Big Man

“Your partner, is it now?” Etna’s eyebrows rise.

I remember her now, though. Those names—Etna, Hank—they triggered memories I didn’t even know were buried in my head. I remember Mama going over to tea at their place sometimes on Saturdays, when I couldn’t have been more than ten years old. I remember cavorting around their yard with some other kids. What were their names? I shake my head. Don’t know, but still.

I extend a hand, smiling. “Etna, I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you at first. How are your kids doing?”

She smiles back, her cheeks flushing a little, clearly surprised and pleased that I remember anything at all. “Just fine, thank you dear. And, a bit belated I suppose, but my sincerest condolences about your mother. She was a fine woman, Maryanne.”

“You’re the spitting image of her,” Hank puts in, a little warmer now that I’ve spoken up. But still. There’s a downturn at the corner of his mouth, a faint suspicion in his gaze. When he glances back at Grant, though, he’s all smiles again. “Hope you aren’t tiring yourself out too much, working up there all alone.”

“Got some help now,” Grant says with a smile, his hand tightening slightly on my shoulder.

Just that touch, even through the fabric of my T-shirt, is enough to make my body tense and a pulse of electricity flare in my nerves, deep in my belly.

“I hate to say hey and run, but…” Grant gestures from the supplies to the clock above the couple’s head. “Running low on sunlight and high on chores, so.”

“Of course, no problem, honey.” Etna beams. Then she darts a glance at me, something maybe almost apologetic in her gaze, before she turns to start counting up the items. “All together?”

“Sure,” Grant says before I can butt in.

I turn to glance at him all too aware of his hand still resting on my shoulder. “Grant,” I start in a low voice, but he cuts across me in a voice just as low.

“I’m saving receipts,” he says. “They’re all business deductions, we’ll take it out of the profits once we’ve sold the place.”

“You’re selling?” Hank butts in now, eyes wide.

“That’s the plan,” Grant replies, now looking over my head at the man. But I can’t help but notice the tightness around his jaw, or the way his hand drops off my shoulder and he doesn’t meet my gaze anymore.

What’s that about?

I don’t have time to wonder, because Etna’s already finished bagging up our supplies, and Grant accepts them from her to lead us out of the store.

I trail after, casting one last glance over my shoulder at the couple to wave as we leave. They wave back, though I have a feeling it’s mostly for Grant’s sake, from the way their eyes narrow when they catch mine, and their hands drop back to their laps the second Grant is out of sight.

We load up the truck in silence, and I climb into the cab—after Grant yet again insists on opening the door and helping me up—without a word.

“I need to stop at the grocery on the way back,” he says. “Figured I’d cook tonight. You want to do a run too?”

“Sure,” I mumble.

He lets that sit for a few seconds. “What’s eating you?” he asks when he starts the truck up again.

“Nothing.” I glance out the window.

He snorts faintly. I spin to glare at him.

“What’s so funny?”

“You acting like a grumpy teenager,” he replies bluntly. “You don’t want to talk about it?”

I bite the inside of my cheek again, annoyed at how easily he can read me. At how transparent I’m being. “It’s nothing,” I say. “It’s just…” I sigh. “The way Etna and Hank were, the way Mark was yesterday… People don’t like me here. They don’t want me around.”

“Why do you care what they think?” Grant replies with a shrug. “You left this place behind for a reason once. You’re planning to do the same thing again. What’s it matter to you how the people you left behind feel about that?”

He has a point. I lean back in my seat and wrap my hands around the belt, tugging at it. Why do I care, anyway? I’m never going to see these people again. I didn’t have a damn thing to do with them for fifteen years, not since I left for my better, far more exciting life in the city. Why do I care if they resent me for having that life, for choosing it over this one?

“Fair point,” I mumble, not quite sure how to respond. How do I articulate why it bugs me? Because, despite the fact that I shouldn’t give a damn what anyone in this town thinks… It does still bother me. I just can’t put a finger on why.

We hit the grocery store, shopping in separate aisles. I finish a lot faster—I figure Grant has a lot to stock up on, since he lives here, whereas I’m just passing through. I only need enough to get me through this week, and in my book, that’s mostly pasta and ramen, plus a few fruits and veg for my lunchtime salads.