Page 37 of Coach
“But you did . . . still do.”
Another pause.
“Yeah.”
That was progress, I supposed.
“What about family?” I asked. “Brothers? Sisters? Are you close?”
“Yes, and”—he shrugged—“not really.”
And just like that, the door slammed shut again. What was this guy’s deal?
I tried to keep my face neutral, but inside I was cataloguing every word, every silence, every deflection. Shane didn’t just keep his cards close to his chest—he laminated them and locked them in a fireproof safe. The guy could make “I’m fine” sound like classified intel worthy of a death sentence if shared.
Still, I’d never been one to give up.
The waiter reappeared like a poorly timed punchline. “Y’all ready to order?”
I smiled up at him. “Yeah. I’ll do the grilled chicken sandwich and a side salad with raspberry vinaigrette.”
The waiter turned to Shane.
“Burger. Medium rare. Fries.”
“Fries,” I repeated. “That screams bold and classic for the man of mystery.”
“Potatoes don’t lie,” he said, deadpan.
The waiter snorted, glancing between us, then left us alone again.
“Okay, Mr. Idaho. What brought youto Georgia?”
“Mr. Ohio,” he corrected, then added, “Work.”
“Of course,” I said. “That answers so much.”
He rolled his eyes, and I was pretty sure he was trying not to smile.
“I came here to help a friend build a studio,” he said. “Stayed longer than planned and ended up building furniture out of my garage. People started buying it.”
“Just like that?”
“No, not just like that. It took years to build up enough clients to scrape out a living.”
He took another slow sip, then set the glass down carefully.
“I like working with my hands,” he said. “I like quiet, and wood doesn’t lie to you.”
“Okay, that’s the most poetically intimidating thing anyone’s ever said to me at a restaurant,” I said through a nervous chuckle. “First, honest potatoes, now non-lying wood? Might there be a trust issue or two in there, Mr. Ohio?”
“Might be. Might not. Depends on who’s trying to earn it.” He didn’t flinch. “My work’s honest. I either do the work or I don’t. If I mess it up, it tells you. If I fix it, it holds.” He looked down at the table for a second like he was embarrassed by how much he’d said.
And that was when a few pieces slid together.
Shane wasn’t cold. He was careful.
He didn’t throw words around like my kids tossed basketballs. When he gave you one, it meant something. He didn’t open up because once he did, he couldn’t take it back.
