Page 38 of The Best Shot

“I’m having a week.”

“Clearly.”

“But I’ll get over it and get you your invoices if it means we can stop talking about this.” I went back to the bolt. “Happy now?”

“Jumping for joy.” He looked at me like I was a spreadsheet throwing an error, then let me off the hook. “You’re a mess. I say that with love.”

“Love?”

“Man-love. Shut up.”

I snorted.

“Just sort your shit out.” He pushed off the bench. “And I want my fucking invoices. Monday, nine a.m.”

“Yeah, yeah. And Carter?” I put my hand to my heart. “I love you too, brotha.”

He flipped me off and was out the door.

The shop’s noise dropped back around me and I pulled out my phone.

The last exchange with Yasmine was from this morning. Two people being very deliberate about the temperature of a conversation.

Yasmine: Thanks for not making it weird.

Me: Same to you.

I’d wanted to say more. Ask if she was okay. Tell her that night at the bar, her showing up like that, had been the best part of my week. But I got what she was doing.

She was setting the terms. So I’d agreed.

Me: For what it’s worth, I’m glad you showed up

That part I’d meant, but she hadn’t responded.

I typed: You around tonight?

Looked at it, deleted it, then slid the phone back in my pocket.

Handle your shit.

Easier said than done.

The honest version of what I wanted was something I’d been avoiding long enough that looking at it now felt like standing up too fast.

I wanted to see her. Not like the parking lot. Not like the bathroom at Ricochet. I wanted to sit across from her, hand her a drink, and watch her face change when something caught her interest. I wanted to be in the same room as her longer than the situation required.

A problem.

Because Yasmine didn’t stay. Not a theory I’d cooked up, but observational data. Years of watching her roll into town and then roll right back out again. I’d accepted that, and filed it under “things that are true about Yasmine” and left it alone.

What I hadn’t accounted for was what happened when she stopped moving long enough to really look at me.

I locked up the bay, lifted two fingers to Darnell on my way out, and climbed into the truck before I could talk myself into staying busy.

Told myself I was doing the smart thing.

Told myself I didn’t need to see her anyway.