Page 4 of The Problem with Perfect

A few minutes go by, and we just sit in silence.

Five minutes.

Six.

Seven.

Then, without a word, Rusty shifts the car out of park and turns us around to head back into town. I glance back, wondering what the hell that was abou…

And then it hits me.

I look at Rusty where he sits, taking in the emotion that’s rolling off of him in waves. Today is the anniversary of when his parents died, when they were run off the road by a drunk driver just a few minutes outside of town.

It was the most horrible kind of tragedy. Cedar Point was devastated. Rusty and his sister Abby barely held it together. I was pretty young at the time—junior high, I think—but I remember the service like it was for someone inmyfamily. It was the very first time I’d been to a funeral, and it left a mark I’ve never been able to wipe clean.

I want to say something to him.

Anything. Anything at all that might soothe him or ease some of the pain I’m sure he must be feeling, but I’ve never been good with words. I never know what to say or how to make anything better. Instead, somehow, I always seem to say something that makes it worse.

It’s why I like numbers. There’s no emotion in numbers, always a right answer.

With people, with situations like this, there’s always the probability to get it wrong, and I hate to be wrong. I stay silent, eyeing him frequently as he drives us back into town and up the east side of the lake toward my parents’ house.

“You gonna be okay?” he asks once he pulls into our driveway and comes to a stop.

I nod and try to give him some kind of smile. “Yeah. I’ll be…” But a wave hits me, and I break into tears again. “I’m so sorry,” I say, dropping my face into my hands again. “I feel so stupid crying about this when you’re actually dealing with real pain, but I can’t help it.”

Rusty sighs, and then I’m startled by the feeling of a big, warm hand patting me roughly on the back. I glance up at him in surprise, catching the uncomfortable look on his face as he tries to console me, and my tears are brought to an abrupt halt as I burst into laughter.

He immediately withdraws his hand, but I keep laughing even as his eyes narrow at me.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because…” My words come out in chunks as I continue shaking. “That was…the most awkward…consolation…back pat…to ever occur.”

Rusty rolls his eyes and sits silently as I finish laughing, and when I finally trail off and wipe my eyes—this time from laughter and not from crying—I let out a long sigh and sag back into my seat.

“At minimum, thanks for the laugh. I needed it.”

He makes some sort of sound that’s reminiscent of a grunt of affirmation.

I grab my purse off the floor and push the door open but then turn to look at Rusty before I hop out. “I’m sorry if I ruined your evening, your plans to go…” I wave my hand, gesturing vaguely as if that can encompassanythingabout what his plans were tonight.

He shrugs a shoulder. “It’s alright.”

Nodding, I reach out and place my hand on his where it sits on the stick shift and give it a squeeze.

“See you around, Rusty.”

The man bobs his head once and gives me a tight smile, and I take that as my cue to get the hell out of his car and out of his hair. I head into my dark house and up to my childhood bedroom, and I cry myself to sleep.

chaptertwo

Rusty

“It looks great.”

My eyes scan the structure, impressed by the work that has been accomplished in just the past six weeks. The rotting wood panels on the exterior have been treated and repaired in a way that preserves the look and feel of an old barn without the worries that come along with an antiquated building. The concrete flooring has been poured and finished, the interior re-insulated, and the windows and doors replaced. She looks brand-new but still beautiful and classic in a way that preserves the older vibe.

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