Page 4 of From the Wreckage

Brielle

It’s Friday, and my Silverpine summer routine is in full swing. Today it’s morning coffee with Dad, running a few errands with him, and helping at the shop if he needs me.

We end up at Millie’s Diner for lunch. It’s a charming place with its faded red booths and a pie display that could win awards. Dad’s been coming here for years, and sure enough, we’re barely seated before one of his regular customers spots him.

“Grayson Kincaid! Haven’t seen you all week,” the guy says, clapping Dad on the shoulder.

“Been busy,” Dad replies, grinning as they start talking shop.

I offer a polite smile, then focus on my iced tea, letting their conversation fade into background noise.

I glance out the window and nearly choke when I see the black truck guy, idling at the light across from the diner, the sun glinting off the windshield. My breath catches as I stare, blinking like I’m not sure if I’m dreaming or awake.

He’s tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Maybe to a song or possibly because he’s irritated. I can’t tell from here, especially since he’s wearing sunglasses.

He doesn’t turn his head in my direction, so I stare, drinking in his profile. He has thick, dark hair and a strong jawline that’s covered in dark scruff. The same air of quiet intensity I noticed the other day on Main Street radiates around him.

The light changes, and he drives off without glancing in my direction.

Once again, I wonder who he is. Weirdly, no one has mentioned someone new moving to town. In Silverpine, news like that travels faster than wildfire.

Maybe he’s visiting someone. Hopefully, it’s not a girlfriend.

I catch myself and mentally roll my eyes. Seriously, Bri? You don’t know this man. And you’re dating Joey.

Have you forgotten Joey? The guy who texts every morning and says he misses you.

Guilt has me squirming in the booth.

I take another sip of tea and force myself to look anywhere but Main Street.

Later that afternoon, Dad asks me to pick up a package from the post office. I’m halfway there when I spot the black truck parked outside Lockwood Hardware. My foot eases off the gas, my heart pounding. I scan the sidewalk, then the store’s front windows, but there’s no sign of Mr. Hottie.

A part of me wants to park the truck and wander inside. Pretend I’m there for nails or lightbulbs, just to see if he’s in one of the aisles.

Instead, I tighten my hands on the wheel and press my foot on the accelerator. It’s ridiculous to be curious about a stranger, especially one who probably has a girlfriend or a wife.

That thought hits me in the chest harder than it should.

I grit my teeth the rest of the way to the post office.