Page 72 of Friends Don't Kiss

Nah. She’s going to think I’m not interested after all. And she’s still on the app. Who knows what she’s doing on it now? I grab my phone and pull it up, hoping her profile will have disappeared.

It’s still there. She could be chatting with someone right now. Making plans for the weekend.

Screw it. I start typing.

Me

Are you free this S

Clear your Sat

Shit. She might have some catering to do this Saturday.

Are you free this Saturday during the day? Or the next?

Better:I’d love to take you on a second date. What Saturday are you available during the day?

I look at the message. Look at the time. 7:30 a.m.That’s way too eager, Harper. Give the woman some time to breathe. You wanted to show her how good dating you would be. Don’t smother her.

With that pep talk clear in my mind, I delete my message, pocket my phone, finish my coffee, then stand right as the shop’s phone starts ringing. I’ve made the choice to not have a receptionist for now. I can’t afford it, and the clients love to talk to the person who’s actually doing the work.

When I hang up, two of my guys are in the bays, working.

“I’m going to check on a guest at the hotel,” I tell them. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Can someone take the phone?”

“Yup,” Patrick, my youngest mechanic, answers. I set the handheld next to his workstation before getting in my truck.

As I pull out, I see Owen Parker going the opposite way, signaling that he’s about to turn into the garage. I wave at him, and he waves back. I should have checked his file before leaving.

It’s over an hour before I return from the hotel—frozen fuel lines are tricky—and Owen is still there. He made himself comfortable in the waiting room, sitting squarely in the middle of the only two-seat sofa. Under the fluorescent lights, the top of his head shines a pinkish hue where his hair is prematurely thinning. He’s reading the paper, sipping reheated drip coffee from a Harper’s Body Works mug.

“Hey, man, what’s up?” I ask him. “What’s going on with your BMW?” I get behind the computer at the reception desk to pull up the detail of his most recent service. His car is still parked outside. He wasn’t due until ten this morning, I notice, which makes me wonder why he came in so early.

“Talk to you for a sec?” he asks me, his chin pointing to my office door in the back.

What the heck is going on? “Sure, come on over.”

He takes his coffee mug with him as he precedes me to the back. His suit is strained at the seams, barely containing the soft roundness of his body. It’s wrinkled, large streaks across the back of the jacket, and messy crisscrosses on his pants. His shoes try to look fancy but can’t do anything against the snow and the salt and the mud that prevail here eight months a year. As always, Owen is trying to look important.

I show him the stool while I take my seat behind my desk.

He sits without flinching and looks around my office, seeming to look for something to compliment me on. Coming up empty, he says, “We’re really fortunate to have you on the Select Board.”

Growing up, Owen Parker was my bully. My personal hell, my everyday battle. Not everyone who’s been bullied has the pleasure of giving not a fuck when they see their former tormentor. Of not even thinking that the tables have changed, or in my case, that there aren’t tables anymore. He has no hold on me. And I do not wish to have any type of hold on him.

This is thanks to my friend and soon-to-be brother-in-law, Ethan. He was older than me, and he looked out for me. He looked out for everyone. He straightened Owen out using fists and words in equal measure, just as he straightened me out by giving me the confidence I so bitterly lacked. Taught me how to fight back. Taught me I didn’t need to care what Owen thought of me.

So when Owen is clearly trying to make an overture by complimenting my space but can’t find anything because, let’s face it, the place does look like shit—the furniture has to be fifty years old and not in a good way, the visitor chair is a wooden stool, and the decor on the wall consists of yearly cardboard planners, staff schedules, a list of supplier’s phone numbers strategically placed to hide the smattering of brown spots that pay a testament to the previous owner’s weapon a choice: the fly swatter—when what Owen says is“we’re really fortunate to have you on the Select Board,”I measure all the progress made since our youthful years.

I nod. “Happy to help.” Owen is a lawyer, and he bravely decided to hang his shingle right here in Emerald Creek. And I applaud him for that. The thing is, his bread and butter, due to him being in Emerald Creek, is property disputes, maybe some small labor conflicts, trusts and wills, and real estate transactions. The concept of conflict of interest drastically reduces his pool of clients, and he’s stuck with who gave him their business first. His potential for growth is, at this juncture, extremely limited. And he’s only a few years out of law school.

But Owen loves the idea of being important. Being on the Select Board is a status thing for him, not a service thing like it is for me.

And that’s okay.

He shifts on the stool, choosing to cross one ankle over his knee, leaning his elbows on his thighs, and stapling his fingers. Owen should do yoga. He’d be great at it. Maybe he does? “So, we have an application coming up, for a variance,” he says softly.

“Uh-huh?” Select Board topics shouldn’t be discussed privately, but let’s hear him out.

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