In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(23)

“Hmph.” I don’t know what to make of that. I suppose I should’ve guessed. “It’s like high school or something. Everyone knowing everyone else’s business.”

“I suppose.” Rex climbs down the stepladder and wipes his hands on his jeans. He gives me a little smile. “All set,” he says. “I’ll put in the order for a lamp for you on Monday. They have extras in storage, so it shouldn’t be long.”

“Oh, great, thanks.” I wrack my brain for something to say to delay him leaving. Should I ask him to get a coffee or something?

“All right, then. I have to get home to walk Marilyn or she’s like to be stir crazy.” Rex puts everything back in his toolbox and rests it on my desk again. I stand up, unsure of whether I’m supposed to shake his hand or just say good-bye or what.

“Thanks,” I say again, and my voice sounds disappointed even to me. I hear Ginger’s voice in my head: Just ask him for his phone number! The worst he can say is no, and at least then you’ll know and you can stop obsessing over him. Because you are, you know. Obsessing over him.

“Rex, can I—” He looks right at me and I feel all out of sorts. I swallow and try again. “Can I have your phone number? You know, um, so I can call you….” And that, ladies and gentlemen, is where I trail off. Could I be any stupider? Yeah, Rex, can I have your phone number in case you ever want to talk to a socially awkward idiot?

Something crosses Rex’s face that I can’t quite read. Oh shit, he’s actually going to say no.

He searches his pockets without looking at me and doesn’t seem to find whatever he’s looking for.

“Um,” he says, “why don’t you give me yours?”

Oh god, that is a classic blow-off. My face heats and my ears are ringing like they do whenever I’m f*cking mortified. But I rip a corner off of the syllabus on my desk and lean over to write my cell number on it. Then I write Daniel, in case it’s one of a dozen slips of paper with phone numbers Rex never intends to call. Christ, should I put my last name in case there’s another Daniel?

I hand Rex the paper and he folds it carefully and puts it in his pocket.

“Have a good night, Daniel,” he says, and leaves, taking all the air in the room with him.




I’M PASSING by Sludge a few days later, debating whether an evening cappuccino would hit the spot or just make it impossible to sleep, when a sound like a gunshot drops me to the ground out of habit, my heart pounding. I peek around the tree I ducked behind but see nothing except the lush, trimmed grass and well-maintained garbage cans. Then Marjorie pushes open the door to Sludge, wrestling with the glasses she keeps on a chain around her neck.

“Paulie!” Her voice is shrill and I’m struck with the sense that I’m somehow in trouble. “Paulie, was that my car?”

Across the street, the door of a white Honda Accord opens slowly and a thin man slinks out of the car.

I can’t decide whether to stay down, out of the fray, or make a break for it. I’m doing something ill-advisedly in the middle—a kind of pretendI-dropped-something slash tying-my-shoe maneuver—when Marjorie notices me.

“Daniel? What’s wrong? Why are you on the ground?”

“Oh, well,” I say. “Um, just—in my shoe—or….”

That went well.

“Ah, yes, dear,” she says, then turns her attention to the man walking toward us.

“Sorry, Mother,” the man says. “I don’t know what happened. I just tried to start the car and it… exploded.”

“I said you could borrow my car, not break it, Paul,” Marjorie says tartly, and the man winces. Wow, I guess even adults can still get told off by their mothers. I wouldn’t know.

The man—Paul—sighs in irritation. “Well, Mark’s closed for the evening, so I guess I’ll have to take the car in tomorrow.”

“Well, I should hope so, since you’re the one who broke it.”

“I didn’t break it, Mother. Cars just do things. No one knows why. Except Mark,” he says resentfully. “And god knows whether he’s even telling the truth about the cars. I swear, every time I take mine in it costs me three hundred dollars.” I take in his khaki pants and polo shirt and figure that he’s not particularly comfortable in a garage.

“Um, hi,” I say, stepping toward them. “I can take a look at it, if you want. From the sound of it, though, it’s probably your spark plugs, or maybe the catalytic converter.”

They’re both staring at me.

“I’m Daniel,” I say, offering my hand to Paul. That’s what you’re supposed to do in a small town, right? Be friendly and, like, tell people things about yourself?

“You’re the new professor over at the college?” Paul says, trying for casual, but peering at me intently.

“I told you about him, Paul,” Marjorie says, elbowing Paul, and my stomach clenches. “And I wish you would get over this tiff with Mark, dear. You’re not in high school anymore.”

“And you know about cars, do you?” Paul says, clearly desperate for a change of subject even though he looks skeptical.

“A bit. You want to pop the hood?”

While Paul fumbles to pop the hood, I take off my button-down shirt so I don’t get it dirty and untuck my T-shirt so I don’t look like an idiot.