Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
ROBERT
Asher’s garage has this nostalgic scent to it. It’s an old airplane hangar from the ’80s he and his dad converted to a garage. He saved up all the way back in high school to add all the gear he needed to start his own shop. It smells like oil, hard work and well-used machines.
“Asher,” I call out as the gravel crunches beneath my feet at the large entrance. The garage door is up and I know he starts his day the second the sun peeks up from the skyline. I take a long look around the quiet lot, not finding him where he usually is: under the car on the lift right in front of me.
“Heyo,” Asher bellows from around the corner and that’s when I spot an ancient hunk of metal. It’s an engine that’s entirely too large to belong to a car, and it sits just before the door that opens onto a hall leading to more offices and storage.
Asher catches me studying the engine as he makes his entrance, a rag in one hand, cleaning up the wrench in his other.
“Isn’t it a beaut?” He takes a moment to nod at it.
“Depends.” I meet my friend halfway at the engine. “What is it?”
“For the tractor. I’m thinking it’ll pull a cart and we can have hayrides this fall.”
An easy smile slips across my face as he slaps the side of the metal behemoth. “I just have to clean it up a bit and we should be good.” Asher’s a solid guy and a good time to hang out with, always thinking about what he can do for the community. “Hayrides for the kids and then the after-party in the hangar.”
My lips kick up into a smirk at the thought of it. “Sounds like a good time to me.” The second floor of the hangar has seen a number of parties back in the day. I’ve missed too many of them recently.
“You going to be here?” he asks me, tossing the used rag in a drum in the corner and grabbing a fresh one to wipe the oil from his hands. He’s almost always got black crud somewhere on him while he’s here. The citrus aroma of orange from some heavy-duty cleaner he uses fills up the space as I follow him around the interior.
“’Course, why wouldn’t I be?”
“I heard you were thinking about eloping with Magnolia up north or something like that.” Asher smirks at me. His voice is far too casual for what feels like an assault on my heart. I know it’s not intentional. He couldn’t hide the humor from his eyes if his life depended on it. It takes me a second longer than it should to fix my expression. “I’m just fucking with you, man.” He tosses down the blue rag, this one less filthy than the previous one and his hands somewhat cleaner. The light in his eyes dims when he asks, “You doing all right, though?” He turns his back to lead the way to the register and, right in front of it, dangling sets of keys.
One pair belongs to my car that needed an oil change and a look over.
“Feel like shit.”
“Over Magnolia?” he questions with sincerity. Normally I don’t like hearing anyone ask about her or talk about her. It’s none of their damn business what’s going on in Mags’s life. When it comes to Asher, though, I know he’s asking for good reason.
“I didn’t know that’s what the word was,” I answer and then take in a deep breath. There’s no one in this town I owe a damn thing. But Asher, with all the shit that happened over the last four years, I owe him more than anyone knows.
Clearing his throat, he snatches my keys from the pegboard and turns to look over his shoulder, a smile still lingering. “You know it’ll change by lunchtime.” He adds a wink for good measure.
“Ain’t that the truth.”
He rattles off a number of things. Something needed replacing, another something had to be ordered, and when it’s in he’ll give me a call. It’s all business for a moment until the cash register closes and he squares his shoulders, facing me and crossing his arms over his chest.
Asher’s a backwoods kind of guy. Grew up on motocross and hunting. He’s a straight shooter and when he peers back at me, his gaze questioning, I know he’s going to pry.
“Heard you were going to that gallery thing, your folks going too?” he comments. His faded blue jeans are smeared with oil on the right side. His polo seems to be new, but it’s already fit for the hangar, marred with that same oil up the same side.
“I’ll be there, but they’re not coming. Pops has backed off a lot recently.” Asher nods along, organizing something on the counter into small plastic bins.