Felix waited until Jo was out of sight, then gave it a few more seconds to make sure she was well out of earshot. He rounded on Tito and put his hands on his hips. “What the hell was that?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Tito replied, grinning and giddy. “This is the friend you had a drink and stayed out too late with? Do you not have eyes, hijo?”
Felix quickly glanced around and switched to Spanish. “I’m not doing this; I’m not talking about her here. This is your home, but it’s her workplace. I’m not going to risk anyone overhearing us. Not even in Spanish.”
Tito leaned back against the couch. The humor left his face, and he pointed to the armchair. Felix obeyed the unspoken directive and sat.
“You’re a good man, Felix,” Tito said in Spanish. “You’re respectful, and I’m proud of that. I won’t ask you to talk about her here. But you want to talk about her, don’t you?”
Yes.
The word rang, clear as a bell, through Felix’s mind before he quite realized he was thinking it. Despite living in Ashville for almost a year, he didn’t really have friends in town. Like hell he could talk to Peggy about Jo. Even Peggy “Anything for a Volunteer!” Shelton would look askance at Felix for having a crush on his volunteer after less than two weeks. Because that’s what this was. A crush. A big one. He couldn’t deny it anymore, not after his compulsion to find her when he’d heard her laugh and his relief that she still wanted to see him after Tito had embarrassed them both.
Felix had it bad.
And thus far his only outlets had been beating the shit out of his punching bag or stroking his dick while trying not to imagine how round, how soft Jo’s hips must feel.
“I haven’t had breakfast.” He stood and put out his hands to help Tito up. “Come on. I’m taking you to the Old Bell.”
“I’m getting waffles.”
8
The Old Bell Diner was a sprawling restaurant smack dab in the center of Ashville, on the corner where the two main roads met. There were a handful of chain diners out by the expressway, where the truckers and cross-country road-trippers stopped, but the Old Bell was for the locals. It was open twenty-four hours a day, and it had enough customers to fill every one of those hours. The hospital, sheriff’s office, and fire station were all within walking distance of the place, so even at three a.m., the booths were full of people stopping by for a bite or a coffee before their shifts. And then, of course, there were the half-drunk college kids wandering over from Stan’s to split a giant platter of hash browns.
One of the reasons Felix always visited his grandpa on Sundays was because Tito and Lita used to go to the Old Bell every week after mass for the senior brunch discount. In the first months after she was gone, Tito couldn’t even look at the place when they drove past. Then, last fall, he had cautiously asked Felix if they might go to brunch. They’d only made it as far as ordering coffee before it was too much, and Felix had to take Tito home. They tried again a few weeks later, and again in the weeks that followed, until Tito was able to eat an entire meal there.
Now, whenever Tito was up for a Sunday outing, they came to the Old Bell. Each time, Tito paused by the enormous, seven-foot-tall bronze bell outside the entrance and lovingly ran his palm along the waist-high band that had been worn smooth and shiny by tens of thousands of hands. The bell was practically an institution in Ashville, but Tito had never touched it when Lita was alive. That had been her ritual. She was the one who had loved the sleek feel of the bronze, who had claimed one touch connected her to every other person who had ever rubbed the bell. Tito used to tease her for it, to remind her to go wash her hands before they ate. Now, he did it for her.
Sunday mornings at the diner were always packed, and that morning was no exception. It was later than Felix and Tito usually arrived for brunch, and there was a wait for a table. But the hostess shifted them up the queue with a wink so that Tito didn’t have to stand in the crowded lobby for more than a couple of minutes. The other Sunday regulars waved as she brought them to a booth.
True to his word, Tito ordered waffles—apple cinnamon—along with sausage links, two eggs over easy, sourdough toast, and country potatoes, with his usual black coffee and orange juice. Felix got a Denver omelet, hash browns, and a short stack of pancakes with a cappuccino. The Navarro men knew how to eat.
Tito had the decency to wait until they had gotten their food and eaten a few bites before he broached the subject of Jo. But he didn’t pull his punches.
“So,” he said around a bite of sausage, “tell me why you aren’t dating this sweet, lovely friend of yours.”
Felix sighed and mumbled, “For a lot of reasons.”
Tito raised an eyebrow at him—a clear “you’re going to have to do better than that, señor” expression that Felix had seen hundreds of times. Felix shoveled a giant forkful of his omelet into his mouth and chewed slowly, staring Tito in the face.
“Cabezota,” Tito muttered. “Fine. Then tell me about her.”
So Felix did. He told Tito again how they met—glossing over the intricacies of MnM for the sake of simplicity—how Jo was generously helping him and, by extension, the library and the town. He told Tito that Jo made him laugh and told captivating stories, that she wore cute T-shirts and scrubs but apparently only owned one jacket, that she was clever and cared about people.
“These are all good things,” Tito said when Felix had finished. “What’s the problem?”
“First of all, Tito, it’s not only my decision,” he said. “She has to want to date me too.”
“And you have asked her?”
Felix didn’t respond to that, and Tito sighed resignedly. “Hijito, when you lose track of time with someone, that’s a good sign. It means you want to be together. That you are happy together. You are happy together, aren’t you?”
“I enjoy her company, yes. And she seems to enjoy mine. But she just ended a relationship and moved here a few weeks ago. She wants to be friends.” Felix stabbed a piece of pancake with his fork. “Besides, we’re working together on this library event. I can’t date a volunteer. It’s unprofessional.”
“Unprofessional,” Tito said with a tsk. “Always you are obsessed with this job you don’t even like very much.”
“I like my job fine,” he said. He kept his expression neutral, though he felt a stab of dread as the thought of budget cuts loomed in the back of his mind. He knew Tito would listen if he wanted to talk about that too. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not until he knew for certain what was going to happen to his job. Tito would only worry.
His grandpa leaned across the table to grip his forearm. “Hijo, I’m doing okay now. I have friends of my own at White Hills. I’m not so lonely anymore. If you want to find another place to work, to live—”
“What? No. Stop.” Felix set his fork down and closed his hand over Tito’s. His rancher’s hands were so small and fragile now. Felix could feel the veins bulging through his thin skin. “We’re not having this conversation.”
“Felix.” He switched to Spanish, as he often did when his emotions became too big for English. “You uprooted your life for me. You left someone behind for me. It’s because of you I’m here. Not just here in the Old Bell, but here in this world.” His eyes misted over. “But I never wanted to be a burden to you. You know that—that’s why I moved to White Hills in the first place. I want you to be happy. If you aren’t happy in Ashville, I don’t want you here anymore.”
As if he’d been punched in the gut, the air flew from Felix’s lungs. He knew without having to think about it that he wasn’t happy here, not really. Ashville had never felt like home. It was Tito and Lita’s home, the place he visited for short stints before going back to his real life. Most folks in town had grown up together, which made him feel like an outsider, even after living here for almost a year.
Felix’s life in Ashville wasn’t bad by any stretch of the imagination. His days were pleasant enough. More often than not, his work was rewarding. He was content. But not particularly happy.
Not unless he was with—
“But if this woman makes you happy,” Tito continued, giving voice to what was already on Felix’s mind, “chase that. Don’t let go of it. It’s a rare and beautiful thing to find someone who brings you that kind of joy. Who makes the sun shine brighter and the rain feel less cold and damp. Even if that person is a friend, she should be cherished.”
“You should’ve been a poet, Tito,” Felix said in English, his voice thick with emotion.
Tito grinned. “What makes you believe I wasn’t? Your lita kept every letter I ever wrote her, you know.”
