Page 5 of The Mayor and the Mystery Man

But I still laughed out loud in the comfort of my office, adding life to this silent house.

Dusty: You’re a heartbreaker.

Dusty: Wait.

Leo: What?

Dusty: MisterWood?

I slumped down at my desk, but I could feel his eyes on me from the screen.

Leo: I needed a name.

Dusty: How you ever got play with a handle like that…you must have really good pics.

Leo: Please don’t look.

We didn’t have boundaries. We were best friends. But I didn’t want him to look at those Milkman pictures. My privacy had been punctured in so many ways today; I didn’t need one more from someone I cared about.

Dusty: Do you wanna talk?

Leo: It’s late by you.

Dusty: I’m up.

“Hello from the future,” I said into the phone moments later.

“What is the future like?”

“Shitty so far.”

Dusty lived in Los Angeles, where it was eleven-thirty at night on Wednesday, as opposed to two-thirty in the morning on Thursday here in Sourwood.

“Don’t you sleep, man?” Dusty asked me.

“You always ask me that. Sleep is optional for me.” Getting more than five hours was a miracle. In fact, when I’ve gotten the rare eight hours of sleep, usually when sick, it just makes me feel more tired. “And it’s late by you, too.”

“I just got home from work.”

Dusty worked for popular teen soapOcean Cityas a carpenter. Their hours were nuts since they constantly had to build new sets for upcoming episodes. But no matter how late I called, he was always around.

“How are you doing?” he asked in his calm voice. I breathed out a relaxed breath for the first time today. It was like my whole body exhaled.

“I had a root canal last month, and I’d much rather go back to that than have to deal with this crisis.” I walked around my office, earbuds firmly in my ears. My wall was filled with framed pictures of me out and about in Sourwood. “Would you say I’m likable?”

“I’m biased, but yeah.”

I could hear a split-second of hesitation. “You didn’t sound too confident in your answer.”

“Where is this coming from?”

“I’d have a better chance of weathering this shitstorm if I were likable, whatever the hell that means. I’m not a talk show host, Dust.”

“I like you.” His voice had the slightest twang. He moved around a lot as a kid, his accent an amalgamation of different states. Yet when he got into carpentry, it brought out the southern man’s man in him. “But you don’t let people in right away. They have to work a little to get to know you. Once they’re in, though, they’ve got a friend for life. I speak from experience.”

“Damn. Thanks, Dust.” I found myself at a loss for words, comforted by the insight into myself.

“Just calling it like I’ve seen it for twenty-plus years.”

---