Page 23 of Simmer Down
I stay silent and stand to the side, watching while he darts in his back seat to grab jumper cables. He doesn’t ask me to help him as he sets everything up between our two cars or when he sits back in his vehicle and starts the engine. I don’t offer either. I simply stand back, lean on my driver’s side door, and watch him work. No matter how artificial this gesture is, I need it. And Callum knows it.
I cross my arms over my chest, momentarily self-conscious, wondering if he can smell my desperation. It’s obvious judging by how quickly he picked up on my financial situation at the vet’s office that he’s been paying attention while we’ve been working in such close proximity. For one or two days a week it’s just me at the food truck, because even though I’m a stickler on Mom’s days off, we can’t afford to hire anyone else, not even part-time. Our truck squeaks to a halt every time we pull up to our spot on Makena, a signal that we’re in desperate need of new brake pads. The exterior is dingy on a good day. The white paint is peeling off, the painted-on images are fading, and there are dings and scratches galore.
I glance down at my outfit. A blue T-shirt dress that I’ve had for years. Not at all dumpy—more like well loved. And I wear it once a week, which means Callum has seen me in it many times before.
I’m flushed with embarrassment yet again. I’m like a humpback whale, but instead of a sonar distress call, my cry for help is my worn clothing and the rickety state of my belongings.
Fixing my eyes on him, I take stock. He’s a casual clothes guy for sure. I’ve never seen him wear anything other than jeans, khakishorts, T-shirts, and the occasional short-sleeve button-up. But they always look new, and I don’t think I’ve seen him repeat an outfit yet. And that silver food truck he shares with his brother looks practically brand-new the way it shines like a seashell in the sunlight. Whatever finance job Callum had must have paid a pretty penny for him to drop everything and move to the state of Hawaii, one of the most expensive places you could choose to live in the US, so he could rehab his brother’s struggling small business.
Maybe Finn had money troubles before, but his big brother has seemed to make them all disappear.
He sticks his head out the window. “Now try it,” he says in that same gentle yet firm tone, pulling me back to the present.
Hopping into my car, I shove the key in the ignition and turn it. The second it starts, I’m positively giddy with relief. The fact that it started so quickly means that my battery is still good, at least for a little while longer, and I won’t have to replace the alternator. Instinctively, I almost grin up at him, but I catch myself. He already made it clear today he’s not interested in seeing my smile.
I take a second and will my face back to neutral before stepping out of the car. He removes the cables and tosses them in his back seat. I stand by the hood of my car, alternating between crossing my arms over my chest and clasping my hands behind my back. Nerves swarm my stomach, like butterflies that are angry about being cooped up. I open and close my mouth a handful of times, waiting for the right time to tell him thank you. He saved my skin today, and for that, the very least I owe him are words of gratitude.
He climbs out of the car and turns to me. I open my mouth once more, this time certain I’ll say the right thing, but he speaks first.
“You could say thank you, you know.”
“What?”
He rolls his eyes, then slams the back door to his car shut. “That’s typically what a person says to another person when they’ve done something nice for them.”
His words fall out in a dismissive mutter. It sends me straight from simmering nerves to boiling over.
“You seem pretty fixated on manners and etiquette for someone who doesn’t like to follow those rules himself.” I spin on my heels and walk back to the front door of my car before turning to look at him once more. “I was actually going to say thank you. I was waiting for you to get out of the car so you could hear me clearly.”
I duck into my car, dig through my purse for a twenty, then march up to him. “Here.”
“What is that?” He scowls down at my hand, like I’ve just offered him a hit of crystal meth.
“Money.” I say it in an obnoxious, overly clear tone, like he’s a child and I’m explaining the concept of currency. Yeah, it’s a dick move, but I don’t have the patience or the capacity to try to be nice if he’s going to operate in maximum prick mode during every encounter we have.
He shifts his scowl to my face. “I don’t want that.”
I try to shove it in his hand, but he yanks away. I try again, and again he darts out of my reach. Any bystanders watching us must think we’re demonstrating some seriously awkward dance moves.
“Look, you wouldn’t accept anything when you helped me with Lemon. Let me at least cover this.”
He doesn’t bother to speak, instead letting the disapproval on his face do the talking.
“Just take it,” I blurt.
We stand facing each other while taking twin deep breaths, our chests heaving. Forcing money into someone’s hands when theydon’t want it is tiring work. So is darting away from someone trying to give you money that you don’t want, apparently.
“It’s less than I would have had to pay a mechanic to do it anyway,” I say.
“I don’t want your bloody money, Nikki. Don’t you think you’d be better off keeping that than giving it to me?”
I’m frozen at the disdain in his voice. It’s clear in all of his features, actually. From the pitying way he looks at me, his brows creased, his mouth in a purse. Disappointment radiates from him.
It all comes tumbling back to me, the reminder crashing over me like a rogue wave knocking me underwater. He doesn’t want a damn thing from me because I’m his lowly, pathetic competitor whose food truck is in shambles, whose used car is barely functioning, who can’t afford hired help. He wouldn’t dare take anything from me because he doesn’t need it—unlike me, who needs so much because for so long I’ve been barely scraping by.
This must be his warped idea of charity. When he’s tired of despising me, he can simply pity me. It reads like a whole new form of condescending.
“Fine.” I shove the money in my pocket, hoping my cheeks don’t flush so red that he notices.
