Page 25 of Maybe You

“Mustard—the normal kind, not the pretentious kind. Most basic relish.” I hold up two fingers and continue raising the others as I list more. “Onions. Pickles. Cheese. And chili.”

“Ketchup?” he asks.

“Be serious. That obviously falls under the Dirty Harry rule.”

“The what?”

“Clint Eastwood?”

“Oh. The movie,” he says. “Yeah, never seen it.”

“Whoever was responsible for your education clearly did you dirty. ‘Nobody, I mean nobody puts ketchup on a hot dog!’”

“I’m guessing this is a quote?”

“You’d be guessing right.”

I stuff the last bite of hot dog into my mouth and glance at him. He has a strange look on his face, a thoughtful frown as he keeps studying me.

“What?” I finally ask.

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Before I can dig deeper, he hands me a napkin, and I wipe my fingers, ball the napkin up, and toss it into the garbage can by the door. We both get up and head inside, and once there, we get to work, seamlessly taking up the tasks we’ve somehow wordlessly divided between the two of us.

And while we work, we talk.

He manages to slightly lower the sheer number of innuendos that seem to accompany whatever he says.

I still don’t get why, but Sutton is easy to talk to, and I’m saying that as a person who finds very few people easy to talk to. Especially strangers. I’m usually too in my head, and a lot of the time I can’t seem to think what to say or how to respond. Some of it can probably be put down to the lack of practice. Invisible people don’t learn to chat. But then Sutton is just so unapologetic about everything that comes out of his mouth that the straightforwardness somehow seems to disable my filter, too. When I’m with him, I don’t endlessly overthink and overanalyze every single response. Half the things that come out of his mouth? Most people would never say them. He does, and he won’t try to sugarcoat or be polite or tactful. Whatever I tell him, he doesn’t take it personally.

It’s kind of nice.

There’s a light on in the basement when I get home. I lock the door behind me and hang up my jacket before I trudge down the stairs.

Remy’s hunched over at his work desk, soldering the tonearm cable lead of a turntable he’s been working on for the past two days. He retired from his job as an aerospace engineer about a decade ago, and he managed to relax and kick back for a grand total of two days before he started his career as the neighborhood’s unofficial repairman.

“You’re up late,” I say when he looks up from his work.

He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes before he glances at the clock on the wall.

“I’m not up late,” he says. “You’ve just been home early this whole week.”

I drag my hand through my hair and lean my ass against the side of his worktable. “Yeah, I sort of have help right now, so we get everything done quicker. Things will go back to normal on Monday.”

I frown. It’s been just a few days of Sutton, so I’m not sure why it suddenly feels weird that he won’t be there anymore next week.

I shake my head to clear it. This whole thought sequence is pointless, and I’m writing it off as the late hour.

Remy leans back in his chair.

“Who’s helping you?”

I don’t think I know how to explain Sutton to him, so I don’t. Easy way out and all.

“Just some guy,” I say. “It’s a long story. It’s somebody who owes Quinn a favor.”

“Lucky for you, then.”

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