Smoke and Mirrors

by M. Mabie

  I swallowed. The need to say something—anything—nagged. When we were younger it had been easier for us, and we never ran out of things to talk about. Times were different.

  “Um. How many orders did you need?” Mom had left his ticket on the counter so I already knew he was getting six, enough for the station and Sheriff Long. He came in about three times a week, always taking large orders to go.

  “Six.”

  “Extra rolls?” They were about to come out of the oven, and he usually wanted more than what came with the meal. I always gave him extra anyway; I didn’t need to ask.

  “Yes, please.”

  All our conversations were the same, generic small talk, never anything real.

  “Are you working at Sally’s tonight?”

  “Yeah, later.” I stretched my neck, ambled behind the counter, and, as I rounded the glass case, I stopped to lean on it. “You know how it is. You have as many jobs as I do.”

  His thick arm hung, swinging behind the back of the chair.

  “Do you have to work so much?” he asked, but neither the question nor his tone were invasive. Moments like that, when it was just the two of us and the world wasn’t looking or needing something from us, were infrequent.

  That was just life.

  “I’m saving up. Mom’s moving in with Darrell in the next few months.” I lifted the lid on the muffin platter and straightened them with a set of tongs, careful to only touch the pleated wrappers. “She stays next door most of the time now anyway. I don’t expect her to keep paying the bills if she’s not there. I’m putting as much away as I can. How about you?”

  Here we were with a few free minutes, talking about our jobs and responsibilities. Thankfully, we both knew talking about work was safest. Neither of us ever brought up back then.

  It was easier that way—at least for me. Maybe he didn’t think about it at all.

  He laced his hands together behind his head. “I like staying busy. Passes the time.”

  EIGHT YEARS EARLIER

  “I swear you’re the most boring guy I know.” My feet swung off the tailgate of Aaron’s truck at the Park and Fish lot we hung out in sometimes. “All you like to do is play firefighter and work. You’re really not going to your senior prom?”

  His shoulder bumped into mine and he replied like it was no big deal, “I’m really not going, I don’t play firefighter, and I’ll have you know, there are other things I like doing.”

  I’d been waiting all spring for him to ask me to go. God, I wanted him to. Yet, I was a sophomore and he was a senior. So if he wasn’t going, I was shit out of luck.

  “I’m sure. Like what?” My tone had changed, but I was truly disappointed. I’d felt like prom was my last shot at anything more than just friendship with Aaron. The dancing. The dressing up. The chivalry. The part where I’d be his official plus one. Although, I’m sure he’d let me know it wasn’t like that.

  He always did.

  I never gave up, though. There was something there. I wasn’t crazy. Guys didn’t just hang out with girls like Aaron hung out with me.

  “I like helping my dad.” He slapped the narrow space of cool metal between us. “I like riding around in this truck.”

  “Listening to Taylor Swift,” I alleged. It was a cheap shot, but I felt like being a shit.

  Predictably, he denied it. “Shut up. No, I don’t. You like Taylor Swift. I just tolerate the Tay for you.”

  I laughed, knowing it was bullshit. Every morning when he picked me up for school he’d have “You Belong with Me” queued up.

  “Whatever you say. Will you be gone the whole weekend then?” Our weekends were numbered, and if he went to his sister’s college graduation and not prom, that meant one less.

  “Back on Sunday, but yeah. It’s kind of a big deal. Graduating college. What kind of brother would I be if I missed that?”

  He was right. He was always right. Always doing the right thing. At the right time.

  He was no fun.

  “I’m just going to miss you.” That weekend and soon a lot more than that. The Air Force would have him. I pouted and gave him my best puppy dog eyes, letting him know I understood. Playfully, I argued, “Fine, just go. Leave me all alone. But don’t you have any fun without me.”

  Okay, I was only half kidding.

  The cocky grin he’d worn most of the night slipped from his face. “Fay, I never do.”

  FOR A MINUTE OR SO, we didn’t say anything. He had that look on his face again, the one that used to mean talk to me, but that was too dangerous. Besides, I couldn’t be sure what his looks meant anymore. We were both different.

  Regardless, sometimes I couldn’t help myself. Whether it was there or at the bar, I’d catch myself staring at him. Sometimes he’d stare back. Nobody knew but us.

  Every once in a while, I’d fool myself into thinking something was still there between us.

  A dim spark.

  A phantom sensation.

  A faded hope.

  I’d excuse it away, but every now and then it was difficult, like in that frozen moment in the empty diner. His gaze was so similar to the one he’d had forever ago, back when I’d asked him for promises he couldn’t make.

  I couldn’t ask him for anything anymore, but I still liked the way his eyes would move over me, which was about as much action as I’d ever get.

  The buzzer sounded in the kitchen and the precious stolen minute was spent. Hot rolls needed me or they’d burn, and I’d burn if I didn’t look away.

  “I’ll go bag up your stuff.”

  Aaron sat forward, snapping out of it too, and his long index finger tapped the table top. He nodded, inhaled, and rocked his jaw side to side.

  I rolled my eyes at myself for letting my mind wander to places it shouldn’t have, but it wasn’t the first or the last time. It sucked wanting both the things I couldn’t have and people who didn’t want me back, but I only had myself to blame.

  Then again, there were others with far less. Hell, there was a hungry kitten in the park, for crying out loud, and Aaron didn’t want it either.

  Chapter Three

  AARON

  When I handed cash over the plastic takeout bags, her damn fingers touched mine, and I was certain the sensation wouldn’t leave for hours. A small almost-smile bent her lips, and although her eyes wouldn’t meet mine as she counted my change, I knew what color they were. Blue-green sea glass.

  I said, “Thank you.”

  What I meant was I fucking miss you.

  “You’re welcome, Aaron,” she replied. I suspected that was what she meant.

  It’s surprising what little human contact a man can survive on. For four years, I’d had less than none. Actually, none would have been better; I had a deficit.

  In the Air Force, on 72s and 96s, there’d been times after I’d heard she’d moved on when I was lonely enough to find someone, but rarely anyone caught my eye. If a random woman would, I’d always compare her to Faith. Her laugh. Her wit. Her attitude. Her hands. Her eyes. The smell of the air around her.

  And even though I didn’t know how Faith tasted or sounded or moved during sex, I was confident she’d have been better. However, Faith wasn’t there.

  So while I was gone, I looked for the her in other women, but I couldn’t do that in Wynne. I hadn’t been with anyone since I’d come home because she was the her here, and she wasn’t mine.

  Four. Long. Years.

  Then an even longer four more when I got home.

  The station was too quiet that Saturday night. After I swept and mopped the bays, and checked and cleaned equipment, I sat on a lawn chair in front of engine number one and waited for her to drive home from the bar when it closed.

  The list of things I did with regard to Faith—private as most of them were—danced around a line that bordered nuts and crazy. I was aware of it.

  I couldn’t explain why I had to do stuff for her. Like how I’d cleaned her gutters after I finished what I could i
n my kitchen that morning while she and Di were at the restaurant. I’d been on the ladder at Darrell’s the day before and seen how badly they needed attention.

  What was I supposed to do?

  My two options were: tell her and add more to her damn plate or just fucking clean them myself when no one was looking.

  I’d chosen to clean them. It took me all of fifteen minutes.

  It was a way I could help her, take care of her.

  When she’d gotten a rose bush last May, I’m guessing for Mother’s Day because it had been that week, she couldn’t keep the damn thing alive to save her own. I ended up replacing it five times when no one was watching.

  Finally, I just started taking care of the last one. It survived. Damn it, if that bush made her happy, then I could protect that.

  Also, I could leave large tips, down the bar away from where I’d sit or at other peoples’ tables, so she didn’t know it was from me. That stuff gave me peace of mind. Those things, those dumb-ass, borderline stalker moves I pulled sometimes made her smile.

  I couldn’t make her happy, but the secret shit I did could. I benefited as well because the shit made me kind of happy, too.

  If that made me a criminal, then I was a criminal. Still, I hadn’t been caught in four years, and I’d gotten away with a wealth of fucking relief, knowing she had someone looking out for her.

  That someone just happened to be me.

  Her car passed the station, right on time. She needed new tires so damn bad, which she’d surely notice if I put on. Then again, she hadn’t noticed the tail light bulb I’d replaced a few months back. So maybe not.

  When she got inside her small house and turned the porch light off, I went in and tried to sleep.

  “SON, DO YOU EVER SLOW down?” Darrell asked me over the Renfros’ picnic table I’d built for them as a wedding gift.

  I finished chewing and swallowing the last bite on my paper plate, wiped my mouth, and answered, “I slow down plenty.”

  He scooped up another fork of potato salad and stopped before it reached his lips. “Bullshit.”

  “Leave him alone, Dad,” Hannah argued. She was slipping Sawyer’s pudgy legs into the seat that Vaughn mounted to the end of the table. When the toddler was comfortable, Hannah’s voice softened as she spoke to her daughter, “Tell Pawpaw to be nice.”

  Vaughn sat across from his wife, on the other side of Sawyer. “That’s right. We can’t have Pawpaw being mean to your little brother or sister.”

  Di’s hand covered her chest immediately and she gasped.

  Darrell laughed. “You’re kidding me? Baby number two?” He dropped his fork and threw his arm around his daughter. The Renfros shared a smile.

  Everyone congratulated them, and Sawyer clapped her chubby hands.

  “Hannah, how far along are you, sweetie? Are you feeling all right?” Di asked, leaning forward to talk to her.

  “Just about twelve weeks and feeling pretty good. This one is much easier than she was.”

  “Thank goodness. I had awful morning sickness, and Faith did with Delaney, too.”

  The thought of Faith being sick turned my stomach, and I was thankful I’d already finished eating or I would have lost my appetite. I’m sure her mother had been there for her, but I seriously doubted Chad had been.

  Call me old fashioned or whatever, but if a man can make a baby, he can damn sure provide for the baby and the mom. I hadn’t been there much when they were together, coming home at the end of her pregnancy, but I knew—for a fact—he left the very day Delaney was born.

  Over the years, I’d thought about how different things might have been if I’d stayed and waited for her to graduate or not left at all.

  Maybe we would’ve gotten together, and things would be different if Faith was mine. If Delaney was mine.

  The first one done with my plate as usual, I wadded my napkin and cleaned my mess while everyone else ate and chatted.

  Hannah winked at her husband as she cut a hot dog up into bite-sized pieces on the plate beside hers. “Yeah, I’m not feeling that bad at all this time. You should have brought Faith and Delaney.”

  “That’s sweet, honey. Maybe I will next time,” Di replied.

  “I thought Country Gold Barbie and the farmer would have the next kid,” Darrell added. “Where are Sunny and Rhett?”

  They’d only been married about a year, but I think we’d all expected them to be next. They certainly couldn’t keep their hands off each other—no matter who was around, or talking to them, or helping them frame up a house.

  Newlyweds.

  “They’re in St. Louis for a race,” Hannah answered. “They should be back later tonight. Sunny said Rhett got third in his bracket, but she wouldn’t tell me how she finished.”

  Darrell scoured the table for something else to eat. “I bet Farmer Boy has to tie a stick to her back and dangle beer in front of her to get her to move.”

  “Dad.” Hannah shot him a dirty look but failed to hide her grin. We all knew he meant no harm.

  “What?” He stabbed at a piece of cantaloupe on Di’s plate. “I’m just saying, I’ve known that girl her whole life and I’ve never seen her run. Well, maybe her mouth.”

  Dean stood and climbed off the bench between Vaughn and me. “People can change,” he claimed.

  Darrell fired back, “You don’t.” He licked his fork clean and then stuck the plastic handle in the front pocket of his denim overalls. He patted the disposable silverware and said to me, “I’ll need this for dessert.”

  He was an original; I’d give him that.

  Then from across the table, he said, “My gutters look damn good. Di’s too. I climbed up there this morning to get a look at my new handy-dandy leaf guards and noticed Di’s looked just as clean. What do I owe ya for hers? I don’t expect ya to do it for free.”

  Busted.

  “Don’t worry about it. I just saw they needed it too, and while I had my ladder ... you know?” I tried to play it cool. I’d only been neighborly.

  He looked at me dead in the eye and stacked Di’s plate on top of his, cleaning up her mess. “Yeah, I know.”

  I met his gaze, not wanting to look guilty or like I was backing down. I wasn’t ashamed; I’d done it. I simply didn’t need a pat on the back for it.

  Besides, it wasn’t much.

  “Did you clean my gutters?” Di asked, throwing her hand over mine on top of the wooden table. “I don’t think about those things sometimes. Thank you, sweetie. Next time you buy dinner for the station it’s on me.”

  My eyes bounced between her and Darrell, but his didn’t leave my face.

  “Thanks, Di. The guys will appreciate it.”

  She gave my fingers a squeeze before she let go. “You like peanut butter pie, don’t you? You get that one sometimes.”

  “I do. My mom makes that for me at Thanksgiving.” I loved the stuff.

  “Well, I’ll have one for you to take home—for yourself.”

  “How are your mom and dad?” Hannah asked. “Mrs. Goodman was my favorite teacher.”

  Welcoming the change in subject, I opened beer number two and answered, “They’re good. Dad’s working for a bigger contractor, doing project management stuff. I think he likes not being the boss. Mom did some substitute teaching this spring since Ian was in pre-school.”

  “Are you still selling the house?” Vaughn asked. I’d told him that was the plan a few summers back, but I never seemed to get it done.

  “I don’t know. I get one project finished then find another to do. Between work and projects I have going for other people—”

  Darrell interrupted under his breath, “Pro bono gutter work.”

  I continued without letting the remark knock me off track. “The house only gets whatever extra time I have.”

  “That reminds me. Hannah and I were talking, and we want to do some updates to our upstairs bath before the baby gets here. When I bought the place, it needed the least amount of work, but now
I think we just want it done. I can do a lot of it, but you’re quicker. Got the time in the next few months?”

  Hannah’s hands slapped together like she was praying. “Say yes. Have pity on me. I’m going to be pregnant and chasing a two-year-old.”

  I laughed. “Sure. I’m putting a new deck on the back of Randy’s place and hanging a few windows for Mrs. Williamson up on the hill, but after that I’m open.”

  “Thank God,” Hannah said, relieved. Her face softened when Vaughn huffed. “You do a great job, but we need help.”

  By the time Vaughn walked me through everything they were thinking for their old master bathroom, he looked relieved for the help.

  It wasn’t going to be a small project, basically a full gut and reno.

  I had a busy couple of months ahead.

  I DIDN’T HAVE ANOTHER shift until Tuesday night. So that Monday morning, I headed to the lumberyard to check on the windows I’d ordered and picked up the lumber and hardware I needed for my fire chief’s deck.

  I remembered my mom and dad fighting before they put in the pool the summer I was in seventh grade. My dad had said, “Carrie, have you ever built a deck?”

  She’d said, “No.”

  “In the long run, one will cost more than what we’ll spend on concrete. I can have that thing framed and poured in two days.”

  He’d been right.

  By that evening, after tearing off Randy’s rotten old ten-by-ten deck, all the while knowing the one I was replacing it with was twice the size, I understood why my dad had fought so hard for an in-ground pool and a concrete patio.

  Deck work sucked balls, but at least it was good money.

  I tossed the last piece of scrap wood into the roll-off dumpster Randy rented. It didn’t feel like I got much done for a full day’s work, especially since there hadn’t been a fire or emergency to distract me. The yard was bare though, so at least I’d have a clean slate to work with the next day. I could probably get the posts dug and in before my shift the next afternoon.

  It was getting dark, and if I wanted to eat, I had to swing by the store. Both my counter-less cabinets and refrigerator were empty.