Nine. Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic

NINE

Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic

Joe

"Did you see the guy, though?" Liam asks me. "Prettier than Mare. That shit ain't right."

I snort into the phone speaker and complete my turn into the hardware store in town before putting my truck in park and settling back in my seat. "I didn't. Mom did, though, and according to her, he looked like Rock Hudson."

"Who?"

"An actor. Died… Never mind," I tell him. "She also said he was too smooth, and your sister didn't seem all that broken up about it, which she figured meant it was a good thing she showed him the road back to Michigan."

"Yeah. I guess. I just don't know what she was doing dicking around with him for the entire past year."

"I imagine she didn't think she was dicking around." I haven't known Maren super well until recently, but I've never gotten the impression that she was the kind to play around with someone's feelings. "She loved him is my guess."

I can hear Liam's scoff over the speaker. "She doesn't even know what love is; she's a kid."

"Bro. I hate to be the one to tell you, but she's not that much younger than us," I say, glad my best friend can't see the way my face burns. But fuck . She's not. "And we both got married barely out of college."

"Yeah, and what did we know? I lucked out, but you got a raw deal with Kiley, man."

Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. I've never been super comfortable with anyone in my circle going on the offense against Kiley. Yeah, things didn't work out, but she's not a bad person. Or even a not-good person. Unfortunately, though, Liam saw me through my worst. He was there when Kiley left. He took the first flight out and stayed for two weeks, holding my shit together and making sure we ate. He, more than anyone, knows how bad it got.

But that was me then, and it was over two years ago. "Point is, Maren is old enough to do what she wants with her life, whether that is fall in love with guys that look like Rock Hudson or break up with them in front of their families."

"Did I tell you she puked on his shoes?"

I grin at the image of put-together Maren heaving her guts all over Rock Hudson's shoes. "Yeah, I remember you saying something like that."

"I have to admit, that shit was hilarious."

Even though I agree a thousand percent, it feels unfair to Maren to say so. "Probably not for your sister."

"Nah." A pause, then, "I should call her to check in again."

"You should," I tell him, removing my keys from the ignition and preparing to hang up. "But maybe don't mention the ex or the puking… or the job thing," I add.

"What am I supposed to ask her about, then?" Liam asks, sounding aggrieved, and I can't help but smirk at his familiar tone. Liam is really good at two things: showing up when you need him the most and giving you shit when you need it the least.

I try to keep the humor out of my tone when I suggest, "Maybe just text her. Or send her flowers or something. Send it to the lodge, and I'll get them out to her."

"I can do that."

"All right, man. I gotta run. We have a shower leak in cabin four and I need to get the parts."

"Okay. Just… well. Thanks for being there for Maren," he says. "I'm glad she has family close."

"Yeah. Happy to do it." I end the call and hop out of my truck, slamming the door closed and crossing the small lot. When I pull open the door, a tinkling bell rings out, announcing my arrival, and I know better than to travel the stalls of a hometown store. Instead, I pause, shifting my weight and inhaling the overwhelming perfume of fertilizer. A moment later, Bryce Callahan makes his way to the front, offering a friendly smile.

I went to school with Bryce, but he was a few years behind me. I never knew him all that well, but he seemed like a nice kid, if a little strange. Not in the way that he had his quirks. Hell, we all did. I just always felt like he was too familiar and he really, really liked to be important. His uncle owned this store and was a fixture in town, but Bryce took over when he came back after college. He's a collector of sorts. For example, his giant display of pictures on the walls with various low-key celebs he's met at different Comic-Cons and things. I was never into fandoms or cosplay myself, but that was mostly because I was too busy overseas trying not to die. I get the appeal, I guess, though I've never really felt comfort able with the whole "take a picture with a celeb just because they're famous" thing. Celebrities are just people whose job put them on the screen or in our ears. Like Maren's friends Shelby and Lorelai… I know they're famous. I'm not that removed from pop culture. But seeing them on the screen of her phone yesterday, they felt very normal to me. Meddling, nosy, supportive, funny, and very normal. They loved Maren and Maren loved them.

Anyway, all of this is in my mind as I pull out my list and pass it to Bryce, trying to ignore the urge to peruse his fan wall.

"Plumbing issues at the resort?" he asks, his eyes skimming the items from behind thick lenses.

"Small one that I'm trying to keep that way. Do you have everything in stock or do I need to special order?"

Bryce nods once, quick. "Should be on the shelf. I'll check the back for these washers, but I just got in a shipment. Haven't had a chance to put it all out yet. Give me a few and I'll put it together."

Nothing better than a hometown hardware store. The options are limited, but the service can't be beat. There are bigger box-store options, but they're another twenty minutes down the road. I'll make the drive when I don't want the hassle of someone else picking out my things, but this isn't a job with design preference in mind. It's not worth offending Callahan by insisting on picking out my own washers.

I settle my hip against the counter and lose my battle with the pictures, scanning the framed photos behind the checkout. Bryce with some giant Viking-looking dude, dressed in a medieval getup, both standing in front of a curtain in an obvious photo op. Bryce shaking the hand of some kind of alien-looking thing with tentacles coming out of its chin. Bryce dressed as Captain Hook, standing with another man dressed in a higher-quality Captain Hook costume.

My eyes continue their casual appraisal of Callahan's personal Wall of Fame when my gaze snags on a familiar form and unease slithers up my spine.

Maren .

It's not just the picture. Like I told her the other day, I've seen her videos, and it's clear this was taken at the height of her Musky Maren days. It's at least a decade old, if not older. Maren's hair is longer, with blond streaks, and she's got that photogenic beauty-queen smile affixed to her glossy lips. She's sitting behind the table with her logo on it, while Bryce is crowding as close as he can over it, toward her, placing their heads together. Bryce is pink-faced and looks seconds from wetting himself. Maren looks like a doe caught in the high beams.

Which would maybe be okay if it wasn't for the fact that I know her picture wasn't there two weeks ago. Or the month before that. In fact, I've never seen the photo on his wall. I don't know where it's been the last decade and maybe I don't want to know, but I do know it's up there now—when Maren just showed back up in town—and it doesn't feel right.

Does he know she's here? Did she come in here? It would make sense, being it's the only hardware store for miles and she's doing heavy renovations on Fost's place. Did she see the picture? Or did he put it up after seeing her?

Christ, I hope she didn't see it. I can't imagine her feeling comfortable having her picture up on Callahan's weird collection wall.

"All right. We lucked out. The washers were in stock," Bryce says, unloading his arms of my requested items onto the countertop and beginning to ring them up.

"Great." After a beat, while he's sliding my items across his scanner, I decide to straight-up ask about the picture. "Hey, man, is that a new photo you've added to your collection? I don't think I've seen that one before."

He doesn't even look back or play dumb about which one I'm asking about. Instead, the fucker gives a shit-eating grin and shakes his head. "Nope. That's one from my personal collection. I've had it at home for years, but I saw her, here," he says meaningfully, waggling his brows, "a few weeks ago, and I wanted to surprise her with it when she comes back."

"You saw her?" I'm trying to play it cool, to keep my voice casual, like I would back when I was interrogating civilians in the service, but my jaw clenches tight around the words.

"Yeah," he says, tossing the last item in the bag. "It's been years, but she looks even better. She's back, man. Musky Maren. I bet she's making more videos. You haven't seen her around the resort? I thought she used to spend time with her family there as a kid…"

I don't know how to respond. This guy knows she came here with her family? I wasn't around in the Musky Maren days, but she kept that personal stuff on lockdown. I knew it was my home flowage, but her viewers didn't. Further, the resort is miles outside of town and one of dozens of others. Yeah, we are a successful resort, but it's not like anyone would have access to information on our guests, unless they dug.

This guy had clearly done some digging. Hell, she'd straight-up said she didn't want anyone advertising Musky Maren, using the name, or spreading the word she was in town. She'd made it seem like it was because she might return to work as a park ranger, but what if there was more to it? We'd teased Liam about his little sister being a babe with a YouTube channel and even joked about the guys who were probably slobbering all over her videos, but this being the reality suddenly feels very unfunny.

I decide in that instant to play dumb with Callahan. Whatever is going on, I don't want him to know she's still around or that I know where she is. I am suddenly very, very relieved my dad is such a meddler and convinced her to stay in the cabin at our resort. He unknowingly made her that much safer. Jesus.

I tap my debit on the card reader and wait for it to process and for my receipt to spit out. "Nah, Bryce. Haven't seen her in a long time. You sure you really saw her? Well," I rush on, not letting him speak, "good for you, man." I reach for my bags and turn for the door. "See you around."

And I get the hell out of there.