping he didn’t notice. Dang. Those were heavy boxes.
I blink the snapshot of his corded arms flexing in the sunlight out of my brain and turn to my passenger door.
“Ten boxes. Interior renderings,” I grab the tube of blueprints as I talk through my list. “Change of shoes, purse, phone charger.” I mumble the last item. Not that Adam is listening to me anyway. He’s already climbed in his truck, ready to go.
Okay then.
I close my car, beep it locked and join him. He starts the rumbling engine without a word, of course, and pulls down the shifter to put it in drive like the lever has offended him. I don’t mean to sigh audibly but it slips out and I steal a look to see him clench his jaw in response.
Here we go. Trapped. For hours.
At least there is music to break up the silence this time.
_____
“Okay, I can’t take it anymore!” I snap. “I thought this was better than silence, but I was wrong.”
He sighs.
“It’s not just the music, although, classic rock, bleh. It’s the commercials. Which all sound like, you guessed it, really bad parodies of more, worse classic rock. Why are all the commercials like that? If I hear one more cheesy fake electric guitar riff, I’m going to scream.”
He taps the big knob and turns the sound system off.
“Do you have an iPod? Some CDs?”
He scoffs as he pulls a CD sleeve off of his sun visor and hands it over to me. I can’t really read his expression, especially since all I get is his profile. He doesn’t deign to actually look all the way over at me.
“Oh,” I scoff too. Van Halen. The Eagles. ACDC. Rolling Stones. Aerosmith…I’ll bring my iPod next time.”
“And what’s on it?” He grunts out, already unimpressed with my tastes in music, it seems.
“He speaks!” I snark, much too loudly. Then because my brain can’t help itself I spout off the famous Frankenstein quote, “It’s alive, it’s aliiiiive!” The sound he makes in return could probably be described as a groan. This is going well.
“Sorry,” I start over at a normal volume. I smile at him, trying to offer an olive branch. “Um, I have a little bit of everything, but mostly country, pop, a few musicals.”
“Hm.”
I grab my printed trip itinerary and map from my purse. “Did you have a stop planned for gas? I was thinking maybe Alma, less congested than Fort Smith but still off I-40. It’s about halfway. I have the address here, you have a Garmin GPS thing, right?”
“No,” He says slowly.
“Isn’t that what that is?” I point at the little rectangle mounted on the dash.
“Yes. No, we won’t need gas.”
I frown. “Oh, well I’m going to need to stop. Um, I…you know.” Holy Toledo, Susan, it’s just pee! Everybody pees! Be less awkward!
Slowly and silently, as if handling a bomb, he pulls the Garmin off of the dash and hands it to me. I take it with two fingers, careful not to accidentally touch him. Still, I feel the heat radiating off the man as if he runs on rage and sweat.
Anyway.
I put the coordinates in the Garmin and then place it back in the holder as the British woman’s voice fills the cab.
“Navigating to ‘The Popeye Statue.’”
Finally the grizzly bear driving the truck actually turns his head to look at me, confusion twisting his forehead.
I can feel my face turning crimson as I explain with a lifted shoulder, “It came up on the map as a notable landmark when I was looking at the halfway point. Since we needed to stop anyway I thought it would be…fun? I mean, more fun than a plain ol’ gas station anyway. A stop is a stop, right? Are you one of those guys who hates stopping? Because maybe I could hold it, probably I—”
“It’s fine,” he cuts me off.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“Stop’s a stop,” he says quietly, sounding only slightly irritated. A pleasant upgrade. Maybe we can call a truce.
The truce lasts for about twenty minutes.
Once we pull off the highway, it becomes apparent that not all stops are created equal. The grunting and sighing to my left increases with every pothole, and they worsen as traffic lights turn to stop signs and huge gas stations turn into questionable one-pump pit stops.
Finally, we turn a corner with a clear sign with an arrow that reads Popeye Statue. I straighten up and lean forward, looking for the giant cartoon carved from stone.
But I don’t see it.
We turn and reach a parking lot. We’re going to have to get out and walk?
“Sorry, I’ll be quick.” I say, opening the truck door as soon as he shifts the gear into park. I almost fall over in surprise to see him climbing out as well. “You don’t have to—” But I cut myself off at the deadpan glare he gives me after his eyes sweep around us.
Okay, so this is not the safest area. But it’s mid morning, not the dead of night. People don’t get nabbed in broad daylight. Probably.
I just nod and turn to walk in the direction of the signs. There’s a winding well-kept little sidewalk but I don’t see any looming bronze sailors anywhere.
Until I do.
Adam just clears his throat.
He doesn’t have to say anything.
“I, uh, thought it would be bigger?” I squeak.
It’s three feet tall.
I took us off course and added at least thirty minutes to our trip. For a Popeye that’s shorter than me.
“Sorry,” I mumble to Adam, who has already turned and started back in the direction of the truck. When we hit the parking lot and I see the public restroom, I basically sprint to it. I pee the fastest pee that’s ever been peed, wash my hands and then take a scrap of paper towel from the broken dispenser with me. I wipe my hands as I jog across to the truck where he sits, waiting, engine already running.
I wipe and wipe, trying to absorb my embarrassment.
First I’m a Pollyanna Prude with Josh, now I’m a certified insane person with Bell Number Two, dragging us into the underbelly of Arkansas to see a weird, cracked, old, odd statue.
Notable landmark my ass! Ugh!
I close my eyes and decide to attempt to nap the last half of the trip. At one point I pull my suit jacket over me because temperatures dip below freezing. I don’t dare comment since last time I had the whole embarrassing armpit display. I vowed that night, during my Why Am I Like This Pre-Sleep Mental Review of The Day , to never comment on the air conditioning ever again.
As soon as I put the jacket over my shoulders, the air vents calm down. Did Adam notice? I didn’t hear him shift in his seat or tap any buttons. Coincidence then. Must be.
When we arrive at the shopping center, we both hop out and get to work.
And we work.
And work.
I check the store’s non-product inventory—shelving, registers, shopping carts, on and on, checklist after checklist. I work with the manager on assembling end cap displays. I set up “Coming Soon” window clings. I answer questions about the POS system and store layout.
I don’t look for Adam, but I do notice him. Hauling boxes, adjusting light fixtures, even on a scary-tall ladder messing with the huge air conditioning ducts at one point.
I’m surprised to see him inside our store at all. His half of the operation, the Bell Construction stuff, it’s the shopping center as a whole. The entire building. Canton Cards co-owns the land and the commercial structure, and we are also one of the tenants. But Adam has plenty of other tenants to see while we’re here.
On a quick run to his truck out back, I notice him again, this time with his hard hat on. He’s walking slowly with one of the business owners a few doors down. That guy also has a hard hat and is holding some metal bars I don’t recognize. Adam’s holding the largest piece of whatever machinery it is, maybe a commercial washer or drier? A rectangle with attachments, clearly a heavy one, is thrown up on his shoulder like it’s nothing. His arms are fighting the weight of it as his body fights the summer heat. Sweat coats his neckline and his eyes are squinting under the—
Crap!
His squinting eyes just caught me staring at him with my mouth open.
What, like you’ve never seen a strong guy before? A little neck sweat? Get it together, Suze. Get. It. Together!
I recover, spotting the dry cleaner logo on the man’s shirt. “Erm, is that a dry cleaning machine?” I ask, because I wasn’t just ogling my future fiancé. I am just trying to figure out what I’m looking at here. That’s all.
“Big chunk of it. Hercules here says he can handle it,” the owner jokes without looking up, just trying to manage the heft of the much smaller load he’s carrying.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” I say. Adam frowns slightly and I realize I sounded concerned, like we’re friends. His bitter scowl reminds me that is definitely not the case. I add quickly, “You’re my ride home.” I turn and walk away before I can hear him huff out a reply. My cheeks burn as I go and I wonder if there will ever be a time where I’m not embarrassing myself in front of him.
We push ourselves until evening, so I use the company credit card to order pizzas for all the Canton Cards employees, as well as some of the other tenants who are still working on their own spaces. Spirits are high and I’m energized right up to the very end.
Right up until I get in the Truck of Silence.
“Are you going to be okay?” I yawn the words at my driver, who has to be physically spent. I don’t think I saw him with his hands empty one time today. “You won’t drive off the road?”
He doesn’t answer so my brain decides to tell my mouth to quote Back to the Future. “Roads? Where we’re going, we don’t need roads.”
Adam turns his frown from the road to me as I mutter, “That’s from Back to the Future.”
“Uh, I’m good,” he mumbles.
“Don’t need me to stay awake and talk to you?” I ask, but the end of my question turns into a yawn again.
He huffs, “No.”
“Will you at least put music on? How will you stay awake? I really don’t want to die because you fell a—”
The wail of a fake electric guitar cuts me off before a terrible voice actor starts talking about the latest features of Ford trucks. I almost smile at the awful sound. Because he did what I asked, probably while frowning, but my eyes are already closed. A few more hours and I’ll be home in my bed, having survived the first road trip with him.
Too bad the next one is in just a couple days. And as much as I don’t want to, I’m going to have to prepare. To come up with a plan of attack. A strategy. I can’t just show up and wing it again. We only have a few upcoming trips and they can’t all be silent and awkward or else how will I be able to keep my promise to Mom? How will I know awful Adam is on a scale from just a little grumpy to has a secret life that includes drugged women and sex dungeons.
I sigh.
I know what I need to do.
And I know, without a fraction of doubt, that my future betrothed is going to hate it.