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I picture walking into Sugar and Sips and not seeing Naomi—not suffering through her antics or spending those minutes gazing at the back of her sensual neck or thick mass of wavy hair.
“Why?” My question comes out harder than intended. I’m just…surprised. Off balance, as is my usual state with this woman.
“Because”—she firms her jaw, like she’s readying for a fight—“as my mother says, I’m reckless, short-sighted, and a pleasure seeker.” She blows out a breath and fiddles with the silver ring on her finger. “I quit my job and have a one-way flight to Thailand. So as attracted as I am to you, as much as I think about you when you’re not driving me nuts at Sugar and Sips, I won’t go out with you. There’s no point.”
When I was a kid, after learning Santa Claus was a bold-faced lie, there was one Christmas where I asked my folks for a robotics kit. It was a super cool, remote controlled monster robot. The gift was expensive, and I wasn’t sure they’d go for it. Still, I pined for the kit, dying to have it. Unfortunately, the week before Christmas, I got in a fight with my sister. The altercation resulted in me ruining the castle she’d spent all night building for her history class.
My mother’s punishment was decisive and harsh.
She took me to our Christmas tree, grabbed a gift from underneath, and told me to open it. Unsure what was happening, I unwrapped it tentatively at first, ripping a small section of the paper. When I realized it was my coveted robotics kit, I shredded the paper, excited and thrilled, my dread from moments ago vanished.
Then my mother said, “You don’t get to keep the kit, Avett. We’ll be donating this gift, so you learn how it feels to have something you love taken away from you.”
I learned my lesson, with crushing disappointment that had me sulking for days.
I go through similar stages of elation and deflation now.Naomi wants me—the good part of what she said.She’s attracted to me and thinks about metoo.Her admission is the best gift I could get, but the rest of her speech is a gut punch.
She’s leaving.
With a one-way ticket.
For at least a year.
A strange tension tightens my chest.
“Naomi…” I don’t know what to say. My heart’s beating too fast to think. I settle on pragmatics. “Is that why your car’s not fixed? You decided not to bother since you’re leaving?”
She twines her fingers, delaying her reply, acting verynotNaomi. “Not exactly,” she says, almost too quietly to hear.
I did hear it, though, and my confusion whirs. “Is your deductible too high to be worth it?” I know she can be a reckless driver, but I didn’t think she was getting in monthly accidents.
“No, Avett. It’s not too high.” She sounds like an impatient schoolteacher, a tone she’s likely honed at work. “But thanks for assuming I’m careening around the streets like they’re bumper-car tracks.”
My eyes dart briefly to her smashed car. She purses her lips.
“I just don’t get it. If your deductible isn’t that high, why not pay it? Get your car fixed and sell it.”Before you leave, I don’t add. I don’t want to say the words. Don’t like how thinking them sours my stomach.
Her face shutters, like she might ignore my question and end this conversation, then she sighs. “There’s no deductible, because I don’t have insurance on the car.”
I blink at her. “What?”
“You said you’re good at understanding complicated things.” Her lips quirk. “That wasn’t complicated.”
“Malcolm said your insurance covered my damages.”
She looks at the old garage, which has been fixing cars in Windfall since Malcolm’s grandfather opened it a lifetime ago, fondness crinkling her eyes. “Malcolm’s a good man who lied for me.”
First, she’s leaving. Now she’s evading me with lies. “I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t want you to know.”
“Because you’re the most stubborn woman in Windfall?” I clamp my molars, wishing I’d tamped the annoyance in my voice.
“That’s rich coming from the most anal man in Windfall, who calls me a shrew to his friends.” Her words are harsh, but there’s less rebuke inhertone. She glances past the shop, toward the path that leads to the stream behind it. A few more twists of her ring later, she says, “Do you have time for a short walk? I mean, if you can fit one into your regimented schedule.”
She’s always on my case. Strangely, the jab eases my tension. “My usual after-work activities involve cataloging how many times I swallow and blink between getting home and cooking dinner. For you, I’ll delay those important studies.”
She huffs out a laugh. “Good to know I’m that important.”
