Pat is a smart guy. He knows this, and he doesn’t push, he doesn’t make a comment, he doesn’t even move. He’s just right there, inches away, breathing in and out with lips slightly parted, waiting, hoping, letting me take control.
At that moment, my stomach makes a noise so incredibly loud and inhuman that my cheeks and chest immediately flame red. It sounds like a broken bagpipe playing a dirge.
I guess I should be thankful it broke the tension, but I’m disappointed instead.
Pat’s eyebrows shoot up, and he bites his lip. “Was that … your stomach?”
“I’m hungry, okay?”
“It sounded like a whale song,” he says, and that’s when I decide I’m TOTALLY uploading the video of Pat and the squirrels to Neighborly the first chance I get.
With a last glance at his shoulders—no one wants Pat to have rabies, after all—I jump down with as much pride as I still have and head for the door.
“It’s your lucky day,” I call over my shoulder. “After further review, you are totally rabies-free.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Pat
Tank’s face is lit up like this is Christmas morning and the big asphalt truck is the pile of presents under the tree. James, who I’m surprised is even here for this, looks as stony and unmoved as usual. I wish he had a ticklish spot. I would totally take advantage of that to get some kind of reaction out of him. But throughout our lives, we all searched for it like it was some kind of holy grail, and never managed to find one. My brother, the sole person in the world who isn’t ticklish.
“Feels like we should have a red ribbon to cut,” I say, looking out over the road.
“We really should,” Tank says. “We’ll have to plan a grand opening.”
To my surprise, Tank has already lined up several businesses ready to take a gamble on this town: a bakery and coffee shop, a store selling unique gifts and art, and a clothing boutique. I nudged Tank to look in that direction after suffering through Walmart Junior’s clothes before my family brought reinforcements.
“Who will get to cut the ribbon?” James asks.
I lean around Tank to give my brother a look. “Not you, Mr. Sourpuss.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
James is here. Which is progress. He still hasn’t given the stamp of approval for Dark Horse. In fact, Collin told me just this week, James looked at several Austin properties. Technically, my dad’s plan doesn’t NEED James and Dark Horse. But it sure would feel better to have all of us on board, a united front.
“Are the cars okay, you think?” I ask dad. “I don’t want my truck asphalted.”
Tank chuckles. “Stop worrying about your truck. It’s not that fancy. By the way, I’ve got the invoice from the dealer on the Aston.”
He pulls a paper out of his back pocket and hands it to me. I try not to wince at the number. More than ever, I’m thankful for Tank’s lessons in frugality and investing. At the moment, my bank account is like a sieve, pouring out money in a steady stream. Between fixing things at Lindy’s place, getting the loft renovated, and now the Aston, it’s a lot.
“When are we getting this thing started?” James asks. “I don’t want to spend all day here.”
Today, the asphalt will be laid over the crumbly concrete roads of downtown Sheet Cake. Right now, workers are prepping the area, removing any of the big, broken chunks of concrete. Next, they’ll drive the truck slowly over the road, pouring the black asphalt right over top, then smoothing it out. The three of us are like a bunch of little boys, excited to watch some big trucks do big truck stuff.
Tank did his homework and found that pouring asphalt on top of the existing roads is a faster fix. Redoing concrete can take months: pulling up the old slabs and hauling them off, rebuilding the wood frames, and installing new rebar before the concrete is finally poured.