In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(87)

“I’ll be there,” I tell her. Chanukah at Ginger’s is one of my favorite traditions, even though I hate Christmas music. Ginger thinks it’s cruel and unusual that there is no Chanukah music and she’s not one for klezmer or Adam Sandler, so she’s reclaimed Christmas music. She even rewrote some of the lyrics.

“So, are you having Thanksgiving at Rex’s?”

“I don’t know. It hasn’t come up.”

“Well, is he going to be in town or does he go visit family?”

“He doesn’t have any.”

“Family? What happened?”

“He didn’t know his dad, he’s an only child, and his mom died when he was a teenager. Actually, except for Will, I haven’t even met any of his friends. I’m not sure he has many.”

“That’s sad.” Ginger and I both have fraught relationships with our families, but at least we have them.

“Do you think I should ask him? I mean, I don’t know if I should bring it up. Maybe holidays make him sad, or maybe it would seem like I’m trying to invite myself over, or what if—”

“Um, Daniel. Those are kind of the things you’re supposed to talk about in a relationship.”

“Oh, right. Sure.”

Maybe I’d rather go back to my book after all.




“DANIEL!” LEO exclaims as I walk through the door of Mr. Zoo’s.

“Hey, man,” I say.

“Need more tapes?” Leo asks with a cheeky smile.

“No, but you might want to check your cases. Some Pet Shop Boys fan is going to be surprised by a John Hiatt album. I’m looking for a record.”

“But I thought you didn’t have a record player?”

Jesus, does this kid remember every goddamned thing I say?

“It’s, uh, for Rex.”

“Aw, Rex,” Leo coos.

“Careful there, kiddo. At least I can remain upright in his presence, which is more than I can say for you when Will is around.”

Leo turns a satisfying shade of red.

“Um, the records are over there,” he mutters, pointing.

I flip through them, looking for something special. Something that Rex would love. I can’t quite figure his taste yet. Everything he listens to is old, passed down from his mom, but he likes Tori Amos and he’s seemed to know several other bands I’ve mentioned. I consider getting him a few things I really like, but I’m not sure he’ll like them. I linger over an Etta James album and a Lou Reed, then consider some of the bands I first saw play live, but that seems sappy. I finally decide on an Emmylou Harris record and take it up to Leo.

“So, what’s the occasion?” Leo asks.

“No occasion. He just did something nice and I want to say thank you.” Jesus, it sounds like I’m describing National Secretaries Day or something.

“That’s nice of you. What did he do?”

Leo seems to have no clue that certain things are none of his business, but the kid is growing on me, and it’s not like it’s particularly personal.

Last night, Rex came over carrying something that looked like the beautiful piece of wood I’d seen him working on in his woodshop a few days before.

“What’s this?” I asked him.

“You needed a new kitchen table,” he said. His posture was comfortable and commanding like usual, but I could see uncertainty in his face, no doubt because of my totally ungrateful response to his previous efforts regarding my table.

I took a deep breath. No one had ever made anything for me before, and I couldn’t even imagine how many hours it must have taken Rex to craft this piece. Rex doing that—showing up like that—was a test. Not that Rex engineered it as one; he’s not manipulative like that. But it was a test of whether or not this could be okay between us and I knew it. This was Rex showing me that he cared.

I smiled and stepped aside. Rex fitted in the legs and skimmed the wood with a tender hand. The table reminded me of him: sturdy and comfortable and welcoming.

“It’s amazing,” I said, and Rex’s smile told me I’d passed the test for sure.

So, now, here I am at Mr. Zoo’s because I wanted to get Rex a record or something to say thank you.

“He made me a new kitchen table,” I say. “Mine broke.”

“Whoa! That’s amazing.”

Yeah, it really is. Leo looks at me and then down at Emmylou and gets a weird look on his face.

“What?”

“Um, no offense or anything,” he says, “and I’m sure it’s a good album and all, but that’s kind of a lame present for someone who, like, carved you something out of a tree with his bare hands.”

Shit. Shit, he’s totally right.

“Sorry!” he says.

“No, you’re f*cking right,” I say, letting out a breath.

“You swear a lot.”

“Yeah, I guess I do. Sorry.” He just smiles. “So, you got any better ideas?” I ask. “And if you insinuate anything to do with sexual favors, so help me….”

“Well, what have you already done for him?”

“Done?”

“Yeah, like, what nice things, so I don’t repeat them.”

Nice things. What nice things have I done for Rex? Fuck all, that’s what. Better question: what nice things has Rex done for me? Rescued me after a car accident and given me a place to stay for the night even though I was a total stranger. Saved the dog I hit with my car. Fixed the desk in my office when he barely even knew me. Warned me about the weather. Come to pick me up in the middle of a snowstorm when my car died. Cooked for me. Taken me to dinner. Given me a massage. Gotten the Internet at his house for me even though he doesn’t use it himself. Made me a kitchen table even after I yelled at him the last time he brought it up.