by Laura Drake
I look around, but the place looks the same. Except he’s cooking; the air smells of hot oil and frying meat.
He strides to the kitchen. “I’m cooking you dinner. A Navajo meal.”
“What did I do to deserve—”
“Happy birthday.” When he turns, he has a small, homemade cake in his hands.
“I…you…how…” Shock takes all my words.
He laughs. “You told me when you first came that your birthday was in two weeks. How close did I come?”
“It’s—no, was—yesterday. I forgot all about it.” He picked up on that tiny detail and went to all this trouble, just for me. I know how to handle people being mean. People not seeing me. People trying to hurt me. But this makes me nervous, and embarrassed, and special.
It’s so new, I have no idea what to say. What to think. What to do.
“Hang on, oil’s burning.” He slides the cake onto the counter and steps to the stove and turns off the heat.
I squint at him. “Why would you do this?”
He takes two steps back to where dough sits in a dusting of flour on the counter. He pinches off a small piece, and works it, flattening it into a circle. “Your birthday is an important day. It shouldn’t go by unnoticed.”
Always was before. Oh, once Mom brought me home a cupcake from the day-old section at the store, but that was back when she had room in her head for more than thinking about her next hit. “Okay, but why did you do it?”
He rolls his eyes. “You may not know it, but this is how the civilized world behaves, okay? You do things for your friends.”
He catches my glance and I can’t look away. I’m trying to hold on to my armor, but it’s melting in a blast of heat. “Is that what we are?” I never realized that niceness could be dangerous.
“Aren’t we?” His hands still, and he waits, his dark eyes studying me.
His look has lasers that seem to burst through to the me that’s underneath my armor. And it scares the snark out of me. If I say yes, am I giving away how I feel? “I—I’m not sure.”
“Good enough for now.” He nods, then carries the three dough circles he’s made to the cast iron fry pan, turns on the heat again, and puts them in.
“Can I help?”
“No.”
I walk around the big room, studying the baskets on the walls, each highlighted by little pencil spotlights high in the ceiling. I make my way to a bookshelf on the wall next to the window. They’re all Indian books: basket weaving, leather working, Native New Mexico. I pull one out. The History of the Diné. I thumb through the pages full of drawings of Indians dancing, women working around fires, and more modern photos of men with rifles and dancers. I read the back cover. “Hey, can I borrow this book?”
“You’re welcome to any of them.”
I pick up the only thing atop the bookcase, a black-and-white photo in a frame. It’s of a smiling Indian woman in Navajo dress, her arms around the young boy in front of her who frowns at the camera. “Who is this?”
He looks up and smiles. “That’s my grandmother and me, at a powwow when I was little.”
“She was beautiful.”
“Yes, she was.”
“You look pissed here.”
“That’s my steely look. I was pretending I was Chief Manuelito. He was our war leader, before we were forced on the Long Walk.”
I don’t know what to say. Sorry? I don’t even know if my ancestors were in America then. Mom wasn’t big on genealogy. But I want him to know that I hurt for what his people went through. “All that sucked for y’all.” Smooth, Sweet. Real smooth.
But when he looks up, he doesn’t look offended. “Thank you.”
I don’t know how he knows what I meant, but I let go of the breath I was holding, turn, and set the frame gently on the bookcase.
“Okay, now you can help.”
I carry the book to the counter. He puts me to work pulling bowls of multicolor corn, cheese, lettuce, and tomatoes from the fridge. By the time I’ve done that and set the plates on the bar, he brings over a big bowl of fried loose hamburger, pinto beans, and a plate of the bread he was making. It’s a combination of crisp and soft, a light brown circle like a tortilla only fatter. “What is this?”
“Navajo fry bread. We’re having Navajo tacos. Sit.”
I pile on the ingredients, then wait, not sure how to eat it.
He picks his up and takes a bite, so I do, too.
“Hmmmm.” It’s like a taco, only better. This bread is amazing. “I think you just spoiled me for tacos for the rest of my life.”
“You can find these all over the state.” He doesn’t look up. “Are you going to stay in New Mexico?”
Like I said, dangerous. I take a bite. “Hmmph.”
We talk about everyday stuff through dinner: the town, the café, Wings. The light shines soft off his hair and the bones of his face.
I know he doesn’t know what I’m feeling, so it’s okay to relax and enjoy this. It feels so rare and special, I want to stop time, and just savor it.
After, we have cake. I’m grateful he doesn’t try to sing “Happy Birthday.” I’m not sure what I’d do…and if I cried, I’d never be able to face him again.
With him sitting right next to me, I can’t help but be aware. He has long bones and a kind of graceful slouch, like a jungle cat, resting. He smells of sage; I don’t know if it’s from the spice, or the plant that grows all over around here, but it’s nice. Kinda deep-down sexy.
My first and only experiment with sex was in high school. It seemed every girl in my school was getting laid and I wanted to get that whole virgin thing over with. I picked a nerd that I figured would be so grateful, he wouldn’t blab.
It was good for him, he said. Me? I don’t get the draw. Awkward fumbling and grossness. Who needs it? I can do it better, all by myself.
I realize Joseph just asked me a question, and I have no idea what it was. Blood pounds in my face like it’s trying to bust out. What am I thinking, imagining sex and Joseph in the same ten minutes? “Uh, sorry. I gotta go.” I hop off the stool.
“It’s only seven.”
I just wave a hand on my way to the door. “Gotta get up early and feed the sheep.” Like I don’t do that every day. “Thanks for dinner. And the cake. It was really nice of you.”
“Wait, you forgot this.” He walks across the floor and hands me the book I picked out earlier.
His eyes ask questions, and I can’t look at him, for fear he’ll see the answers on my face.
“Thanks. See you in the morning.” I scoot out the door as fast as I can. The dark feels good. So does the wind, cooling my hot face.
I’d die if he saw the feelings I’m hiding. I learned early to hold a tough look, so no one knew I was scared all the time. I’m terrified, feeling that face slipping, when I’m around him. But the weird thing is, I’m not worried what he’d do—I trust him not to take advantage of it. I’m more worried what I’ll do. I think that’s what they call a slippery slope.
I could be in the wind tomorrow. A coyote howls, far off, and I scan the dark that isn’t as friendly as it was a second ago. I hustle to the trailer, and I feel better when the stepstool is back under the knob.
What is wrong with me? I might notice a guy has a nice body, or something, but this…This is more. Wanting isn’t me. It scares me.
But he’s so nice. And he’s the first guy who seems to care in…ever. I find myself wanting to relax into him and tell him everything. Stories from growing up, and not just sad ones. What I think about things I’ve seen, traveling. About my feelings I hide down deep. Just about anything, to have those soft, caring eyes on me.
And that could get both of us killed.
Chapter 8
Nevada
The truck’s cab feels smaller today, and Joseph’s sagey scent is making it hard to ignore him.
He glances over. “What’s up? You haven’t said more than two words.”
“It’s getting
warmer, did you notice?”
He just raises an eyebrow at me.
Even his eyebrows are masculine; heavy and dark. “Hey, you wanted me to say something. That’s all I got.” I lay in bed last night, thinking about this until way too late. I guess my body got first, what my brain missed, but I’m cutting myself some slack—when you’re worried about someone coming to kill you, you tend to be a little distracted.
But now that I’m aware, I’m terrified he’ll somehow know. I’m not even okay with knowing it myself; I’d freak if he knew.
“Sounds like somebody needs coffee.”
Subject change. That’s what I need. “Do you want help in the greenhouse?”
His eyebrows go up. “Why, what do you need?”
“Why do you assume I need something?” I rub at an oil stain on my jeans.
He stares at me long enough I’m worried we’re going to run off the road.
“Okay, I need to do laundry, and I’ll have to pay you back by doing chores.”
“Oh, for cripes’ sake. You’ve gone all this time? Why didn’t you just ask?”
“I’ve been washing stuff in the sink.”
He just shakes his head. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I try for a smile, but I don’t get one. “And besides, I kinda like the greenhouse. It’s warm, and it’s cool to see the plants poke up through the dirt.”
“Ah, a closet gardener.”
There’s that smile.
“Hardly. How can you ever afford to live, if you give the stuff away?”
“I’m applying for a government grant to start a CSA farm. It would be enough to get me started.”
“What’s a CSA?”
“Community Supported Agriculture. It’s where people buy a share, and they get a portion of the produce. Carly’s in; the café will buy some shares. I know lots of townspeople will support it, but I need money, so I can quit work for a season and get it started.”
“Wow. Sounds risky.”
He shrugs. “Farming is always a risk. But just think. Good, natural food, supporting the community, the community supporting it. The Diné kids would have jobs.” He sighs. “It’s a dream.”
He rambles on, about compost and insects and sheep poop. I only half listen. I’ve never known anyone like him, either. He really cares about people, and is willing to put his back, his money, and everything he has, where his mouth is.
Which only makes me like him more. And that can’t happen.
Part of the problem is that I’m stuck in this truck for an hour a day with him. I need wheels of my own. I can afford it. It’s about time I spent some of the money. Cisco might as well fund my new life—it’d be the first good thing he ever did. If I’m going down, why not go down large? Besides, if I have my own wheels, if I’ve gotta blow outta here fast, I won’t have to wait to find a ride. Another thing I should have thought of a long time ago.
When we step into the back door of the café, Carly walks out of her office in a half apron. “Hey, you two.”
I hang my backpack. “I thought you moved up to accountant. What are you doing in an apron?”
“Sassy needed the day off, and Lorelei is closing, so I dropped Faith off at Nana’s for the day.” She pushes open the swinging door to the dining room. “I just hope Faith doesn’t come home swearing.”
I pull an apron and follow her. “Hey, I’ve got a question for you.”
“Ask while we get ready.” She walks over and pulls out the coffee and filters.
I dampen a rag at the sink and wipe down the counter. “You’re not riding your motorcycle anymore, right?”
“Austin would have a hissy if I did.”
“Can I buy it?”
She stops, mid-scoop. “You don’t know how to ride, do you?”
“No. But I could learn. Can’t be too hard—you did it.” Crap. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant—”
She rolls her eyes. “This isn’t my first day, Ms. Snark.” She chews the corner of her mouth, like when she’s thinking. “Austin would be more than happy to have it gone. I swear he thinks that some pretty day, I’m going to take off on it.” She thinks for a bit more. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll lend it to you.”
“I’ve got money.”
“It’s not about money. Riding a motorcycle is different than a car. You may not like it. Let’s just say it’s a loan, and if you still want it after a month of riding, we’ll talk, okay?”
The odds of me being here in a month are slim, but…” Okay.” I catch her eye. “Thank you.” I rinse out the rag and head for the booths, to wipe down tables and open the blinds.
“Let me check something with Austin.” She pulls out her phone and dials. “Hey, babe. What’cha doing?…Oh, poor you, riding fence on a warm, sunny day…Hey, I’m going to loan the motorcycle to Nevada for a while. Would you teach her to ride, like you did me?” A blush shoots up her neck to her face. “No, not like that. And you keep her away from Chestnut Creek, where it curves by that mossy bank, y’hear?” She listens for a bit. “That’s a great idea. No wonder you’re such a brilliant businessman. I’ve gotta open, I’ll call later, okay? Love you, too.”
“I didn’t mean for you to bother him. I can teach myself.” They’re trying to start up a rough stock business. The last thing he needs to do is spend time with me.
She turns to me with a smile. “He had a great idea. You and Fish come out to our place on Sunday. We’ll slap some burgers on the grill, then Austin will show you how to ride.”
“I don’t know if Joseph will—”
“What time, Carly?” he yells from the kitchen. I forgot you can hear everything through the serving window. My face gets hot.
“Let’s say eleven. We’ll eat, then Nevada can have her lesson. Okay?”
“Sounds good,” he says.
I rinse the rag and hang it under the counter. “I’m bringing the meat. And don’t you argue with me, Davis.” I point a finger at her. “You know I can take you down.”
“I don’t know. That time I dogpiled you in the Costco aisle…”
I’ve gotta laugh. “That’s the only time I’ve ever seen you mad enough to swear.”
“Well, if anyone can drive me to it, it’s you, Sweet.”
“Mission accomplished.” I glance at the clock. Time to open. I walk to the door and unlock it, but there’s no one waiting on the sidewalk. “What the—where is everybody?”
Carly glances up. “Oh, they’ll be here.” But a lightning flash of worry crosses her face, gone almost before I grasp it.
“This is because of that broad at the paper, with her article.” I stand in the empty doorway as dread thunks down, mushing my heart. “This is because of me.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. People are just running late on a Monday, that’s all. Help me lift this bucket of tea, will you?”
But by lunch, even Carly is out of excuses. There have been diners, but less than half the usual. I bring a tray with only a few dirty dishes through the door to the kitchen to see Lorelei and Carly, heads together, with identical worried frowns.
I drop the tray on the counter with a clang. “That’s it. I’m going over and kicking that Miner chick’s butt.”
“Oh yeah, then we can see what she writes this week,” Lorelei says.
“It’s not your fault, Nevada,” Joseph says, arms crossed, leaning against the counter. I’ve never seen him so relaxed at work. Probably because he never has the time.
Guilt stabs at my gut. Trouble has followed me since that horrible morning in Houston. Now it’s rubbing off on people around me. I’m the kiss of death.
“It’s probably just that danged Dusty Banks, lowering prices at the Lunch Box again.” Lorelei looks like she just sucked a lemon.
I rub my hands together. “This calls for reconnaissance.”
“Oh no, Nevada, don’t,” Carly says.
“Why not? I’ve gotta eat lunch anyway.” Before they ca
n argue, I’ve grabbed my backpack, and I’m out the back door.
I cut through the alley to the sidewalk out front. The buildings block the wind and the sun is warm on my back. There’s a faint tinge of green on the trees in the town square, like they want to bud, but are afraid of one last cold snap. A couple of people are wandering along the sidewalk, ogling at the stuff in the few windows that aren’t butcher-papered-over.
Two blocks down, at the very end of “town,” is a white stucco building standing alone. The faded red sign on top reads, THE LUNCH BOX. When I get there, I cup my hands and peer in the window. The inside is all red and white, like it’s going for a ’50s theme, but instead of trendy, it just looks old. Fly-specked windows, with the corpses on the sills. I step in, and tired gray linoleum leads me to the empty counter.
Exactly two of the tall-backed booths are occupied. If Dusty Banks lowered his prices, people haven’t heard yet. Suddenly, I’m not hungry. People staying away from the café is my fault. I turn to leave, but a voice comes from behind me.
“The special today is chili.”
I turn. A tall, rangy guy about my age stands behind the counter, bright blue eyes lasered on me. His shoulder-length hair is black, except for an inch of blond at the ends.
“What do you say? You hungry?” He flashes startling white teeth.
Might as well scope out the competition while I’m here. “Sure.” I straddle the bar stool. “I’ll have the chili.”
He wipes his hands on his apron, turns, and ladles up a bowl of chili from the squat electric pot on the counter behind him, adds a package of saltines to the plate, and sets it in front of me.
He offers a skinny, long-fingered hand. “Dusty Banks.”
I don’t want to shake, but his hand is hanging there. “Nevada.” His grip is strong, but his skin is cold. Damn. He’s gonna know I’m a spy. Unless he doesn’t read the local rag—
His face lights up. “You work at the Chestnut Creek Café, don’t you?”
Busted. “Yeah.” I look down at the bowl in front of me. It’s got a nasty sheen of grease and I don’t see much meat.
He rests his elbows on the counter. “You know Lorelei West then, right?”