He doesn't look even a little chastened. He leans against the passenger door of the truck with his arms crossed, squinting at the Everwood main street.
"Let’s split up," he says.
"Ha. Nope. It’s my list."
"I know, but hear me out."
"That’s the thing, Bo. I don't want to hear you out. I have a system."
"Your system has backtracking." He pushes off the truck and holds out his hand. "Give me the list."
"You don't get the list. It's my list."
"Then tell me what's on it, and I'll remember."
I stare at him. He stares back, perfectly calm, like this is all very reasonable and I'm the one being difficult.
The worst part is I've been running errands solo for years, and it's never once bothered me. Three minutes with Bo Gates and suddenly my routing feels a little imperfect. But isn’t it my imperfection that makes my plan work?
"Fine." I yank the list back out and scan it. "Garden center needs the potting mix and the irrigation fittings. Diner is a lunch pickup. I called it in this morning." I look up. "That's my half."
He nods. "Hardware store."
"Cabinet hinges. Carl has them on order; they may ormay not actually be here. He forgets to call sometimes. Then the grocery store. I'll text you the rest of the list."
"Got it." He's already turning toward the hardware store.
"Bo."
He stops.
"If Carl starts talking, you have to cut him off, or you'll be there until Thursday."
He glances back over his shoulder. The corner of his mouth pulls up. "I can handle Carl."
"That's what everyone says."
He walks anyway. I watch him go for exactly two seconds before I catch myself and turn toward the garden center.
The potting mix is where it always is. The irrigation fittings take me twelve minutes and one very long conversation with Gerald Patton about his tomato situation, which I did not ask about but apparently needed to know. I texted Bo a single message:How's Carl?
He replies four minutes later:He's asking me how the Jenkins horses are doing and letting me know that the whole town knows and is happy we were there to help. Now, he’s onto suppliers and prices.
I reply:I warned you.
He sends back a yikes emoji. I take that to mean he's trapped.
The grocery stop is quick. Produce, a few staples, it’s in and out. I'm loading the last bag into the truck bed when I hear him.
"Falon."
I know the voice before I turn around. Kevin Bennett, in a button-down that's too pressed for something casual, is walking toward me from the direction of the hardware storelike he has nowhere better to be. Which, knowing Kevin, is probably accurate.
He smiles when I turn. The smile I've seen since we were sixteen. The one that's always been a little too sure of itself.
"Hey, Kevin." I keep my voice easy. Neutral. "You're out early."
"Saw your truck." He stops beside me, uninvited, hands in his pockets. "Figured I'd say hi. You're hard to pin down lately."
