Page 4 of The Pocket Pair

“She’s single,” Mari says, her smile growing wider. “Which is why I’m asking you. Not that I would have trusted that fool to take care of her anyway.”

“Okay,” I say slowly. “Is there a particular reason she needs looking out for?”

Mari leans back, crossing her arms. “Not one I’m at liberty to say. Yet.”

I scratch my jaw. Ever since Mom died, Mari has been like an honorary aunt to me and Winnie, bringing meals over, offering little maternal things, and just generally racking up points she can cash in any way she likes. I will say yes. Mari knows it. I know it. But I want more info. I’m a planner. Going into things blind is not my strong suit. And the many-headed worry monster just sprouted a few new ones. Because there’s obviously a secret I’m not privy to that has Mari asking me.

“So, there is a reason, but not one you want to tell me.”

The tiniest of smiles appears. “Are you hungry?”

“Always. But I just got off work and want to head home. Maybe a burger to go?”

“Of course.” She pauses and then grabs my hand, holding it with surprising strength. “You shouldn’t spend your life fighting ghosts.”

It’s been a long time since my mama was around to scold me, but I still remember the feeling. My stomach squirms just as much under Mari’s scrutiny. And under the weight of what she said, which hits me like some kind of battering ram to the sternum. I’m not sure how she made the leap from dinner to me fighting ghosts or how she managed to hit me right where I didn’t know it hurt, but she did both with one sentence.

I give her an easy grin that feels like trying to swim against the current in a flash flood. Because her words, like Mrs. Fleming’s, strike a little too close to home. Is there some kind of secret thread on the Neighborly app where all the older women of the town are discussing me today?

“Fighting ghosts?” I say, casual, casual, casual. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Mari squeezes my hand so hard my bones feel on the verge of breaking. “I want to see you happy, Chevy.”

“I am happy,” I tell her. And up until I say the words and hear how hollow they sound, I thought it was true.

Aren’t I happy? Why wouldn’t I be?

I’ve got a job I enjoy, my own home, and a bunch of friends in this sometimes cloyingly close-knit community. No, there’s no steady woman in my life. But being the kind of man who isn’t sure he can be steady himself, I’m not looking for one. I don’t want a wife and two-point-five babies or whatever the number is. I just want …

I want …

Well. I guess right at this moment, I’m having some kind of existential crisis in a diner because I don’t know what I want anymore.

Mari releases her crushing grip on my hand just as Val slides into the booth next to me. I scoot in a bit, but our thighs are still touching, our arms brushing as she waves animatedly. It’s closer than we usually sit, more touching than we usually do. I could slide away a few more inches, but I don’t.

“Speaking of happy,” Val says, making me wonder just how much of our conversation she heard, “Tank is buying some of my paintings to decorate the lofts. Isn’t that great?”

She’s beaming, and so is Mari when she zips over to hug Val. “So proud of you, princesa,” Mari whispers.

“You should be proud. I couldn’t be more thrilled to have Val’s work hanging in the lofts,” Tank says, and Mari hugs him too. She barely comes up to the big man’s chest.

Back in September, the Graham family rolled into Sheet Cake after Tank purchased the whole downtown area. Faster than I would have thought possible, he’s been renovating the abandoned storefronts and getting new tenants. The second story of nearly every building has been converted into modern loft living spaces. He and James currently share one; my sister is in another. Probably a dozen others are nearing completion. This is a big job for Val.

I nudge her with my shoulder. “I’m proud of you too, Tiny.”

Her cheeks turn pink and she grins down at her hands, twisting in her lap. “Thanks.”

Tank says his goodbyes, and Mari heads off to refill the Bobs’s coffees.

Which leaves me and Val awkwardly sharing the same side of the booth. I clear my throat, trying to catch her eye without turning my head. That would put our faces far too close.

“Everything good?” I ask her, my mind still stuck on the part of the conversation I missed about why Val might be on a time crunch.

“Yep. All good,” she answers. A little too quickly if you ask me.

Mari reappears with a to-go box. “That was fast,” I tell her.

“Big Mo started fixing it as soon as you walked in,” she says with a laugh.

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