Page 7 of Checking Mr. Wrong
Mabel’s scowl deepens, and she shoots me a look, her eyebrow arching. “Seriously?” she says, her tone hovering somewhere between annoyed and incredulous. “I feel like I’m in a movie theater and you’re that guy sitting behind me, chewing the loudest, breathing the heaviest, and opening his candy wrappers like they have a microphone attached to them.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, pausing mid-crinkle. My fingers hover over the bag as I debate what to do. I know the sound is irritating—it’s irritating me, too—but now I’m stuck. I can’tnotfinish opening it. Leaving it half open feels...wrong.
I try again, slower this time, hoping to keep the noise down. It doesn’t work. The sound feels like it’s echoing inside my skull, every crackle grating against my nerves and upping my anxiety, which means it’s got to be doing the same in multitudes for the angel sitting in the car beside me.
“Could you not?” she says, sharper now.
My cheeks burn, and I crinkle the bag shut, shoving it into the cup holder. “Gummy bears are overrated anyway.”
I try not to look her way. Something in me has been triggered, and I can feel my own storm bubbling underneath the surface. I need to calm down. I flex my fingers in front of me, tapping each one in sequence—thumb to index, index to middle, all the way to pinky, then back again. The rhythm is familiar, soothing, but not enough to calm the heat rising in my chest.
I catch her glancing at me out of the corner of my eye, her scowl softening. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” The lie is automatic, but my voice is tight, clipped. I tap my fingers together again, faster this time, needing the motion to anchor me.
I can feel her watching me, so I switch gears. Well, kind of. It’s not me choosing to switch—it’s my OCD making me. My brain latches onto something new, something urgent. Now, I think I need to check my wallet. Do I have it? I reach back, my fingers brushing over the outline in my pocket. It’s there, but that’s not enough.
I pull it out, flipping it open to double-check. Cards, cash, ID—all accounted for. Still, I snap it shut and tap it against my thigh, my mind whispering that I might have missed something. So I do it again.
“What’s going on?” Mabel’s voice cuts through my thoughts, cautious but curious. “Did you lose something?”
“You’re making me nervous.” Am I covering with that response? Yes, but it’s not fully a lie.
She sighs. “I don’t mean to.”
I can feel my pulse slowing, so I keep my focus on my seatmate. I know from times in the past, this can help take me out of my own head so I can breathe again. And, if we’re being honest, she does scare me a little, but in a good way.
“It’s fine,” I manage, waving a hand in the air to prove how fine it is. “I am a man who can handle my nerves.”
Joe chokes on something in the front seat as she looks at the floor. “I’m just anxious about coming home, okay?”
I decide to glaze over the moment of vulnerability. I’ve come up against women like Mabel, and the last thing you do is call them out on it. “Well, you do scare me, but it’s not all bad. You seem focused.”
“Focused.” She chuckles. “I’ll take it.”
Her lips twitch with the ghost of a smile, but before I canpress my advantage, Joe slams on the brakes, throwing me into the back of the front seat.
“Farm stand!” he announces, veering into a gravel parking lot. “Need eggs for the wife. Do you guys want any?”
Mabel and I exchange a look as we both shake our heads. Joe shrugs. “Your loss. Be right back.”
The door slams, leaving me alone with Mabel in what has just become the world’s smallest backseat.
“So,” I say, leaning back casually. “What brought Mabel from Maple Falls back to town? Maple Fest?”
She scoffs. “I’m here for work, not a festival.”
“Oof.” I tap my chest. “So all work and no fun when you’re in town?”
“This town puts the ‘fun’ in dysfunctional,” she says, finally meeting my eyes. “So probably not.”
I chuckle, but before I can respond, Joe returns and climbs back into the driver’s seat, triumphantly holding a carton of eggs. “Fresh as they come!”
He sets the carton on the passenger seat, then pulls back out onto the road, swerving the car slightly. Mabel grips the door handle like it’s her lifeline, glaring at him. “Please be careful, I still have a life to live.”
Her snark is a great distraction from the low-grade panic simmering under my skin. I press my palms flat against my thighs, grounding myself, trying to ignore the way the week’s chaos has thrown everything off balance.
Canceled flights, new town, and my gear missing in transit. The second I landed here, my brain started buzzing, running endless loops ofwhat-ifsI can’t shut off. What if my skates don’t make it? What if I can’t perform in front of this new team? And now, I’m planted in close proximity with the most gorgeous woman…who is making my palms sweat. Who am I? And what if I burp in front of her? I can’t even remember if I put on deodorant.
