“It won’t take long,” I inform her, as I set out for the warehouse to pick up the parts for the garage.
“Good. That’ll leave us time to grab a bite before heading back home. It’s the least I can do.”
I open my mouth for the automatic rejection, but shut it again when I realize she isn’t exactly asking this time. She’s stating. Not that I’ve been particularly friendly before, but I’d have to be a real asshole to blow her off now. The kicker is; I don’t really have it in me.
After loading up the truck with boxes at the warehouse, I climb back behind the wheel, turn to her, and ask, “Where to?”
“Hamburgers good? I haven’t had one in forever.”
“Fine by me.”
She directs me to a family restaurant close by she’s pulled up on her phone.
“So…” she starts after we’ve been seated in a booth by the waiter. I brace. “Here’s what I don’t get. You give every indication you don’t particularly like me, yet you go out of your way to get me a good vehicle.”
“Who says I don’t like you?” The truth is out before I let my brain process what I’m admitting to. The humor shimmering in her eyes tells me she planned it this way.
“Good to know I’m not crazy,” she mutters under her breath before giving the waiter her drink order. I ask for water and find her eyes on me when the kid walks off. “Well, it may have been the fact you weren’t exactly friendly in our previous encounters.” She tilts her head and scrutinizes me so thoroughly that I’m starting to feel like a bug under a microscope.
“I don’t talk much,” I try to deflect, but that only makes her chuckle.
“That might be an understatement.” Her delivery is dry but her smile is wide. “Here’s what I think; your New York visit, like mine, is something you keep to yourself. The reasons, the motivations, they’re private and kept away from day-to-day life. Am I right?” I grudgingly nod because she is. “So we already know more about each other than most people at home do, and you don’t like that. Heck, I don’t like it either, but it is what it is. Now, as I see it we can try to pretend we never saw each other, but frankly, I’m not very good at lying, especially to myself.”
The return of the waiter gives me a chance to process her blunt, straightforward, and eerily accurate assessment. She scans the menu, but I don’t need to, I know what I want, a cheeseburger with fries and coleslaw. She orders one with Swiss and the sweet potato fries she says she loves. When the kid walks away, she leans her elbows on the table.
“Or…” she continues as if she never stopped, “…we could be friends.”
“Friends,” I echo, and she nods to confirm.
“Yes. You said yourself you’re back in town after a very long time, and I’ve recently decided I need to expand my horizons. We could both use a friend.”
Her expression is dead serious and yet I want to laugh. She thinks we can be friends. If only she knew she’s sitting across from a convicted felon—a killer. She’ll undoubtedly find out soon enough, but I don’t have the heart to laugh in her face when what she offers so generously has me swallow hard.
“Okay, friends,” I agree.
Her responding bright smile warms me from the inside out with the kind of light I’d hate to see snuffed out.
As I’m sure it will be when she discovers the truth about me.
Chapter Seven
Gray
I watch her generous hips sway as she moves between the tables.
I’ve been here a few times this past week for lunch. Once with Jimmy and the other two times by myself. I’m putting myself out there and it wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it might be.
Oh, I got the looks I expected from some, but a couple of people I remember from before actually stopped by my table to welcome me back. I hadn’t expected that. Truth is, even if the cold shoulder was all I got, it would’ve been worth it just to get warmed by Robin’s smile for me when I walked in.
Our run to Midland last week was eye-opening for me. Sharing a meal as the friends she suggested we could be had me lower my walls a bit. I was surprised how good it felt just to talk to another person. A regular conversation—mostly. She told me about her daughter, and the fact her mother lives in Lansing. She asked about my family and I told her I didn’t have any left. She didn’t push though; instinctively knowing it wasn’t a subject I was comfortable with. When we landed on the topic of books, though, we’d found safe ground.
I held off until day three after that before I ventured into Over Easy on my lunch hour. It had been a struggle between the need to stay out of the public eye, and the craving to see her again. Robin won.
“More coffee?”
She walks up with a carafe.
“Thanks, but I should get back to the shop. Just the bill, please.”
“Sure.” She starts turning away before swinging around. “You know, I’m off tomorrow, but I was planning to make a pot of goulash. Would you like to come for dinner? I mean, I usually make much more than I can eat and end up freezing—”
“That’d be great,” I find myself saying.
She smiles wide, “Great. I’ll just go get your bill then,” and walks off.
“Be gentle with that one.”
I turn around at the sound of a deep, familiar voice. Sitting behind me is Frank Hanson, owner of the town’s favorite watering hole, The Dirty Dog. He has to be at least seventy-five or something. Last
