Page 117 of I'm Your Guy
And I’d hate that.
It’s a blessing that I’ve missed him, but I’m not strong enough to leave his follow-up texts unread.
Look, I know you’re keeping your distance from me, and you have your reasons. But there will be three excellent tickets for tomorrow’s game at the Will Call window. (Photo attached.)Two for Rigo and his dude. And one for you.
Warning, the one for you is beside my mother’s.
Another warning—she seems to have some fabulous intuition about me and you. Not that I’ve said a word. Maybe it’s the hangdog face I’ve been wearing since you left.
I know that’s my fault, too. I’m working on it. You were right to leave, because right away it made me realize how much I’d miss you. I’m sick of being alone, and lately I can’t remember why I thought I had to be.
Please come to my game, okay? And later I will introduce you to my mom, and not just as a friend. If that’s okay with you.
But if you can’t, I understand. And I won’t hold it against you. Please do me the favor, though, of telling Rigo about the tickets. I hope they have a great time.
I don’t respond. Instead, I curl up on the bed and stare at the popcorn ceiling.
* * *
The next day finds me on a hideous plastic chair at the Subaru dealership, while a guy with a lot of motor oil under his fingernails works on the broken thing in my car.
He said it might be the fuel filter. Or the fuel injector? Something that manly, competent dudes would understand.
Stuck here, I have a lot of time on my hands. I spend it contemplating all my life choices.
When I’d run into Macklin at the store, he’d had a lot to say. And much of it had been true. He was right that I had more dreams than plans. I don’t know how to run a business.
Leaving had felt like the right thing to do—at least until my car sputtered to a halt.
As I sit thinking on my plastic chair, I’m trying to be honest with myself about where my life stands. Thanks to Tommaso, I’m not in debt anymore. My credit will soon bounce back. Things could really be worse.
And I miss Tommaso. Desperately. What if I sold our relationship short? I care about him. Running away feels like cowardice now—not like strength.
Besides, I can’t stop thinking about the storefront apartment on Fourteenth Street. I can’t stop picturing myself there, starting over, and taking another run at my dream.
What does fate want from me, anyway? Does a busted fuel-thinger mean that I’m supposed to stay in Colorado? Or does it mean the opposite? Maybe fate is telling me to man up and work an hourly job until I can afford a car that won’t die on the highway exit.
And what about that ticket to the hockey game? I’ve already given Rigo and Buck the good news. They’d be cheering from Row C.
But there might be an empty seat across the aisle. I still haven’t figured out what to do.
Tommaso offered me the ticket, though. Right beside his mother. That has to mean something. Doesn’t it?
I open the banking app on my phone and check the balance. Most of my apartment rental fund is still there. But hotel rooms and car repairs will kill that off pretty quickly.
So what to do? After a few minutes of contemplation, I strike a bargain with myself.
If the repair can’t be completed today, or if it costs more than five hundred dollars, I’ll go home to Montana and rebuild my savings.
But if I’m out of here by five o’clock, and if it costs less than five hundred, I’ll turn around and see tonight’s game.
With that decision made, I sit back and mentally redecorate the waiting room. The place is ugly enough that it will take hours. Wood floors would warm the space up. The cinder block wall could be hidden behind some paneling.
The feng shui is all wrong, so I’ll have to move all the furniture after I have it reupholstered. And this lighting? It’s tragic. We’re going to need some track lighting with a warmer color temperature…
“You’re all set.”
I look up to see Mr. Oily Nails, and he’s offering me my key. “Oh wow. Thank you.” I glance at the clock. It’s 4:57. I could almost make it to Tommaso’s game.
