Page 67 of We Redeemed the Rain

Was she crying?

She quickly turned away, blocking my view of her face. “I brought you some food.”

Her tone caused a flash of dread to zip through my midsection.

Life hadn’t given me many opportunities with women. To say I hadn’t quite figured them out would be an understatement. My experience revolved solely around family and a few failed dates my cousin, Randi, arranged and forced on me when we were still in highschool.

To have an upset woman in my vicinity was a brand new world. I didn’t know what to do. Was it polite to ask her if she was alright? Or was it best to ignore and pretend not to see?

Like an insensitive boar, I informed her. “I don’t typically eat during the day.”

“Oh.”

An awkward beat of silence passed. She cleared her throat, her voice gathering a little strength. “I talked to the warranty company.”

I wriggled out and slowly sat up, nicking the corner of my forehead with the front bumper. “Bad news?”

She nodded. “The warranty wasn’t registered. They sent the application, but it wasn’t filled out and returned.”

I’d been mentally preparing myself for the worst. The verdict didn’t surprise me in the slightest. I sighed. “Sounds like something I’d do.”

“You’ve got a lot on your shoulders. I’m sure paperwork isn’t really on your mind very much.”

I imagined her reaction to my files and wondered what she must think of me. “That obvious?”

A tiny smile pulled at her cheeks then vanished. “A little.”

“Thanks for tryin’.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news.”

“It’s alright. My mechanic is coming out later today.”

She backed toward the open garage doors, not looking directly at me. All weekend she’d been bubbly, happy, and never tense. Even with all the ways I’d messed things up. A thumping began in my chest. Something was definitely wrong. I wanted to ask if she was alright, but felt like I shouldn’t.

Memories of our letters—some of the hard ones—barreled into my mind.“Sorry the ink keeps smearing. That’s the fourth tear I’ve dabbed off the page.”

Several of her letters were delivered to me, pages puckered and words blurred. I always wondered who held her when she cried. I’d imagined what I would do if I ever had to see tears on her face and hear emotion in her throat.

Paper felt so inadequate in those times.

And I was a lot more courageous back then. Or at least my imagination was courageous.

Let her walk away.

She glanced down. “Do any of your animals like sandwiches? I’d hate to waste it.”

I wiped my hands on a shop towel. “Uh, no. I don’t feed them stuff like that.”

She nodded, a soft blush rising into her cheeks.

Everything I said was coming out all wrong. I shook my head at myself, allowing my gaze to drop to the food. The plate had a sandwich sliced diagonally, sliced apples, and potato chips. Her soft hands gripped the rim of the plate, and her shoes scuffed the concrete slab below us. Something I couldn’t name pulled at my heart, the sensation painful and terrifying, a flame under my pulse.

Bea was trying to be nice, and I was being an ass. I probably made her feel dumb. I’d spent too much time with horses and cowboys and, apparently, didn’t know how to act around folks with decent manners.

Or maybe I just didn’t know how to act aroundher.

Before Bea, the last person to make me a meal was Randi. And I hadn’t seen her in almost four years. I shopped alone, prepped food alone, ate alone—which was why I avoided those activities until my humanity necessitated them. When I did need food, I ate on the run.

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