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The carton went in the recycling bin and Paul on a mission, rummaging through the kitchen for more Piggly Wiggly contraband. He found all the good stuff—the cheese in a can, the toaster pastries, the fruit rollups and snack cakes.
“Not the Moon Pies,” I said, laughing even though I was serious. When you grow up like Chet and I did, you don’t waste food, and youdefinitelydon’t throw any away. I came up behind him as he rummaged through the pantry, distracting him with a kiss between his shoulder blades. “Just as long as you don’t find the SpaghettiOs I’m making for dinner.”
He turned in my arms, and the side of his mouth quirked up. “You’re joking, right?”
“Yes, Paul. I’m joking.” I tried to give him a serious look, but I couldn’t hold back my giggle. “We’re having Spam.”
The memory gives me a pang, both sweet and sour at the same time. I calculate how long he’s been gone, picture the map of Lake Crosby in my mind. Twenty-six miles of shoreline—the equivalent of a marathon if you go all the way around, which Paul won’t, and he can’t be moving that fast, not after a run and with that backpack strapped to his shoulders. Still, even with tired legs, he can cover a lot of ground in three days.
But my brother’s right. That pumpkin stuff was the shit.
“Please don’t tell me Annalee threw you out again.”
It’s a logical assumption, because ever since Chet moved into her house, a tiny ranch on the outskirts of town, the two of them have spent half their time breaking up and the other half getting back together—most often loudly and in public. Annalee loves drama, and she loves when others share in hers. He makes a face and I know that I’m right.
“Oh my God, y’all are the most wishy-washy couple I’ve ever met. At what point do you just throw in the towel and take the loss?”
He scratches his head. “Have you two been talking on the phone or something? Because now you’re sounding just like her.”
I inhale long and slow, blow it out even slower. I love my brother, honestly I do, but sometimes I wonder if I’m going to be the only one. Oh, women like him well enough, but then the initial glow fades and shines a spotlight on all his faults. He’s messy. Immature. Aimless and possibly very lazy. But he loves with his whole, enthusiastic heart, which is both his best and his worst quality. He’s constantly getting it smashed to pieces.
I soften my tone. “Want to tell me what happened?”
He grabs the cups from under the dispenser, slides one across the island to me and leans on the counter with both elbows. “Okay, so you know how I thought Ted was looking to expand, buy up that other shop in Cashiers and let me run it?”
“Yeah.” Ted is his boss, the ancient mechanic who owns Lake Crosby Automotive.
“Well, he wasn’t looking tobuy, but to sell. Some chain out of Asheville swooped in and bought up a whole bunch of shops, including his. They sent everybody home but the master mechanics.”
“So go back to school, get a certificate.” Up to now, Chet’s training has consisted mostly of YouTube videos and trial and error on my old clunker, which he’s managed to keep running for fourteen years and over two hundred thousand miles. That’s got to count for something. “And you know more obscure car facts than anyone I’ve ever met. You’re like the car version of the Rain Man. You can always learn.”
He gives me a look over his coffee cup. “Nobody’s ever accused me of being smart except you, which is how I know you’re full of it. And even if I was smart enough, what am I gonna do in the meantime? I can’t pay my share of the rent until I get another job, and even then, it’ll take a couple of weeks before the pay kicks in.”
“So she just kicked you out? Not cool.”
At the same time, the realization he’s got nowhere to stay wilts that hard knot between my shoulder blades. This house is too big, too made of glass to sleep in alone—especially with a murderer on the loose. With Chet here, maybe I won’t look out the darkened windows and feel eyes, watching my every move. Maybe I’ll actually sleep.
“It wasn’t just the job. It’s also...” He winces and shifts from foot to foot, boots scraping against wood. “Okay, so Annalee’s been dying to go to Disney for, like, ever. It’s her dream vacation, to drive down to Florida and spend a week visiting all the parks. Every Sunday night, she’d make us empty our wallets into the cookie jar. She said after a while, we’d have enough. She even made a little sign she taped onto it, with drawings and everything. She called it Mickey Money.”
“Cute.”
“But I’ve been asking around, and do you know what that place costs? Not just the tickets for the parks, but the hotel and the gas and these special passes so you don’t have to stand around in line, and apparently everybody walks around with these giant turkey legs that cost ten bucks a pop.” He shakes his head. “How am I supposed to pay for all that?”
For people like Chet, living month to month, vacations are not a luxury but a liability. What if his roof springs a leak or he needs a new refrigerator? Any money left over at the end of the month should go into an emergency fund, and Chet’s question was rhetorical. He can’t pay for a Disney vacation. He shouldn’t.
Chet sighs. “And then the rent came due and I couldn’t make my share, and there was that cookie jar full of cash, just sitting there on the counter...” His words dissolve into a shrug.
“Chet. You didn’t.”
“What? Half of it was mine anyway, and I was going to put her half back as soon as I found another job. I’m gonna pay her back. I just need for her to give me a minute.”
This is the part where I’m supposed to reach for my wallet, to offer up some cash he’ll never spend a second thinking about repaying. Chet pauses, waiting. I press my lips together and say nothing.
He sighs. “Honestly, Char, in this weird-ass way, it feels like maybe the universe is giving me a sign. I mean, that mechanic thing felt like something I just fell into, you know? I’m decent at it, but it’s not what I love to do. Maybe it’s time for me to branch out. To find my passion.”
A mechanic, a concrete pourer, a leaf blower, a valet, a window washer. Chet changes jobs like other people change out their toothbrushes. I try to be supportive, but he’s running out of new professions to try.
“What’s your passion?” I say, my voice dubious. Sometimes I wonder how we’re related. All I’ve ever wanted out of life is stability, but Chet seems to thrive on upheaval.