5. Stallone

five

Stallone

“Oh, thank you so much, Stallone,” Mrs. Beasily, the old lady who owns the laundromat, clenches her patent leather coin purse in front of her and watches as I load up two bundles of firewood in the trunk of her old red Buick. I’ve already given out half my load of wood today. If my calculations are correct, I should be able to head home within the hour.

“It’s my pleasure.” Her trunk smells like dog food, and I’m grateful when I get to shut it, and turn to head into my truck. I left it running with the heater cranked, and it’s comfortable.

Her frail, bony fingers find my forearm, causing me to pause on my heel. “What do I owe you?”

“Not a thing.” I shake my head, adding a please-to-serve-you smile to my face. “It’s my pleasure. I just hope you stay warm.”

“Oh, goodness.” She squeezes my arm tighter, and I fight the urge to wince as I’ve never been much of a person who enjoys people in my space. “How about I bake you a potato pie once the power comes on?”

“I didn’t know potato had a pie.” One of my brows hikes above the other into a quizzical expression. Nothing about that word combination sounds appealing. She’s still got hold of my arm, and I frankly don’t care to argue if it extends this encounter. “Sure, but only if you go home now, because it’s too cold for you to stand out here.”

Her eyes spring wide for a moment, but she bows her head a bit and says, “All right. I’ll see you soon.”

“Stay warm.” I toss a silent wave up, as snow crunching from nearby footsteps draws my attention to turn the opposite direction and I freeze. The woman I had just spoken to earlier at the coffee shop is headed this way. Her hood is pulled up tight around her head, adding a little extra fluff of fur trim around her face, but that doesn’t take away from her gorgeous icy-blue eyes. I wave at her, curious about what she’s doing. She said she didn’t need any wood, and it’s way too cold out here to just stand around. She waves back and when she smiles, her smile is mischievous and focuses right at me. “Did you change your mind about needing some firewood?”

She shields her face from the blowing snow. “No, I don’t need any. I was just going to stop over—”

“Stall ooone !” A shrill noise that frequents my nightmares cuts through the air, stealing both of our attentions. My eyelids crash down, and I know who it is before I ever complete my blink.

Nora Worley.

The single most annoying woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. She can never say a smooth Stallone. It was always crooning out, Sta lloooone, drawing it out like a game show host who’s being choked. I grunt and brush my hand over my whiskers, turning enough to see her walking this way. “Stallooone Hart,” she croons out again, her hips swaying in an exaggerated way until she stops a few feet from me and the coffeehouse lady.

“Did you need some wood?” I ask with a straight face. No time is ever a good time to have to see her, but this is the worst timing, because I really was interested in talking to the coffee shop lady. I flicker my gaze back to her, hoping she doesn’t walk off. She’s biting her bottom lip—which in my humble analysis—doesn’t look like a good thing.

“No wood.” Nora’s voice is unnaturally loud like she’s trying to speak over a crowd that isn’t here. “I need you to call me back for once.”

“You called?” I blink, terrified she might have my phone number. I never gave her that, and if by chance I had given her my number, I’ll change it.

“No, I didn’t call. It’s just proper manners to call people after a date .” Her T is extra enunciated, making it sound even more terrifying.

“Date?” I choke out an echo, as I have no idea what she’s talking about. I haven’t been on a date in over a year, and I certainly would never go on a date with her.

Her lips pinch together momentarily before she says, “Remember, two nights ago, we had drinks?”

What are you even talking about?

Coffeehouse girl starts to slide her feet, backing away, and I feel the strained expression on my face that wants to ask her to stay, but I have no idea where this conversation is going. Nora is clearly delusional!

She may say something I don’t want anyone to hear. Instead of calling out for her to stay, I flash my palm to her and say, “Stay warm.” She gives me a mellow smile and turns to trudge back to the coffee shop. The sight of her leaving sends a ping of disappointment right to my gut. My annoyance at Nora’s presence quadruples, and I blurt back, “I didn’t go out with you. I grabbed a to-go dinner from The Grove and went home.”

“Right.” She nods as if I’m a small child not understanding instructions. “Remember we sat together at the bar and had drinks, and we laughed. It was such a nice time.”

I jab my hand through my hair, resisting the urge to yell at this woman. I ordered a drink while I waited for my food, and she plopped down next to me and talked about her hair salon business the whole time.

I wasn’t listening.

Maybe I’m good at pretending.

She thought that was a date?

I almost vomit in my mouth. “ That wasn’t a date, Nora. You can’t go around saying it was.”

She perks an over-tweezed eyebrow at me. “You hugged me extra long when we left.”

“I stood up to leave, and you basically threw your arms around my neck. What was I supposed to do?” I tried to forget about it because it had to be the most cringe moment of my year, and having to flesh this out now with Nora is making my blood pressure soar. I know when to pick my arguments, and this isn’t one I want. “Look, I’m done here for now.” I pivot and slam the tailgate shut and don’t offer another word when I climb in my truck.

By now, coffeehouse lady is all the way back to the coffee shop. I see her open the door and disappear inside. I so badly want to make Nora disappear too. I don’t have the patience for pleasantries or pretending that she isn’t completely nuts. She’s been trying to get with me for years, and I’ve always been as much of a gentleman about it as I could stand, but this is too much.

Of all the things to have happened, Nora is going around telling people we went on a date. What next?

This is why I stay away from town and people in general . I rant in my head as I crank my truck and steer back to my house, feeling as if I just dodged a bullet. All the good women are taken and I’m not desperate enough to deal with a nut.

Another day on autopilot. I wake before dawn and reach across my bed, finding it cold and empty. I blink, wishing my view would change.

It never does.

It’s a feeling of being lost in your own home, in my own bed. I’m supposed to be living through my first year of marriage right now, not in this constant state of heartache. The quicker I get out of bed, the sooner I can breathe.

Today, I walk straight to the front door—eager for all the distractions—and whip it open. My head jolts back at the chill, and my eyes are met with more snow. It’s frozen hard, which means the roads will be too. It’s a tad risky to take the semi out, but the news reported Mapleton had their power restored last night. I’m not needed in town today, and I can’t sit around all day and let my mind wander. I power through the motions to get ready with my usual clothes and coffee.

Whistling, I summon Lucky, and he eagerly runs to my truck and jumps in, and we putter down the winding roads, stopping at Ryson’s cabin and honking the horn until he manifests in his Hart Logging flannel shirt and cargo pants—coffee mug in hand. We Hart brothers are serious about our coffee.

“Did you get enough sleep there, Lazy?” I tease, and Lucky makes his way over to sit on his lap. Lucky clearly isn’t a lap dog as he weighs over seventy pounds, but nobody could ever convince him otherwise. He’s also so tall, he has to duck his head to fit, but he doesn’t whimper a complaint.

“There wasn’t much else to do but sleep.” Ryson lifts his mug to his lips, sipping. “How are the roads?”

“Slick and terrible,” I grumble as I shift the truck back into gear and pull out carefully to avoid spinning out.

“Perfect.” His easy grin fills his face, and he lets out a sarcastic snicker. “That’s exactly how I like them.”

The thing about being a logger is it’s the perfect job for introverted people like me. I never have to say much. I turn up the tunes on the radio and drive on. Me, thinking about the woman I should be over. Ryson, more than likely wondering what beer combo goes best with wings. And then there’s Lucky, who just chills and gets his back scratched.

As I pass the lumber mill, my gaze scans over the yard filled to the brim with logs. There’s not a single truck lined up to drop off logs or move any out. I simply turn my head away. Apparently, that invites Ryson to talk.

“Did you hear Nora Worley is back in town?” It’s been nearly a half hour of silence, and that’s how he breaks it?

The last thing I need is to talk about Nora Worley. I’d sooner drive this truck right over the edge of the mountain than ever hear her name again. “No thanks.”

Ryson’s head locks forward on the road. “It’s time you start living again. You’ve grieved over Lindsey long enough. She’s not worth it.”

I click my tongue on the roof of my mouth, holding back all the things I dare not say. Trust me, I think about it every day. Every day I feel the same. Dating is the last thing I’d ever want to do again. It’s right up there with hearing from Nora again. Maybe I’m a fool or just too fragile, but I have to believe if I’m meant to love again, the very thought of it won’t feel like my heart is being ripped out of my chest.

We fall into a stony silence until I pull into our worksite and back a trailer right up to the timber crane. With logs already piled up, it’s an easy switch for Ryson to jump into the semi. “You need to go to the mill in Carson County,” I say, even though I’m sure he saw our mill was closed. It doesn’t really make sense for him to drive the extra hundred miles, as the gas bill cuts into our profits, but I need a reason to be busy.

I’m eager to be alone and hop into the crane, which fires up easily, despite the cold temps. We settle into an easy grind, filling his trailer in no time. It’s monotonous work that leaves plenty of time for thinking. Most days I wear earbuds with upbeat music to keep my mind off Lindsey but today, something odd happens.

I think about yesterday.

I had left the bookstore holding a warm cup of the sweetest smelling tea I’d ever smelled. Course, I know nothing about tea except for that horrid stuff my mom used to force down my throat when I was a young child with a chest cold.

That tea yesterday was so different. When I tipped that cup up, and the warm, creamy liquid hit my tongue, my taste buds sprang wide awake, wanting even more. I could definitely go for another one of those. More than that, I think about the woman who made the tea. She seemed so eager to help me, despite her machine being broken. She had this sweet smile that lit up the entire room, even though she was quite small and compact for a chick.

Petite—I think is the proper word.

But she didn’t give off the air of being a helpless damsel. She had a gleam in her eyes that told me she prefers to be sweet, but she wasn’t afraid to be sassy. Although, she is as attractive as any model you’d see in a magazine, I spared a second glance because I am not looking for anything, especially not some girl who thinks tea is an adequate substitute for coffee. The nerve.

Ryson waves at me, indicating his trailer is full. I back up, and he pulls his semi out of the yard. I’m not ready to go home, and the sun is still peeking out behind the clouds. I might as well work while I'm here. I fill up two more trailers without hardly trying. Right as I’m leaving the yard, Ryson texts me.

Ryson: The lumber mill approved my delivery. They said they can take more tomorrow.

Pleased with the news, a smirk spreads wide across my face.

Work is done for the day, and it looks like I’m actually getting paid.

Suddenly, I don’t want to go straight home. I’m in the mood to celebrate—to the coffee shop I go.