Famous in a Small Town

“You left your woodland fortress.” I stepped back from my chalk-art masterpiece. It was time to update the coffee shop menu. “To what do we owe the honor?”

He blew out a breath and gave me his patented I am vaguely amused by you gaze. “When you fell over ’cause you were laughing so hard at me living here and using a treadmill, I thought it might be time to get out and try some of the tracks around town.”

“To be fair, I had eaten two of Linda’s cookies.”

He grunted.

“And you never leaving the house was ridiculous.”

“Those cookies will get you,” said Claude, seated at one of the small, round café tables with an espresso. “What track did you take?”

Garrett grabbed a glass and helped himself to the free filtered water at the end of the counter. He chugged down two glasses. “Along the river.”

“Nice.”

“A few people out fishing.”

“Always. This time of year they’ll be after the salmon. But there’s swimming or even rafting farther downstream if fishing isn’t your thing.” Claude got to his feet. “I better get a move on. Lupita wants to head to Falls Creek for lunch and to do some shopping.”

“Have a nice time,” I said, putting the selection of chalk markers in my apron pocket.

Garrett and Claude exchanged nods. Then the rock star came over to check out the menu. The swooping script I’d chosen for the heading and the more rigid sans serif I’d used for the item descriptions. He even leaned in close to check out the detail on the drawings of coffee beans and so on. “You’re good at this.”

“Thanks. Visual merchandising is sort of my thing.”

“Is that what you studied?”

“Yeah,” I said. “You want coffee?”

“No, I was just stopping by to say hi.”

“You’re allowed to do that. If I’d known mocking you would have gotten you out of that house, I’d have tried sooner. What do you even do in there all on your own?”

“I’m not on my own, there’s Gene. And I’ve actually been working the last week or so,” he said. “I’ve started writing again.”

“Garrett, that’s great.”

“Yeah.” He turned away. “Lot of empty shops on Main Street.”

“Ugh. A whole bunch of buildings were owned by a local man. But when he died they went to his nephew, who lives in Texas and has no understanding of the local economy. The idiot tripled the rent and forced just about everyone out of business. We get some tourists up here, but not enough to support that kind of sudden increase,” I explained. “Didn’t I already complain to you about this? I think I did.”

“Thought you didn’t want more people inundating the place.”

“I don’t want you to have to go into hiding because of paparazzi or a pack of your fans descending on the town. But a certain amount of growth leading to more money coming into the community would be a good thing,” I said. “There has to be a happy medium between more exposure for the town and total chaos. Then we could fund the repairs that the town hall and library need, for a start.”

“What about the old theater?”

“That place has been closed for forever. It’s pretty much only used by ghost hunters and teens looking for a place to hang out.”

“Is that what you used to do?”

“Oh yeah.” I smiled. “We’d drink booze someone had stolen from their parents, talk smack about everything and anything, and dream about the day we got out of this place.”

“And yet here you are.”

“That’s the funny thing about life,” I said. “How you feel about things can change dramatically. Let’s talk about something else. Like the fact that this Friday is Margarita Night.”

He cocked his head. “You don’t say.”

“I do say. Are you coming?”

“You make it sound like a dare.”

“Maybe it is.”

For a moment, he stood there in silence. Then his jaw firmed and he said, “Sure. Why not?”

“Good for you.”

“It can be our next not-date.”

“Um, yeah. Okay.”

The side of his lips twitched. Then his gaze dropped to the floor and hit upon my shoes. A pair of green Chucks, to be precise. And the silence was loaded as fuck.

I groaned.

“What color, exactly, would you call that?”

“Sage green,” I said. “But is that really something you should be asking a person who’s just a friend?”

His gaze jumped to my face and he said a whole lot more of nothing. Such a great blank expression. I had no idea what he was thinking. Then he muttered, “Good question.”

“Time to change the subject again. Fun fact,” I said. “When you see me hanging out at windows late at night it’s because I’m checking the locks. I have this ritual that involves going over all of the security in my cabin at least a few times. It helps me relax and go to sleep. At least, it does in theory. And that’s not normally something I discuss with other people, just so you know.”