AS SOON AS HE’S out of sight, my whole body feels the void of his energy. My knees wobble, my breath whispering across my lips with a shaky sound. All this as I attempt to pull precious air into my lungs while searching for the filter for my mouth.
Are you going to take advantage of me? Did I really just ask him that?
Fanning my face, I watch him through the window. Delaney is right. Cute doesn’t cut it. He’s so far beyond cute that I’m not sure there’s been a word created to encompass it all. He’s not good-looking like the guys I usually date. Those guys are clean-shaven, hair gelled, politically-correct boys I’ve met at a fashion event or political rally. Walker is . . . not. He’s nothing of the sort.
His five o’clock stubble begs me to run my fingers down it, feeling the coarseness against my palm. His skin isn’t moisturized or evenly tanned, but rather rough and with tan lines that I can see around his watch. The words out of his mouth haven’t been chosen out of a list of words his private school teachers drilled into him. He doesn’t know me or my family, and even if he did, I bet he wouldn’t care.
There’s something raw and real about Walker. It’s the way he looks at me, the way I can’t quite tell if he wants to grab me and kiss the hell out of me or throw me out of the room. Either way, it burns my libido like it’s a forest hit with a hot match. My choice: kiss the hell out of me.
I could leave. I could leave a stack of cash on the desk that I took from the ATM this morning and skate, getting back to reality. Like I should. But that option, as logical as it is, seems so . . . plain. Boring. Predictable.
Is this what the start of an addiction feels like? A hankering for more, even when I know taking it in large doses might kill me? Being absolutely sure I shouldn’t be partaking, but not able to talk myself out of it either?
This place, this man, is a breath of oily-scented, testosterone-fueled air. It’s as foreign to me as outer space. It’s another planet, and while I was never the little girl who wanted to go to outer space, I’ll sign up for this ride just to see what it’s like.
The chimes ring and I spring around. An old man with a plaid golfer’s hat and worn blue jeans, a man I doubt has ever played golf a day in his life, stands in the doorway. “Seen Walker?” he asks, his voice gruff like there’s a pack of cigarettes in one of his pockets.
“He’s in the back,” I volunteer.
“I hope he doesn’t take long,” he murmurs, wincing as a hand goes to the small of his back.
He looks at the floor, the lines in his face so deeply etched that I wonder if he was born with some of them. Regardless, my heart breaks when he posts a hand on the wall and leans against it with a cringe, the hole in the toe of his shoe dark and unraveling.
“Let’s get you a chair,” I say, looking around. There’s none in the lobby, but I spy the one behind the counter. I bring it around and help him get settled.
He pats my hand. “You are a doll. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He seems unsure with his repeated head-to-toe scans of me, like he’s wondering if I’m an imposter taking over Crank without anyone’s knowledge. He’d be right, but for whatever strange reason, I don’t feel like I don’t belong here. I just feel like I haven’t figured it out yet.
“Is Peck around?” he asks.
“I’ve only seen Walker. Do you need something I can help with?”
“My truck. I need to meet my wife for breakfast. I should’ve been there an hour ago but my neighbor was late picking me up and all that jazz.”
“Where is your wife?” I ask.
“The nursing home.” He forces a swallow. “She’s been there two years now. I go by every morning for breakfast and I’m never late. She hates being late. That’s all I heard for the fifty-five years we’ve been married—if you aren’t early, you’re late.”
“Maybe she’ll cut you some slack,” I offer. “Especially if this is your first offense.”
His eyes drift from the window to me, a sadness written so heavy in his features that I feel it in my soul. “She won’t care. She doesn’t even know I’m there. Alzheimer’s is a son of a bitch.”
Nodding is all I can do because if I say a word, he’ll hear the lump in my throat.
“I walked into her daddy’s lumber yard when I was fifteen and she was up to her knees in mud. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.” He dabs at his eyes with a blue bandana, the tip of his nose turning red. “Fifty-five years is a long time to sleep next to someone and then they don’t remember who you are.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, my own eyes watering. Placing my hand on his over his knee, I squat in front of him. “That has to be very hard.”
“It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Harder than going to war, harder than losing our baby at three months old. It’s like having my heart cut out of my chest.”
His other hand, wrinkly and cool, settles on top of mine. They shake, his knee vibrating with his valiant attempt at restraining his emotions.
“She loves you,” I tell him, my eyes burning. “Remember that as you go to see her and think she doesn’t remember you. She does. She just can’t tell you.”
His tears flow freely, dripping down his hollowed cheeks like a floodgate has been broken. “Thank you, hon. I needed to hear that today.” As his face falls, his eyes sliding closed to the exhaustion riddling his old body, I turn away.
Heading to the desk, sensing his need to change the subject, I clear my throat. Discreetly wiping my face with the tail end of my shirt, I take a deep breath. “What kind of car did you have?”
“Black Ranger. I had a tire bust on me yesterday and Walker had a used one out back.”
The desk is covered in receipts and notes, candy wrappers and invoices. There’s no way anyone knows what’s actually here. The further I try to dig, the deeper the mess becomes.
I look up when the chimes ring again. A tall, dark-haired woman with a baby wrapped to her chest and another child holding her hand steps inside. She greets the old man and then looks skeptically at me. “Walker around?”
“He’s on a call,” I say as the baby starts to scream.
“Shhh,” she whispers, bouncing herself up and down. “Shhh, Gabriel. It’s okay.”
“Mommy,” the other one whines. “I’m tired.”
“I know, baby,” the lady tells him. “We’ll have the van in a second.”
“You walk down here, MaryAnn?” the old man asks her. “All the way from Washington Street?”
Over the wails of the baby and the whining of the child, she tries to stay calm. “I hit a deer in the van last week and Mike had to work today.”
“I still can’t believe you walked all that way,” the old man says. “That’s a couple miles.”
“The baby has a doctor’s appointment this morning. He’s having an allergic reaction to something and we can’t figure it out. It’s costing a fortune with co-pays, which is why Mike is still at work. He’s been working all the overtime they’ll give him.” She sags against the wall, patting the older boy’s hair. “It could be worse, right?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the exchange between the old man and the woman. It’s nothing more than a slight tip of their chin, but they understand each other on a level that I don’t. I don’t know what it’s like to be them, and to even consider it strikes a fear in me that I can’t shake.
I can’t imagine my sister-in-law, Danielle, walking two miles with Ryan because she didn’t have another choice. Especially in this heat with a sick baby.
“I’ll try to find your invoice,” I volunteer, feeling so frustratingly helpless. “What kind of car?”
“A maroon van. I have no idea what year it is,” she says, still bobbing the baby up and down. “I barely know what I had for breakfast at this point.”
Thrust into what my mom calls “do-er mode,” I scramble for something to do to make her day easier.
“Do you have your keys?” I ask, holding up a couple of random papers. “I found your invoices.”
“Walker always leaves them on the floor mat,” the old man says. “What do I owe him?”
“Well,” I say, forcing a swallow, hoping this doesn’t bite me in the ass. “You, sir, have no charge because the tire they used was going to be thrown away anyway. Right?”
“That’s what he said,” the man agrees, but doesn’t look convinced.
“And you, madam,” I say, hurrying along, “there’s something here about insurance and write-off’s, but Walker’s writing is crap and I can’t figure it all out. It just says zero with a circle around it,” I shrug.
“You’re kidding me.” A flitter of hope casting across her face. “I don’t owe anything? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Says it right here.”
Holding my breath, seeing if they believe me, I wait until they prepare to leave. The woman opens the door and grabs the little boy’s hand. “Tell Walker thank you,” she says. “I’ll send Mike over this week to double check. I just . . . I appreciate it.”
I round the corner and offer a hand to the old man. “Do you need help outside?”
Groaning as he gets to his feet, he takes both of my hands in his. “I’m going to be fine. Have a blessed day, sweetheart.”
“You too. Enjoy your breakfast.”
“It’s the best part of my day.”
I take a quick step and open the door for him. As he heads to his truck, I move to the window and watch him make his way off the stoop and through the gravel. Rummaging around the floorboard, he retrieves his keys. He hobbles into the front seat, adjusts his hat, and pulls out.
“Was someone here?” Walker asks from behind me. “I thought I heard the door a couple of times.”
Giving myself a moment to adjust before turning around, I scramble for an angle to talk myself out of this jam. I’m sure he’s not going to be thrilled with this bit of news, but I’m just as sure I didn’t have a choice other than to help them both.
“I was going to ask you,” I say, turning around. “How much would a used tire cost for my car?”
Furrowing his brow, he shrugs. “Depends on what size you have.”
“Um . . . the size of a Ford Ranger, I think.”
Walker crosses his arms in front of him, the muscles in his thick forearms flexing. “Funny. I didn’t have you pegged as driving a Ranger.”
“Funny. How do you know me well enough to know what I would drive?”
“I don’t,” he admits. “I’d say that a used tire would run you thirty-five bucks or so.”
He moseys across the room and stands next to me, so close I can barely think. He’s a step from my personal bubble, his cologne knowing no bounds and filling it with his heated, working man scent that has me shivering despite the heat.
“Looks like I need to call Kip,” Walker notes.
“Why?”
“Someone stole Dave Cooper’s truck. A Ranger,” he adds, watching me carefully.
Gulping, I take a step away. “I have another question. What would it cost to repair a car that hit a deer?”
He’s not amused. Storming across the room, he swings open the door. “Where is MaryAnn Maylor’s van?”
“Well, she was here,” I say, taking a couple of steps to the corner. “And so was Dave . . .”
His face doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even make an attempt to speak, just stares at me in a mixture of disbelief and disdain.
“Can you add their bills onto my tab?” I cringe, waiting for his eruption.
“You let them take their cars without paying?” he booms.
“No, I didn’t. I mean, I did,” I correct. “But it’s okay. I’ll pay for them.”
He walks in a circle, shaking his head. “Dave’s tire is about thirty-five bucks. But MaryAnn’s van was about fifteen hundred.” He stops and looks at me. “You have that in your pocket?”
“No, but I’ll get it.”
He flashes me a glare before heading back to the desk. One look at it and he’s back to me. “And I suppose you just messed this up too?”
“Oh, no. That was a mess before,” I shoot back. “I looked for the invoices, trying to do you a favor—”
“I didn’t ask you for a favor. I asked you to come by and apologize for fucking up my truck, not waltz in here like you own the damn place and cost me another two grand.”
“Fifteen thirty-five,” I correct, hoping for the best.
I think he’s going to explode. He turns away, his back heaving as he fills his lungs with air. The sound of it whooshing out of his body gushes through the room.
“What was I supposed to do?” I ask when he turns to face me.
There’s a weakness in his glare, one that tells me I can make him see the light. I see this in my brother Graham every so often when he’s trying to nix some idea I have. It’s an opening, a small window of opportunity to appeal to their humanity and get them to come around.
I stand in front of the desk, game face on. “I felt sorry for them. Dave needed to go have breakfast with his wife who has Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t even know he’s there every day. How sad is that? And MaryAnn walked all the way over here and it was like two miles with two babies.”
This seems to weaken his resolve.
“Why didn’t she call? Peck would’ve gone and picked her up,” he says, the irritation in his tone a little less prevalent.
“I don’t know,” I rush, trying not to lose momentum. “But she was stressed out, her husband’s working doubles, and they have a sick baby. So sue me for having a heart if you’re that much of a dick. But I’ll pay for all of it.”
He fiddles with the papers in front of him, the lines on his forehead melting away with each passing second. The room settles, the only sounds the beating of my heart and the papers he’s pretending to deal with.
“Don’t act like you know what any of that is,” I kid.
“It might look like a mess, but I actually do know where everything is. Most everything, anyway,” he grumbles. Retrieving two pieces of paper, one missing the bottom corner, he holds them in the air. “These are the invoices you were looking for.”
“I’ll take care of them.”
He sets them back down and leans on the desk. His brown eyes are filled with something I haven’t seen before, something that makes me feel like everything over the past few days comes down to this moment, like if I fall, I may never recover. Only it’s not a fall from a ledge or a fall from grace, it’s a fall into those chocolatey eyes. It’s a delicious and yet uncomfortable feeling and all I can do is shift my weight from one foot to the other and hold on tight.
“How am I supposed to take your money when you won’t take anyone else’s?” he asks.
“One is not dependent on the other.”
He looks over my shoulder and laughs. “Brace yourself.”
“Why?”
“My Nana is two seconds from walking through the door.”
The chime hits on demand and the entire feel of the room shifts.
“Walker Elder Gibson, what do you think you’re doing?” The door latches closed as she sees me. “Oh, I’m sorry, honey. Are you busy?”
“No, Nana,” he says, his chin dipping with a shy smile. “I’m never busy. I just come here to hang out all day every day.”
“Don’t give me that . . .”
She’s in her mid-sixties, if I were guessing, wearing a white dress with tiny blue flowers. Her hair is gunmetal silver and set in a way that makes me wonder if she still visits the beauty shop on Saturday morning like the little old ladies in Savannah do. Her belly is round and in her arms is a wooden picnic basket.
She pauses in the middle of the room, giving me a quick once-over with the finesse of a professional. “I didn’t mean to walk in on the middle of anything,” she alludes, smiling at me. “Should I come back another time?”
“Stop it,” Walker hisses before I can respond. He crosses the room and plants a kiss on her cheek. “Did you bring me lunch? I heard you made fried chicken yesterday.”
“And you would’ve known that yesterday had you had your fanny in a pew at Holy Hills like you should’ve,” she sighs. “I wasn’t going to bring you any, then I prayed about it and thought maybe you had a good excuse.” She looks at me out of the corner of her eye, a grin tipping up the edge of her lips. “She’s awfully pretty, Walker, but she’s no excuse to miss out on Jesus.”
“Nana!”
Before I know what’s happening, my laughter fills the room. “You tell him, Mrs. Gibson,” I say, then cover my mouth with one hand.
“First, call me Nana,” she corrects. “Second, don’t cover your mouth. Women around here have to speak up or we’re never heard. Remember that.”
“I will,” I say, relieved.
“And you are?”
“I’m Sienna,” I say, offering a hand her way. She gives it a firm, yet gentle shake. “It’s nice to meet you. But, for the record, I’m not his excuse for missing church.” Peering over my shoulder, I give Walker a little smile. “How could you disappoint this woman and miss church?”
Licking his lips, he’d say something altogether different if Nana weren’t standing here. That I know for sure. But she is, so he cocks a brow. “You better stay out of this, Slugger.”
“Now, I didn’t mean anything by what I said,” Nana says, either not paying attention or choosing to ignore the look her grandson and I are exchanging. “It’s just that I don’t ask nothing of this boy, or any of ’em, for that matter, except they get their behinds to church on Sunday and come over for dinner most of them. That’s it. I’m not gonna be alive much longer and I—”
“Oh, you are too,” Walker sighs, cutting her off. “And I’m sorry about yesterday. I wasn’t feeling good.”
“You seem to be feeling better now,” she points out.
“Yeah, well . . .” He looks at me through the longest lashes I’ve ever seen on a man. “I’ll be there this week. Promise.”
“You better.” She hands him the picnic basket. “If I’d known you had company, I would’ve brought you extra. Speaking of which, is this your girlfriend?”
“Nana . . .”
“Oh, no,” I say hurriedly, not wanting her to get the wrong impression. “I’m just here to settle up some business.”
“He’ll be fair and he does good work,” she says, smiling proudly at Walker. “He’s a good, good boy.”
Walker’s cheeks turn a soft shade of pink as he switches the basket in his hands. “Let’s get back to the chicken. There’s more you didn’t bring? What are you saving it for?”
“For my grandsons who show up to church,” she winks, heading to the door. “Sienna, make sure he shares with you. I’m not known around these parts for my fried chicken for nothing.”
“Will do. Nice to meet you, Nana.”
“Same here, honey.”
“See ya, Nana,” Walker calls after her.
He sets the basket on the counter. There’s a sudden awkwardness, a void that needs filled and I don’t know with what or how. I can’t decipher the look on his face or the way my stomach is all twisted in knots. Despite not really wanting to leave, it’s the only choice. It’s the responsible choice. It’s the one I don’t want to make but do anyway.
“Let me pay you what I have and I’ll bring the rest by later,” I say.
His brows shoot to the ceiling as he fiddles with the edge of the basket. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Of course I’m going to worry about it.”
“The damage is done.”
“And I want to fix it,” I insist.
“Are you still arguing over Daisy?” Peck, the light-haired guy from the other night, comes from the garage bay, a huge grin on his face. “Just take her money and give it to me.”
“Fuck off,” Walker laughs.
“Ah, Nana brought you lunch after all,” Peck notes, knocking on the top of the basket. “It’s sickening how favored you are.”
The two of them spar back and forth, neither of them serious but both of them trying to win the argument. Walker fills him in on the Dave and MaryAnn drama and Peck continues to just give him shit about it. It’s hysterical and reminds me a lot of my brothers back home. I didn’t realize how much I missed this feeling of camaraderie, this sensation of family.
“I have an idea,” Peck says, bringing me back to the present. “We have a lot of shit that needs done around here. Since y’all can’t agree on money, why don’t you just stick around and help out some?”
“Because she’s not a fucking maid and that’s what we need,” Walker barks immediately, scowling at his cousin.
“Wait,” I say, looking between the two. Walker isn’t going to let me pay him back and I know he can’t afford to be out that much. I can’t live with costing him that much either. “That’s not a bad idea, really. I mean, I’m not your maid and I’m not cleaning that filthy bathroom.”
“That bathroom hasn’t been cleaned in years,” Peck sighs.
“I can believe that,” I say, scrunching my nose. “But I wouldn’t be averse to sweeping some of this mud up and maybe organizing that desk, because it’s driving me nuts.”
“It’s not necessary,” Walker says.
“It’s totally necessary,” Peck counters. “We were just talking about it before you got here. Well, the cleaning part. Not the you part. Although . . .”
Walker looks at me, the pools of chocolate dragging me in just like they did the other night. I’m not quite sure if he likes me or loathes me, but either way, I can’t look anywhere else.
“I’m technically on vacation for a couple of weeks and am probably going to leave town after that anyway. I’m going to have some time on my hands,” I point out. “I really don’t mind working off what I owe. Heck, it might even be good for me and I know it would be good for you.”
“I want it to be good for me,” Peck deadpans.
Walker rolls his eyes at Peck. “You sure?” he asks me.
“I mean, if you don’t want me . . .”
“We want you,” Peck jumps in, standing between me and Walker. “We. Want. You. I want you, anyway. If he doesn’t, I do. Let’s make that clear.”
Walker shoves Peck’s shoulder, making Peck laugh.
“If you want to, that’s fine,” Walker says, once Peck makes his way back into the shop bay. “But I’ll pay you. You aren’t helping out around here for free.”
“You aren’t paying me,” I toss back. “This is to work off the damage and today’s freebies. What time do we start?”
He twists his lips into a hesitant grin. “I have a feeling you’re going to show up whenever you want, so we open at eight. The rest is up to you.”
It would be so easy to stay, to linger beneath his lopsided smile. I could pull up a chair and fix us both plates of Nana’s fried chicken and listen to this gravelly voice tease me, grumble, whatever he likes, all day. Sometimes, though, the right option isn’t the easiest one. Sometimes, it’s the hardest.
“See you then,” I say.
Before he can get in the last word, I head to the door. Without looking back, I tug it open and make myself walk away from Walker Gibson.