You Deserve Each Other(86)

My phone chimes with a text from Nicholas at 9:50 to say he arrived safely in Cohasset.

Good luck! I reply. I don’t know what I’m wishing him luck for. He’s not doing any of this for himself; he’s doing it for his parents.

He replies, You, too! For extra good luck, drive by the Junk Yard on your way to the interview. Seeing an old friend might be just the boost you need.

My old friend died a slow, agonizing death. It will probably sit empty for at least five years, or maybe get bulldozed, which can only serve to bum me out. But Nicholas is trying to be sweet and encouraging, so I send him back a smiley face. He’s so cute even when he’s wrong.

I think about what Nicholas is up to today. His devotion to family, being the rock they all depend on. Being the man they call to come fix whatever’s gone wrong, to smooth it out and make it better. I think of what these qualities will be like when transferred to a wife and children. I think how there’s no way he’ll ever miss a school play, a parent-teacher conference, a soccer game. How he’ll want his wife to know he’s capable of supporting her financially and she can work if she wants but doesn’t have to, because that’s how he shows his love—by providing stability.

It’s a gesture I’ve completely misinterpreted, since it’s loving but not necessarily romantic. You look at a love letter and it’s clear as day—you think, This is a love letter. But when your significant other says, You don’t need to work. You don’t need a job, you might hear, I don’t think you’ll find meaningful employment without a college education. I don’t believe in you.

In my head, I’ve been assuming that when Nicholas says I don’t need to work, what he means is that any job I’d qualify for is so beneath his notice that I might as well not work at all. In Nicholas’s head, all he’s done is say, Here I am, here I am. Be anything! It doesn’t matter if you don’t make much money, because I’ll take care of you. I’ll let you need me. I’ll be your rock, whatever happens. Spread your wings, you can always fall back on me.

Our communication has been so shitty, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

I decide to put on Nicholas’s hat and coveralls because wearing his clothes is the next best thing to bringing him with me, and I cringe to remember smirking at his big, durable boots and the button-down flannel, him wanting to change his stripes. Why shouldn’t he be allowed to change his stripes? He can have spots, too, if he wants. I open the closet and find two pairs of coveralls: his, and a much smaller one. It’s an initiation into his secret society.

On the drive to the campground, I repeat comforting phrases that remind me there’s no use worrying about decisions not totally in my control. If it’s meant to be, it will be. If they don’t want to hire me, that’s their loss. Everything happens for a reason. I’m lying to myself, but at least I feel better.

As the road rears up to pass the lifeless shell of the Junk Yard, I prepare for the usual twinge of anguish, but it’s peppered with surprise when I spot my car in the parking lot. Or Leon’s car now, I suppose. God, I miss that Saturn. If I were Nicholas, I would never let me live that down. The fact that I no longer assume it’s a pulled punch he’s saving gives me hope. We’re making progress.

Maybe it’s muscle memory, but I turn on my blinker and pull into the parking lot. A friendly face appears at the window and waves. I wave back.

“Hey!” Leon calls from the back room when I trundle into the shop.

“Hey, yourself!” I revolve in a circle. The store’s gutted. There are rows of stains where shelves have sat without budging since the 1970s. A ghost of the Junk Yard still clings in the form of an aluminum sign on the wall above the register. It’s been there since before I was born, I’m sure: a picture of a little girl bending to feed a mouse a wheel of cheese. Underneath it says It’s the little things. “Wow. This place is empty.”

“I know.” He comes out of the back. “Weird, isn’t it? Somehow it looks even smaller now that everything’s gone.”

“What are you still doing here?” I ask him. “Mr. and Mrs. Howard got you on cleaning duty until the place sells?”

“Nope! As of three o’clock on Wednesday, this place is officially sold.” He leans against the counter and waggles his eyebrows, giving me a big, cheesy grin. “I was actually going to text you and ask if you wanted to swing by today or tomorrow to see it. I swore Nicholas to secrecy because I wanted to see the look on your face when you heard who bought it. I know you doubted me.”

I gasp. “No way.”

“And there’s the look.” He folds his arms, nodding. “You’re standing in Backwoods Buffet. Coming this spring.”

“Backwoods Buffet?” I repeat with a laugh. I can’t believe Nicholas managed to keep this a secret. A few days ago Leon came over to fish in the pond with Nicholas and when I walked up on them to say hi, they clammed right up even though until then they’d been gabbing a mile a minute. Naturally, I assumed they were talking about me and I’m not entirely wrong.

He beams. “I’ve got other names if Backwoods Buffet sounds bad. The Grizzly Bear. Fireside. Timber! With an exclamation point, like you know how loggers used to yell …” He stops because I’m still laughing. “Hey, Timber!’s a good one.”