Page 57 of Checking Mr. Wrong
I’m feeling like a discarded prize when Mabel’s jaw goes slack. Mary-Ellen grabs her keys and quite literally runs out the door. Mabel waits a few beats before slowly turning to face me.
“Sorry, Asher. No one probably told you about Hurricane Mary-Ellen. She’s a storm all her own.”
I can feel a little tension with her words. “Hey,” I say in an attempt to placate the situation, “it’s fine. She’s a busy mom who likes to be a part of the community.”
“She’s a busybody who doesn’t stay out of anyone’s business,” Mabel manages through gritted teeth. “Oh, except her daughter. That’s one life and person she won’t come near.”
“We can turn the day around,” I say, shaking the can again. “I’m here, I may as well lubricate something.”
Mabel eyeballs me before she takes the list and crumples it up, chucking it across the room into the fireplace. “No. No list. She tricked you.” Her line of sight lands on the bouquet of flowers on the counter. “You brought that woman flowers and she gave you a to-do list?”
I consider my words before shrugging. “My mom would like her.”
“Well, everyone pretty much does. Except when they don’t.” Mabel looks around the room as if she were trying to find answers in the art on the walls.
“Well,” I say, looking at my watch, “since you said no when I asked you out that time, and seeing that I blocked off my wholeafternoon on Mary-Ellen’s insistence—and she is your mom, so guilty by association—I’ve got nothing but time today. Want to come with me to get some lunch?”
“She insisted?”
“Told me she would plan the whole thing. So come on. What’s the pay off from a bachelor auction if I don’t get to eat?”
“I’m not hungry,” she says, her words rapid-fire and sharp. Only, her stomach growls—it is loud and unapologetic, a foghorn cutting through the silence. My eyes flick to her midsection, and I can’t help the smirk tugging at my lips. It’s like her body has called her out in the most embarrassing way possible.
Mabel presses a hand to her stomach, her cheeks flushing a rosy pink as she mutters, “Traitor.”
I bite back a laugh, pretending to focus on the can of WD-40 in my hand. “You sure you don’t want to join me for a pizza? Sounds like you’re halfway there.”
She looks at me. “I can’t get mad at pizza.”
“Didn’t think you would.”
We step out of the Rustic Slice Pizzeria, the lingering scent of garlic and melted cheese still clinging to my shirt. The sun filters through the trees lining Maple Falls Park, dappling the path ahead of us. I glance over at Mabel, her expression unreadable.
I nudge her elbow. “Thanks for coming with me to lunch.”
“Sorry my mom kinda ‘tricked ya and ditched ya’,” she manages with a chuckle.
“Your mom, she’s one of a kind,” I start, hesitating as Mabel stiffens.
“You could say that.”
“She seems like the type who’s there for everyone else. Is it always that way?”
Mabel’s steps falter for a split second before she recovers, her face tightening just enough for me to notice. “Pretty much,” she says, her tone clipped. “She’s got a knack for showing up for the community, but I don’t know. I get it to some degree. She loves it here and her love language is to be busy. Helping others is her way. I just wish I could bottle some of the attention so I could get some of it, too.”
The bitterness in her voice catches me off guard. I don’t push, though. Instead, we walk in silence for a while, the crunch of gravel under our shoes the only sound between us.
“You know,” I finally say, shoving my hands into my pockets, “my mom was a prima ballerina. She was graceful, untouchable, until the accident happened.”
“I know about the accident, but I don’t know the whole story.” Mabel looks over at me, her curiosity piqued.
“Off the record?”
“Of course. Off the record.”
I swallow hard, the memory as vivid as if it happened yesterday. “We have a maple farm back in Canada. When I was a kid, I always wanted to help with the harvest. I thought I was big enough to handle it.” I pause, the words sticking in my throat. “However, my parents didn’t. They would give me jobs to do, then sneak back to check on me, making sure I could handle the responsibility.”
“Sounds logical.”
