Page 23 of New River Gorge(ous)
“Sorry about Logan. He doesn’t think much these days.”
I bite my lip, not sure where this is going. Or why Beck’s friends are so interested in me.
“Listen,” I say, trying to be direct. “I’m not sure why or how you know I exist. Or what Beck has to do with me. But I’m glad to meet other locals. There’s not a lot to do when it’s just me and Meemaw, and she’s recovering from ankle surgery.”
“I get that.” Ben nods. “It’s just that Beck mentioned you. But he didn’t mentionyou. And he’s…” He sighs. “I know him well enough to know that he likes you, but he’s dense. Anyone with his past would be.”
“Past?”
Ben waves a hand. “Forget I mentioned it.”
“Ok…”
The waitress arrives with my burgers. “Here you go,” she says, passing me the paper bag of food and walking away.
I turn to Ben, who’s standing now. “It was nice to meet you. I don’t really know what to do with myself, so if you have recommendations for short-term jobs or things to do, that would be great.”
“Sure thing. Are you Catholic?”
“No,” I say. “I’m a Methodist. Why?”
He bites his lip, clearly hiding something. “No particular reason, just wondering. Also, Miss June knows Logan and me, by the way. Please tell her I’d love some more of her chicken when she’s feeling up to it.”
This day continues to get stranger, and that’s saying something because it started with me in the hospital in my pajamas after Meemaw decided to bake at two in the morning. “Ok. Yeah, sure.”
As I turn to leave, I hear Ben mutter, “Beck better not mess this up.”
12
Dr. Beckett
I’m hungry, which is why I’m still in my truck twenty minutes later. I’m contemplating swallowing my pride, returning to Billy’s, and ordering another burger. I don’t want to see my idiot friends, though. Finally, I give up and am about to head back in, when Brooke comes out. She’s carrying a to-go bag.
I shake my head and watch as she crosses the packed-dirt parking lot before climbing into June’s old Buick. She puts the car in reverse and starts to creep out of the parking spot when a terrible noise accosts my ears.
Grinding, screeching, scraping.
She slams on the brakes and climbs out of the car, where she crouches down and inspects under the car.
Call it curiosity, chivalry, or the Sunday school lessons about helping someone when they need it come home to roost, or the less altruistic experience of attraction, but I get out of my truck to see what’s wrong.
“Brooke?” I ask as I crouch down next to her. She’s murmuring something under her breath as one of her hands yanks at her hair.
Her eyes snap to mine.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Tears well in the corner of her eyes. I reach out a hand to touch her shoulder. I startle when she leans into my touch.
She points under the car. “The gas tank fell out.”
I look under the car, and there, on the ground, is the gas tank.
“That’s not driveable,” I say, stating the obvious.
She looks up at me, her blue eyes swimming with tears, and heaves a sob. “I don’t know what to do. Usually, I’d call Matt. Or someone. But I can’t do that here. I don’t really know anyone.”
I swear I don’t tell my arm to tighten around her shoulder, but it does of its own accord. “You know me.” I smile down at her. “I’ve been told I’m good in a crisis.”
