Page 55 of Big Dill

“Lumber what?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“When I first set eyes on you…” She starts driving again. “Back at the bar in Halifax. The way you were dressed. Flannel.” She makes a mock-slurping sound.

“You like flannel?”

“You looked rugged.”

“I didn’t realize flannel had that effect on women.” I tap my thumb on my thigh, considering it. “Hmmm.”

“What?”

“Nothing. So what is this about lumber…what?”

“Lumber-snack. Like lumberjack,” she clarifies, grinning. “But more delicious. That’s what I called you that night.”

“Wow. I feel so used. A commodity. A piece of meat.”

“Do you hate that?”

“Not really.”

She laughs—loud, easy—and as it fills the truck, it trickles through me, warming me in a way I haven’t felt in a long time. I laugh with her, too.

“Pull it together, lumber-snack. We’re here.”

I grin and shake myself out of it. She puts the truck in park and kills the ignition. Since the evening staff are now gone, I dig out my key. She climbs out, the door thudding behind her, and hurries to my side. Together, we walk up to the front doors. I slide the key in, push it open, and usher her inside. Warmth hits us, and I unzip my jacket.

“You keep this place locked?” she teases.

“For the sake of the teens, really. It’s a good hangout, but there are too many ways they could get themselves into trouble.”

Once inside, I point toward the smoothie bar. “Want anything?”

“I won’t be able to eat until next Sunday dinner,” she says, then her face falls. “If I’m invited.”

“Standing invite. Every Sunday. You’re one of us now,” I joke. She stiffens slightly, like she doesn’t believe it, like she’ll never truly belong.

“Come on.” I nudge her forward, and she unzips her coat, pulling off her hat and mitts.

We pass one of our rooms—empty except for a rogue yoga mat that somehow made its way inside. Jami pauses. “This space…what’s it for?” she asks, a little spark in her eyes.

“What do you want it for?” I counter, and she grins.

“That obvious?” I shrug, and she continues. “I have an early childhood education degree,” she begins, stepping into the room. As she glances around, I can almost see the plans forming in her head. Low shelves lined with colorful bins—blocks, puzzles, stuffed animals—all neatly labeled, clearly meant to be within little hands’ reach. A corner for reading, mats for sleeping. Maybe that rogue mat isn’t out of place at all.

“You did that degree for your parents, Jami.”

“I don’t want to be a full-time teacher. It’s just something Rachel said about daycare. She can’t join leagues in the evening. No childcare in town, and she doesn’t want to keep asking family. You have the space, I have the credentials. We could try it, see how it goes, a couple of nights a week. I’d be happy to set it up.”

I scrub at my chin, taking in her excitement, her drive to contribute and make this place successful. “That’s brilliant, actually.”

“Yeah?” she says, eyes shining. “You think that would help the social?”

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.”

“I take it back. You’re not as smart as you look.”

She pokes me and I laugh and throw my arms around her. “Oh yeah?”