Page 44 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“And you?”

He shakes his head. “Not so much. You don’t seem to care what I think about you.”

“That’s for sure.” I stare out the window at the passing storefronts before I bite, purely out of morbid curiosity. “So what’s this people-pleaser face look like anyway?”

His hint of a smile is more cocky than happy. “Your eyes empty out and then your top lip curls up a little in this fake smile—”

I cover my mouth. “Stop looking at my lips.”

This earns me another tiny smile. They’re getting addictive. “Why can’t I look at your lips?”

Because then I’ll look at your lips, and I’ll wonder what they feel like. I’ll wonder if you’re picturing the same thing, and this harmless attraction will stop feeling harmless.

“It’s useful in moments like this. To identify the people-pleaser face,” he says, activating his blinker to change lanes. “I know whatever you say next is something you think you’re supposed to say, or what someone wants you to say, or what you—”

“Fine.” I let out a swoosh of air, returning to the start of this dangerous thread I shouldn’t have pulled. “I’m not sure about the job. I’d spend less time thinking about trains and more time thinking about parking lots.”

“It never occurred to me that someone’s out there thinking about parking lots in a professional capacity.”

“Parking is a very complicated problem.” I feel my spine stiffen in defensiveness—even though I too find parking lots fairly soul crushing.

“It doesn’t have to be your problem. Not if you like what you’re doing now.”

“It’s the right next move in my career.”

“Says who?” he asks, puzzled by my logic. “You shouldn’t do anything you don’t want to do.”

“Is that how you live your life? Doing only what you want?”

“No.” He shifts in his seat. “But I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.”

We fall into silence until he gestures across me with his arm, his other hand still tapping against the steering wheel. “I live down this street. My workshop is in the garage.”

“Oh, yeah? Let’s see that.”

He turns to me briefly from the driver’s side in genuine surprise. “Really?”

“You’ve pointed out three restaurants that used to be different restaurants you liked better. Of course I’d rather see your workshop. At least it’s something from present-day Duluth.” He considers me at a stoplight. “Please, Adam. I can’t leave Duluth without getting my peepers on some spindles.”

“Don’t say peepers,” he says on a weary exhale. Then he turns right.

We park in the driveway of a peeling yellow bungalow. He quickly hops around to the passenger side, grabbing my hand to lower me out of his truck. When my feet hit the craggy pavement, I have to consciously remind myself to drop his hand this time. I’m relieved when all goes as planned.

With a low grunt, he pulls up the garage door and the smell of cut wood hits me like a wall. He sends me a quick, uneasy half smile before tugging the string attached to a lightbulb.

Illuminated in the garage are dozens of unfinished pieces of furniture. I see stools that might become chairs, upturned side tables with four different table legs, and a sideboard that has one door with slats and one door with a wood herringbone pattern.

Despite the confusing design choices, his skill is evident in each piece. Each component on its own is intricate, delicate, and flawless, highlighting the imperfect beauty of the wood.

“You made all of this?” I ask, unable to hide my astonishment.

“Yeah. It’s not that great. Nothing’s done. I’ve been trying out different techniques and styles. I want a collection that showcases what I can do before starting a business in a slightly larger market like Minneapolis. I went down the investor route but…” He looks away from me, kneading the nape of his neck. Wood shavings cover everything like a dusting of snow. Next to a belt sander are Sam’s cabinets, stripped and sanded down to their original raw wood.

“The plan is to build up a client base eventually—do custom pieces—but I’ve been tinkering for a while.”

“How long’s a while?”

“Around six years,” he hedges.

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