Overdue - 27

Something was burning. Smoke drifted into my nostrils seconds before the black clouds started billowing from the hood of my car. I swore and pulled over. The tow truck took ninety minutes to arrive, and as I climbed into its cab, red-faced and sweat-soaked—it had been an entire month of feeling like a chicken roasting on a rotisserie—I tried not to get angry at the driver. It wasn’t his fault the miserable heat had yet to break. Nor was it his fault that I hadn’t had anything to read while I waited.

He drove us—my car and me—to the mechanic’s garage, where Harvey shook his head with smug disappointment. “I told you.”

“I know,” I snarled, and stomped off toward Macon’s while he fixed it.

It was a small blessing that I knew Macon would actually be at home on a Wednesday. He was taking his annual two weeks of vacation time to harvest and preserve his garden. I expected to find him elbows-deep in veg, so I was startled when his car drove past me.

The street was empty, so he stopped and backed up. He rolled down a window. “Were you coming to see me?” He looked startled, too, as he took in my bedraggled appearance. “Are you okay?”

Since he hadn’t taken the bait when I’d looked flushed and sexy at my store a few days earlier, it was hard to care that he was seeing me flushed and unsexy now. He’d been seeing me like this for months, anyway. I slid into the passenger seat. “My engine overheated again.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. And I have a load of tile in the car that I need to take to my contractor. Would you be able to drive me back to the mechanic and help me get it to my store?”

Another car appeared behind us, so Macon began to drive. “Uh, actually, this is a bad time. Can it wait an hour?”

It couldn’t—my contractor had started on the restroom and needed to see what tile I’d picked out, and he was texting me demands for updates—but it also could. Because as peevish as I currently felt toward Macon, I was still asking for a favor, and he had never turned down one of my requests before. He seemed to be anxious and irritated for a reason that had nothing to do with me. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

He glanced at me, hesitant.

“What?” I asked again.

His mouth tightened in a way that told me he was thinking. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to share it. As the ponderous silence dragged on, I turned my head toward the window—to give him privacy but also to hide my exasperation. I felt him look at me again.

His grip squeaked as it tightened on the steering wheel. “My mom just called.”

All of my attention turned back to him.

“Apparently, she hasn’t been paying her property taxes, and—for whatever fucking reason—the tax office in the courthouse closes at noon on Wednesdays. I could either drop you off back at the mechanic and then swing by when I’m done—”

He took a deep breath.

I waited for the or .

“—or you could come with me.”

It was understandable that he might feel embarrassed about his mom, but accompanying him to the tax office didn’t seem like a big deal. Despite my confusion, I softened my tone. “Yeah. Of course I’ll come. Thanks for helping me.”

He nodded but didn’t relax. Instead he grumbled, “I was in the middle of canning tomato sauce when she called. Now the flavor’s going to be off.”

“I guess … I’m glad it’s her ruining your morning and not me?”

This caught him off guard, and he almost laughed. “Oh, you’re ruining my morning, too. Because now I’m gonna get home even later. My sauce is fucked.”

Even with his dark tone, I knew he was teasing me. But I winced anyway.

“So what happened with your car?” he asked.

I told him and felt vindicated that the part he hated the most was the idea of being stranded without a paper book. I could have borrowed an ebook from the library, but I hated reading on my phone, so it had felt like a sign that I should reply to some emails instead.

Suddenly he pulled into a driveway. We were only a few streets over from his house, and the one before us reminded me a lot of Carla’s, modest and plain. The yard was also nondescript, but unlike Carla’s, the grass was mown and bushes were pruned. And that’s when I understood.

“ Oh . Is this your mom’s place? Is this where you grew up?”

“Yeah. Sorry, we have to stop here first.”

He turned off the car but made no move to exit.

“Would you like me to wait here?” I asked.

He shook his head with resolve, and then he looked at me. The intensity of his stare swallowed me whole. “No, I want you to come in. You should come in.”

My throat dried. “Okay.”

“You should know…”

I waited for him to finish, but his gaze broke away again.

“I know,” I said gently. Meaning: I’ve met her before. I know she’s unwell. I promise I will not judge her or you .

“It’ll be good for her to see a different face,” he said as we climbed out.

It made me self-conscious about my appearance. My hair was in two disheveled braids, so as we headed to the front door, I hurriedly undid them, smoothed everything out, and rebraided them. Macon unlocked the door using a key from his own ring but hollered before entering. “Mom? I’ve brought someone. We’re coming in.”

The house was stuffy, not much cooler than outside. Teetering stacks of shipping boxes and crumpled packaging were everywhere. Hardly any floor was visible underneath it. Macon glanced at me, trying to gauge my reaction. I flashed him an encouraging smile. His mother appeared on the other side of the cardboard and made her way toward us through the chaos, which took some effort.

“Do you remember my friend Ingrid from the library? The one who’s been helping with my house?”

I hadn’t considered that he might have talked about me with her, but it did make sense that she’d seen all the new work. I liked knowing that I’d made it into their conversations.

“Of course I remember.” She had a big smile, and she was dressed neatly, which I’ll admit I hadn’t been expecting.

“Hi, Ms. Nowakowski. It’s nice to see you again. Sorry to barge in on you like this.”

“Please, call me Lynn.” Her voice was friendly though somewhat frail. Since the last time I’d seen her, it was as if she’d transitioned from a young senior citizen to an elderly one. Macon had told me that she’d been older when she had him, but she also seemed much older than my parents. “And I don’t mind, as long as you excuse the mess. It doesn’t normally look like this.”

Wondering what on earth she’d been ordering, I nodded and kept smiling.

Macon glanced at me again, visibly uncomfortable.

“Look at you,” she said, taking me in. She had his same coloring, but her features were nothing like his, which made me wonder about his dad. Macon knew his father, but only barely. He’d dated Macon’s mother briefly and hadn’t been interested in raising their child. Because of that, Macon was equally, hostilely uninterested in him. “You’re as pretty as I remember.”

I glowed, immeasurably happy to receive a compliment from his mother.

“It’s nice that you’ve been helping him,” she continued. “He’s been showing me photos. It looks so much better than it used to. It needed a woman’s touch—that’s what I’ve been telling him ever since Dani moved out.”

Macon looked like a pained teenager silently pleading for his mom to shut up. Meanwhile, I tried to conceal my surprise that she hadn’t seen our work in person. I knew her agoraphobia had been worsening as she aged, narrowing the areas she was willing to visit. It was why she had stopped coming to the library and running her own errands; most locations were now outside of her radius. But I had assumed Macon’s house was still a safe space. It had never occurred to me that the reason why he always delivered his meals to her was that she was no longer able to come to him.

“It’s been a fun project,” I said. “I’ve been enjoying it.”

“And now you’re opening a bookstore?”

Again, I was surprised and pleased that she knew. I answered her questions for another minute, and then she invited me in farther to sit and have a glass of iced tea.

“Mom, we have to go.” Macon had started rooting around on the console table beside us, which was covered with junk mail. “Where are the letters?”

“They’re in the basket,” she said with matching impatience.

“What basket?”

“The one underneath the table.”

He removed a teetering stack of empty shipping boxes from on top of a decorative basket and tossed them onto another pile across the foyer. They landed with a bang that made his mother wince. When he looked inside the basket, he seemed stunned. “What is this?”

The basket was stuffed with unopened envelopes.

“That’s where I put the important mail, for safekeeping.”

“Mom. You can’t ignore these. You have to open them, or at least tell me so I can go through them. I thought everything important was on your coffee table.”

“Well, I keep it there now because the basket is full. That’s how I found the new letter.”

“I need it. Where did you put it?” He was already heading toward what I assumed was the living room, but he glanced back at me. “Would you mind looking through that for anything from the tax department?”

“Of course.” I began flipping through the mail—financial institutions wanting her to sign up for new credit cards and charities wanting her to donate money, but also letters from insurance companies and her bank and a variety of bills. Some of it was stamped overdue.

Macon returned quickly with the necessary letter in hand.

“How about we borrow this and I sort through it on the way there, since we’re in a hurry?” I said. I wanted him to examine its contents, but I also didn’t want to embarrass Lynn.

“That’s a good idea. Mom, I’ll bring this back later, okay?”

“Be careful ,” she said. “That courthouse floor is slippery. And the roads downtown are so crowded and dangerous. All those one-way streets.”

He hugged her and kissed her cheek before holding the door open for me.

“It was nice seeing you again, Lynn,” I said, carrying the basket out.

“You come back anytime,” she said to me. “Be careful!” she shouted at Macon again.

“I will,” he said.

We didn’t speak again until her house was out of view. He had just shown me something intimate and painful and real. I felt certain that nobody else had been granted access to this part of his life since Dani. Even though I wasn’t entirely sure what I had witnessed, I understood that it was a window into his difficulties and responsibilities. He had made himself vulnerable to me for perhaps the first time ever, and I held the weight of that trust as if it were sacred.

“There are a few more things in here that you should probably look at,” I said quietly about the basket on my lap. I sifted through it again.

Macon released a heavy sigh. “I’m sure there are.”

“So … I’m guessing she always has that many boxes lying around?”

“I break them down and recycle them whenever I’m there. Since she hardly leaves the house, she has everything delivered. I’ve told her a hundred times to let me know what she needs so I can pick it up, but she already feels bad about how much I do for her, so she doesn’t like to ask. And stuff like that”—he gestured to the basket—“stresses her out, so she pretends it doesn’t exist. I asked her to start putting it on the coffee table so I can look through it when I’m there, but I didn’t know she had all that, too. Apparently, she’s been getting these notices about her property taxes for months. I don’t know what compelled her to finally open one this morning, but thank God she did, because the county is one day away from putting a lien on her house.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know it had gotten that bad. I mean, I guess I did. But I didn’t know .”

“One day away,” he said again.

“Is she…” There was no delicate way to ask, but I felt like he’d given me permission. “Is she a hoarder?”

“Not in the way you’re thinking of. But if you’re wondering if the rest of her house is that crowded, the answer is yes. Just not with such obvious trash. It’s all stuff that makes her feel safe. Prepared for any emergency.”

“And she doesn’t come to your house anymore?”

“She hasn’t since Dani moved out. All that empty open space freaked her out. She’s weird about empty spaces.”

“Is that why you never filled it? To keep your mom away?”

“What?” He glanced at me sharply. “No.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean … I don’t know what I meant.” The idea had slipped out before I’d thought it through. Macon was obviously trying his best to take care of Lynn. My insensitive questions reflected more about my relationship to my own parents.

“You know, that’s the third person you’ve tried to blame for the state of my house,” he said. “Dani, Bonnie, my mom. But I’ve been telling you the truth. It wasn’t any of them. It was me.”

I felt so ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

We rode in silence for a minute. He stretched his neck to the side and groaned. “Maybe you’re not entirely wrong.” His energy shifted from aggravation to nervousness, which made me nervous. “It’s possible I haven’t been in a rush to fill that space because … she’ll probably have to move in with me. Eventually. I’m not sure when, but sometime in the next few years.”

“Oh.”

He glanced at me again, and I tried to keep my expression neutral. I wasn’t sure how to react. I wasn’t sure why this news had caught me so off guard.

“It’s a lot of work, having to take care of both houses,” he said. “And things like this are going to keep happening. And worse. She needs care, but I don’t want to send her to a home, and I doubt I could afford it anyway, and I’m the only family she has now that Bonnie…”

Macon trailed off. He had visited his aunt a few weeks earlier when she’d left rehab, though I’d only found out about it after the fact. He said she was doing okay, but he’d sounded more wary than hopeful. A neighbor had fed Edmond while he was away. He hadn’t wanted to bother me because I was busy with the store. I wished he would have bothered me.

“Well,” I said, “Lynn is lucky to have a son like you.”

His voice thickened. “It sucks. You’re young, so your parents aren’t there yet. But it sucks.”

You’re young . It jumped out at me—one of my fears about why he might not want to be with me. I didn’t like that it was there on the tip of his tongue.

“She looks good, though,” I ventured.

“My mom has a lifetime of practice pretending that nothing is wrong. Just don’t try to take her on a walk. Or to the doctor. Or to the pharmacy.”

“Will you even be able to get her into your house? Won’t she want to stay where she is?”

“Oh, she’ll fight me. But I’ll win. It’s one thing to have my mother move in with me, but I am not moving back in with my mother.”

“Plus,” I said, “your garden.”

A beat, then a small smile. “Plus, my garden.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again.

“How are your parents? You haven’t mentioned them in a while.”

“They’re fine. Doing their thing. Excited about the wedding.”

“I thought maybe they’d come up here and help you with the store.”

I laughed once. “That’s not their style.”

“What do you mean?”

It was always difficult to explain my relationship to my parents to other people. “They’re good parents.” It was how I always started because it was important. “They’re supportive. They love me and believe in me. They’re also just … not the sort of parents who will ever physically be there for me. It’s not like you and your mom. I rarely see them. We don’t talk often. When I stopped answering their texts during everything that happened”—I waved in the general direction of the first half of the year—“they accepted it and didn’t ask me what was going on. They’re living their own lives, just like Riley and I have always been expected to live ours. We’ve always been counted on to take care of ourselves. I can’t imagine asking them for help.”

He thought about it for a moment. “That sounds like a lot of pressure.”

I squirmed, having just witnessed the pressure that he was under with Lynn. “It’s really not. It’s nothing like the sort you’re under.”

“It’s just a different kind, that’s all. And it explains why you hate asking for help.”

“What?” I actually laughed again, but it was incredulous. “I’ve been doing nothing but asking people for help. Remember this morning? When I asked for your help? It’s why I’m sitting in your car right now?”

“Yeah, but it pains you to do it. Even though you’re always helping everyone else out. You’re good at giving but not at receiving.”

It stung. Not like he’d said something unkind, but like he’d said something true.

We fell into another silence. By the time we reached the courthouse, I had found five more letters about unpaid property taxes. I stuffed the bundle into my tote bag, and we hastened into the clean, echoing building. Macon strode ahead, confident in his destination. His hair was frizzy from the humidity, which made my chest ache. As we rode the elevator to the third floor, I smoothed down my braids again. The frizz was so much cuter on him than on me. But when the elevator dinged, I looked up to find him watching me in the murky reflection of the steel doors. They split open, fracturing his gaze, and he quickly looked away, hurrying out and down the hall.

I followed slowly behind him with a pounding heart. What was this strange relationship we had? This friendship loaded with stolen glances? I knew how I felt about him, but I was still confused about how he felt toward me. He had never made a move. Not one. But perhaps now that he’d let me in with his mom, he was on the verge of letting me in elsewhere.

He was already inside the tax office when I caught up with him. I handed him the letters and took a seat, figuring he’d want privacy. Thankfully, there was only one person ahead of him at the window. I checked my phone and texted the contractor that I’d be there soon.

“Ingrid.” Macon’s voice was low and quiet.

I looked up, expecting him to say something more, but his eyes were unexpectedly gigantic and alive. They darted toward the clerk’s window.

I glanced over and held back a gasp.

Our eyes locked again in delight.

I scrambled to my feet and got in line with him.

“Be good,” he whispered.

“I’m always good,” I whispered back.

When the person in front of us left, we stepped oh-so-casually up to the window of one Mr. Ken Fondness. A printed sign, worn and curling with age, was taped to the wall beside him: PLEASE REFRAIN FROM MAKING SMALL TALK WITH THE CLERK . My smile widened into a delirious grin. Ken Fondness was futzing with something on his computer.

“ Hi ,” I said.

Ken Fondness frowned.

Macon cleared his throat, a noise meant for me, and handed over the letters. He explained that he needed to pay his mother’s taxes, and Ken Fondness grew irritated.

“I don’t need this,” he said, gesturing to the mail as if it offended him to even see it. “But since you’re tardy, there’s a form you’ll need to fill out before you can pay.”

“Okay,” Macon said.

“I don’t have it here. I’ll have to retrieve it,” Ken Fondness said as if we were a major inconvenience in his day that ended at noon.

“That’s fine,” Macon said. “I can wait.”

Ken Fondness shot him a hassled look before stalking away. Afraid he was still within earshot, Macon and I communicated silently. I pointed with excitement at the library copy of an old boat book sitting beside his computer. Macon raised both fists in the air with glee.

Ken Fondness returned with the form, and we chilled. Macon filled it out while Ken Fondness typed something up.

“It’s nice to see you away from the library,” I said. I couldn’t stop myself.

Ken Fondness looked up from his computer screen. He didn’t point at his sign to get me to shut up, but he glanced at it irritably.

I beamed back at him.

Macon finished the transaction, and we scooted out the door with ten minutes to spare. “I love him,” I gushed in the elevator. “I love grouchy old men.”

“I’m aware, and I’m grateful for it.”

The temptation dangled right there, but I was too hyped to allow myself to read anything into it. I would pocket that and save the indulgence for later. “Do you think he recognized us?”

“Of course he recognized us. And I think seeing us together outside of the library has now tarnished his opinion of me.” Macon’s tone was droll but his smile was teasing, because Ken Fondness had still never forgiven me for my pirate blunder.

I laughed as we exited back on the main floor.

As we passed a huddle of lawyers, Macon lowered his voice. “He’s been doing the same job for thirty-six years and no one can remember him taking a day off.”

“He eats an egg salad sandwich and a banana every single day for lunch.”

“Excuse me,” a man said, interrupting our riffing. He was middle-aged, but it was a rough middle age. His face, limbs, and hair were long and rangy in a reckless way, and he was wearing a T-shirt with an ugly cartoon kid on it. “Are you in a hurry?”

“Yes,” Macon said.

Even though I was the one in a hurry, I was curious, and I was in a giddy mood. “That depends.”

Macon glared at me.

“We’re getting married, and we need a witness.” He gestured to an exhausted-looking woman in a nearby sitting area. Three young children were squirming all over her, and two of them were sobbing.

“Oh,” I said. “Well, I guess I—”

“How long would it take?” Macon asked the man while still scowling at me.

“It’ll be fast,” the man said. “A couple of minutes. I’ve done it before.”

“Sure,” I said, no longer at ease.

“Great.” The man clapped his hands and led the way. Reluctantly, I followed. “Come on, troops, let’s go!” he said.

The tired woman and her upset children gathered their belongings. Over my shoulder, I threw a pleading look to Macon, who was staring at me in disbelief. But then he just shook his head and trudged along behind us.

Inside the courtroom, a pissed-off judge kept telling the woman to quiet her kids. Macon and I stood in the back of the unremarkable room, the third child joined in the crying, vows were spoken, and then it was over. I signed a piece of paper, and Macon and I left.

“Felicitations,” I said in horror.

“He knew he was getting married today, yet he chose— he chose —to wear a Cornholio shirt.” Macon glanced at me and then clocked the generational difference again. “ Beavis and Butt-Head ? You didn’t miss much.”

“I mean, I’ve heard of it.”

“I thought it was funny when I was twelve.”

“Do you think that woman’s children are okay?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

We were both still shuddering as he drove me to the mechanic. “What does marriage even mean when people can just … go and do that?” he said. “Why bother at all?”

Cory and I had once believed that we might get married at the courthouse this autumn. (It was almost this autumn.) I imagined standing beside him in the same bare-bones room before the same irate judge and felt ill. “Fuck,” I said, remembering something else. “I still have to buy my maid-of-honor dress. Riley picked out one that’s expensive.”

“Maybe your new friend will lend you his T-shirt,” Macon said bitterly.

When we arrived at the mechanic, Harvey said, “Your engine block cracked because you didn’t get a new radiator or hoses last spring.”

“Can’t I get them now?” I asked.

Harvey scoffed. “You’re beyond that fix now.”

“So…”

“So you need a new engine,” he said, “which will cost more than that car is worth.”

“So…”

Harvey frowned at me like I was an idiot, which I suppose, in that moment, I was. “So I’m saying you need a new car .”

Macon and I transferred the contents of my Volkswagen into his Volvo, all the bits and bobs from my glove compartment and floorboard and trunk, and then we drove to my store to deliver the tile. Tears streamed down my face. I loathed myself for crying in front of him again, and I loathed myself for using his car as a moving van again.

“This fucking year,” I said.

“This fucking year,” he agreed in a tone that was calm and steady and depressed.

“I can’t afford a car right now. Not even another shitty one. I can barely afford that dress for the wedding.” He parked and made a move to get out, but I stopped him. “I need a minute. I don’t want the contractor to see me like this. I have to look responsible.”

“You are responsible.”

“My car would disagree.”

“Well, I’ve always hated your car, and I’m glad you finally killed it before it killed you.”

I rummaged around in my bag until I found a tissue. When I blew my nose, it honked like a goose. What was one more humiliation in front of him?

“Maybe … don’t get a car,” he said.

“What? Macon. I need a car.”

“But what if you don’t? You live a ten-minute walk from here, and there’s a grocery store within walking distance, too. You could get away with not having one for at least a few months.”

“What about when I have to go to the salvage store across town?” I gestured to the boxes of decorative tile in his back seat. “I can’t ask you to help me every time.”

“Why not?”

Because you’re not my boyfriend . I didn’t say it, but I let it sit between us all the same. The silence grew uneasy. “Because you have a job,” I finally said.

“No, you’re right,” he said, skirting past the awkwardness. Another dark silence descended. A minute later, he sat back up. “Okay.” He was trying so hard to fix this problem for me. “If you don’t have a car, you can cancel your insurance. Set that money aside and then use it to hire a car whenever you need to go somewhere farther away.”

The weight of it all was so demoralizing.

“It would only be temporary,” he said.

“Like the studio. Like my savings.”

“Hey.” He waited until he had my attention. Until I actually looked at him. “You’re doing a good thing here. Your bookstore is going to be great.”

“ Pfft .” I turned away toward the nameless storefront. A goldendoodle was drinking water from the bowl I’d set out for dog passersby. The trailing flowers in the hanging baskets ruffled in the breeze. In the windows were Mika’s two large hand-painted signs in a sweeping calligraphy: BOOKSTORE COMING SOON ! WE CAN’T WAIT TO MEET YOU ! My heart lifted a teensy bit.

“Oh my God,” Macon said suddenly. “I haven’t even told you about cheeseburger leg yet.”

My frown was already softening. “What?”

“Months ago, back when we weren’t—”

He was going to say talking , but I waved him past it.

“Anyway. I had this dream where I rolled up the bottom of my pants, and the skin on my calves was hanging off in these meaty, ground beef–looking, patty-sized shapes. It was a condition called cheeseburger leg.” He grinned at my bewilderment. “You were there, and you were appalled that I hadn’t gone to the doctor, but it had only been a week.”

I put my head in my hands. “Stop trying to cheer me up.”

“I thought it might go away on its own.”

I turned my head so it was still resting in my hands but facing him.

He lifted one of his pant legs as if to show me. “Those patties were really painful.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay what?”

I shoved his arm. “I’ll be okay. You can stop now.”

Every time I touched him, his fingers found the place where mine had just been. He was still laughing as his hand went unconsciously straight to the spot. “I just hope the condition isn’t hereditary,” he said. “I’d never be able to get my mom to the doctor.”

Finally, I burst into laughter.

His smile widened—and then he shoved my arm back. The brief touch was light but thrilling. My palm went straight to the spot, covering it as tightly as a promise. I would give him the time and space that he needed. He was letting me in, and the wait would be worth it.