Page 55 of The Weight Of Falling
I swallow a sigh and start across the street toward Joel. I don’t have much of a choice, not with Trish Snel watching me with an indulgent smile, like she’s waiting for us to reenact a scene in a Hallmark movie.
My steps falter as I get closer. How does he manage to look that good in jeans and a plain T-shirt? As if that isn’t already unfair, he’s added an unshaved jaw and rumpled, sexy hair to the mix, making me feel like I’m on uneven ground before I’ve even said hello.
I’m clearly not the only one who’s noticed him. A few women nearby sneak second glances. One even pretends to check her phone while watching him from the corner of her eye.
My grip tightens on the pastry bag. I haven’t seen or spoken to Joel since the embarrassing fainting episode at the gym. I’m hit with the unsettling realization of just how much I’ve missed him.
“Hi.”
He blinks at me, as though coming out of a daze. “Kenzie. Hey.”
I take a sip of coffee to cover up my nerves. Every time I’m around him, it’s as if the air carries more of a charge.
Then I register his bewildered expression. “Are you okay? What happened?”
Joel shakes his head like he’s still not sure. “Frank’s offered to fix my truck.”
Warmth blooms in my chest. I keep my next question light and casual. “Fixing what?”
He holds up a receipt like it just whispered something threatening to him. “The serpentine belt,” he says slowly. “He said it’s starting to wear. I hadn’t even noticed.”
“Frank’s got a sixth sense for that kind of thing,” I tell him. “He once diagnosed my alternator by the sound it made backing out of a parking space.”
Joel rubs the back of his neck. “He offered to fix it free of charge and told me to bring it by next week.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
He doesn’t respond right away. His brow furrows, like he’s working through something that has nothing to do with serpentine belts. Like kindness is a language he’s never had to translate. “I didn’t think he even knew my name.”
I bump him lightly with my elbow. “Of course, he knows your name.”
Joel looks down at the receipt again, then folds it carefully and slips it into his pocket. He looks back toward the store. “I didn’t ask for help.”
“That’s kind of how it works here,” I say gently. “People show up for each other. Whether you ask them to or not.”
He doesn’t reply, but I catch the tension in his jaw, almost as if he’s bracing for the fine print. Maybe Joel Adams doesn’t know how to belong, but Brown Oaks might have a thing or two to teach him.
As if to prove my point, Ross Clement, retired postmaster and part-time porch-sitter, ambles up holding a brown paper bag.
“Joel, right?” he asks gruffly.
“Yeah,” Joel answers cautiously.
Ross hands him the bag. “Best trail mix in town. Made it myself. Got dried cherries and those fancy nuts that aren’t peanuts.”
Joel blinks and takes the bag from him. “Thanks.”
Ross simply grunts and walks off without another word.
Joel watches him go, then looks at me like I’m the one who can explain this town.
I can’t resist. “I have a feeling someone will gift you a goat next.”
He looks so horrified, I burst out laughing.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he grumbles.
“A little,” I admit. “Okay, a lot,” I amend, still laughing. “I think Ross and Frank might be vying for the title of honorary father-in-law.”
