I was in a hurry.
Sunday after church, Reverend Seymour mentioned that their bus wasn’t working. They’d acquired an old school bus a few months ago, an easy way to transport folks around the state to various events. It had broken down in the church lot and wouldn’t turn over.
Cletus and I had taken a look and he’d decided I was more qualified to work on the engine than him. I suspected he was just trying to get out of the time commitment required. It was a big job and the bus couldn’t easily be moved.
Sunday afternoon, we loaded up all the tools I might need and I set to work. Good progress was made until the sun disappeared over the mountains. Starting early again the next morning, I finally finished, doing as much as I could do by late afternoon Monday.
Now I had a list of parts that needed to be ordered and dirty hands. But at least I’d make it back to the garage before closing.
I wanted to see her.
I’d been stuck under a big yellow hood for almost twenty-four hours and I’d done a lot of thinking. About Shelly, Hank, the nature of needing people, compassion and pity, friendship, family, poetry that doesn’t rhyme, lost chances, and homeownership.
I had a lot of thoughts about a lot of things. Which meant I needed to see Shelly and try to put my thoughts into words.
Luck was on my side. Her car was still in the lot when I pulled in and the sight had me parking haphazardly, taking up two spaces in a rush to make it inside and see her.
Unexpectedly, Jethro was strolling out of the garage as I jogged toward it. Being so focused on seeing Shelly, I hadn’t noticed his truck.
My oldest brother lifted his chin in greeting as soon as he spotted me. “Hey.”
“Hey. What’s up?” I slowed my steps, taking a good look at him. He looked aggravated.
Jethro pulled his fingers through his hair, giving me a tired grin. “This wedding is going to be the death of me.”
I managed a commiserating smile. “Well, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”
“I’ve always hated that saying.”
“Me too.” I glanced into the shadows of the shop behind him. “Cletus still here?”
“Yes,” Jethro grumped, squinting against the setting sun. “Do you know anything about this stripper Cletus has planned for the bachelor party?”
Holding my palms up, I shook my head. “I swear, I was in charge of the scavenger hunt and that’s been done for almost two months.”
“I wish someone would talk him out of it.”
“I can try,” I shoved my hands into my back pockets, anxious to get going, “if you want.”
“Yes.” Jethro rolled his eyes heavenward and walked around me. “Duane said it was a stripper. I’m hoping he means a stripper as in we’ll be stripping paint off wood.”
“Don’t get your hopes up, Jethro.” I twisted at the waist and walked backward toward the shop. “Knowing Cletus, this is his revenge for all the shit you did over the course of your life that necessitates revenge.”
“Then God help us all,” he called to me, not turning around as he dragged himself tiredly to his truck.
Indeed.
Stumbling over a few rocks at my feet, I turned back to the shop.
Neither Shelly nor I were scheduled to close up, which meant we could leave as soon as she was finished with her work.
Assuming she wanted to see me.
She wants to see you.
What if she doesn’t?
Give her some credit. She’s the most reasonable and compassionate person you know.
I nodded my head at this assertion, figuring I could help with her workload—if she let me—then we’d have the rest of the afternoon to get things sorted.
I’d just crossed the threshold of the garage, when Shelly’s voice carried to me.
She said, “Now. Why?”
Followed by Cletus saying, “Oh. Good. That’s good.”
Spotting them both by the basin sink at the back—Shelly scrubbing her fingers with a brush and soap, Cletus standing there watching her thoughtfully—I hesitated for a split second, then stayed my course.
But as I drew closer, Shelly said, “Also, I’m taking two days off next week.”
My feet ceased moving.
Two days?
“That should be fine. Duane is leaving a week from Thursday, so if you have any questions for him before you go, make sure you ask before then.”
Before I could stop myself, I asked, “Why do you need the days off?”
Both Cletus and Shelly glanced at me, but I only had eyes for her. I stared at her evenly despite the answering ache in my chest. Her eyes didn’t quite settle on mine.
Rather, she gave me a hasty once-over, then turned her attention to the sink and continued scrubbing her fingers, her tone sounding carefully aloof. “My brother had a baby. He wants me to see it.”
She’s going to Chicago?
My stomach dropped.
She was going to Chicago.
Are you moving back? I wanted to ask.
Instead, I asked, “Don’t you want to see the baby?”
Her shoulders stiffened, but she made no response, giving me her back and silence. I stared at her, waiting . . . for something. Anything. An answer. A sign. A look. An explanation.
But still she gave me nothing.
We’re back to the wall of ice. She’s just . . . cut me out. Gone.
It was like being stuck in all that morose poetry I’d been reading over the weekend. Lord Tennyson was a moron. It wasn’t better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. I didn’t know what he’d been smokin’, but it must’ve been strong.
Eventually, the sound of Cletus saying, “Well,” reminded me that he was still here. “I’m sure I’ll see you again between now and your trip, but if I forget to say so, safe travels, Shelly.”
Cletus turned from us and walked off without preamble. I waited until the sound of his footsteps faded. Then I crossed to where she stood, still scrubbing her hands, taking an eyeful of her profile.
“Shelly—”
“We need to speak, but it can’t be here.” Her eyes remained trained on the wall in front of her.
“Why can’t it be here?”
“There is a high probability that I’m going to cry, and I don’t want to cry here.”
My heart beat loudly between my ears, my mind overflowing with possibilities for why this woman with nerves of steel might cry and hating the worst case scenario.
She’s leaving for good.
“Okay. Where?”
“Why are you using that voice?” She glanced at her hands and so did I.
A noise of alarm sprang from my throat. Her fingers were red and raw. She’d scrubbed them too long and too hard. Unthinkingly, I covered her hand with mine.
“Please stop. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
She stopped. She stopped her scrubbing, she stopped moving, she stopped breathing. Everything about her stopped. And then she turned her face toward me and rested her forehead on my chest.
“I miss you,” she said. She sounded so broken. “I miss you so much.”