Page 15 of Truck Me
Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, life proves to me that I don’t know shit.
Chapter 4
The princess strikes again.
Garret
“Garret. Your tea is getting cold,” a raspy, weak voice calls to me from the kitchen.
I scrub my hands over my face and swallow my groan. Every time Mrs. Moore calls me to fix something, she tries to stuff tea and cookies in me. I’ll take the cookies, but I don’t drink fucking tea.
“Give me a minute. I’m almost done,” I call back from her living room. Mrs. Moore is eighty-three, and I can’t disrespect her by refusing her hospitality no matter how much I don’t want it.
Despite how much the old lady drives me crazy, I’ve never been able to say no to her. She used to live in Beaver and is good friends with Grams. She moved to Chillicothe, a city about forty miles north of Beaver, a few years back, to be closer to her kids.
I always fixed things for her before she moved, and despite how many times I’ve given her the name of someone local, she refuses to use anyone but me.
This time it’s a broken window lock. Something small that doesn’t take much time to fix and costs me more in gas to drive all the way to Chillicothe than it does for the supplies and man hours to get the job done. I rarely accept jobs this far from home for this exact reason.
Other times it’s more worth my while. Last month her dishwasher broke, and it took more time. I didn’t mind taking on that job. But then she’d called me because the lid to her trash can broke. When she stepped on the lever, the lid wouldn’t lift. Because it was stuck. All it needed was a little cleaning where she’d spilled something sticky on the edge. I couldn’t even bring myself to charge her for that one.
But like always, she’d insisted I drink tea and eat cookies.
I finish screwing the new lock into place and clean up the dust that I’d stirred around. Once I’ve put my tools away, I grab my bag and head to the kitchen. Might as well get this tea drinking over with. I’m not getting out of here until I do.
“There you are!” Mrs. Moore smiles when I enter. I set my tool bag next to the back door, so I don’t forget to grab it when I leave. “Why don’t you take your coat off and sit? You must be warm.”
“You’re all set. The new lock is smooth and should be easy for you to work.” I take a seat opposite her at the small eat-in table in her kitchen, ignoring her comment about my coat. Leaving it on will make it easier to escape once I drink my tea.
“Thank you, dear.” She slides the sugar bowl in my direction despite how many times I’ve told her I don’t put sugar in my tea. Fuck, I don’t drink tea except with her. “I don’t know how it broke, but I’m grateful that you came out so quickly to fix it for me.”
“Of course. Happy to help.” I say through a fake smile. I am happy to help her. I just wish she either lived closer or would only call me for the jobs worth my time. I still need to run a profitable business.
“How’s Mila doing? I haven’t spoken to her in a few weeks.”
“She’s good.” Mila is my grandmother. Most people call her Grams, with the exception of a few people who grew up with her like Mrs. Moore. “Baking as always. We’ve got that fundraiser for this next year’s Oktoberfest coming up soon. So she’s keeping us fed with treats.”
“That sounds like Mila. I miss baking with her. Did you know that I’m one of the few people who’s ever beaten Mila in a baking contest?”
I fight back another groan. I’ve heard this story for what feels like a million times. “Yes. I did know that. You’ve told me the story.”
“Well, yes. Mila sure can bake, but I make a better cake than her. No one can beat my moist white cake with whipped cream cheese icing. It wins every time.”
“It’s a good cake.” I typically prefer chocolate cake but her white cake is something special. She’s not wrong about that.
“You know, I was never one to enter all these contests like Mila. I don’t like the pressure like she does. The last cake baking contest I entered was in 1995 and it was with my white cake that I took home the grand prize. Mila was happy for me, even though it frustrated her that I broke her winning streak. She’s always trying new recipes and never fails to perfect it in time for the contests she enters. I just can’t do that. It’s too much stress.”
“Well, I guess we trained Grams well when it comes to stress.” I add, taking a big gulp of my tea. “Helping Dad raise seven boys and all. She handles it all well.”
“Oh, yes. You poor boys. All of you having to grow up without a mother. Thank the Heavens for Mila. She’s a good, strong woman.”
I down the rest of my tea in one long gulp, regretting that I mentioned how Grams raised us. The last thing I want is to hear Mrs. Moore’s recount of those events.
“Sorry to have to rush out,” I say as I push to my feet with my cookies in hand. I’m not leaving those behind. “Bullet’s in the truck, and she’s probably cold. Plus, I got an early job in the morning. I best get on the road.”
My leaving now will not affect me getting up in the morning. And Bullet loves cold weather. She’s a rottweiler with short hair, but she’s like a little furnace with how much heat she puts out. Mrs. Moore doesn’t need to know any of that.
“Well, why didn’t you bring her in? I’ve told you I don’t mind dogs.”