Chapter 26: The Conversation Attempt
David Rose sat in the motel lobby, sighing at his phone with the dramatic intensity of someone who wanted the world to know about his suffering.
I'd seen this performance before—the theatrical display of discontent that was half genuine misery, half invitation for attention. In the show, David's sighs had been comedic. In person, they were exhausting and somehow heartbreaking at the same time.
He hadn't noticed me yet. The lobby lighting that Moira had deemed "acceptable" cast shadows that made my approach from the office doorway less obvious. I could have left. Could have found work elsewhere, avoided the conversation, let David sigh in peace.
Instead, I crossed to the worn couch where he sat and settled into the chair across from him.
"Bad day?"
David's head snapped up, his expression cycling rapidly through surprise, annoyance, and the particular defensive hostility he deployed against anyone who might see past his armor.
"Oh, we're doing small talk now? How provincial."
"Just asking."
"Well, just asking implies you care about the answer, and I find that difficult to believe given that we've exchanged approximately twelve words total and most of them were you watching me fail at bagging groceries."
"I wasn't watching you fail. I was shopping."
"You were lurking. There's a difference." He returned his attention to his phone, scrolling through what appeared to be an empty social media feed. "Not that there's anything to lurk about here. This town has the cultural depth of a parking lot."
I didn't argue. Didn't point out that parking lots served essential functions, or that cultural depth was often hidden in small-town routines. I just sat there, present without pressure.
The silence stretched.
"Brebner's is somehow worse than yesterday," David said finally, not looking up from his phone. "I didn't think that was possible, but the universe finds ways to surprise me."
"What happened?"
"What didn't happen? The inventory system is from the 1970s. The customers have no concept of personal space. And someone—" His voice rose with remembered outrage. "—someone asked me to smile more. As if my face exists for their emotional comfort."
"That's annoying."
"It's dehumanizing." He looked up, apparently startled that I'd agreed without qualification. "You're not going to tell me it's just small-town friendliness? That I should appreciate the community warmth?"
"No. Telling someone to smile is invasive regardless of where it happens."
David blinked. Whatever response he'd prepared crumbled in the face of simple validation.
"Well. Yes. Exactly."
Another silence, but different this time—less hostile, more uncertain. David didn't seem to know what to do with someone who agreed with him without trying to fix him.
"The worst part," he continued, his voice losing some of its theatrical edge, "is that I can't even do proper skincare here. The general store's selection is... I don't have words. Actually, I do have words. The words are 'bar soap' and 'three-in-one shampoo.' That's what passes for personal care."
I thought about the general store—the limited inventory, the elderly owner who stocked what sold and nothing more. But I also remembered Ray mentioning that special orders were possible for customers who asked.
"The general store might order things if you request them. They've done it for other customers."
David's theatrical dismissal paused mid-breath.
"They would?"
"Ray handles a lot of the special orders. He's connected to suppliers in Elmdale and Toronto. If you give him a list of what you need, he could probably source it."
"I..." David appeared genuinely thrown. "Nobody's suggested that before."
"Maybe nobody knew what you needed."
He stared at me for a long moment—searching for the angle, the mockery, the judgment that usually accompanied suggestions about how he should adapt to his new circumstances.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you mentioned a problem and I happened to know a potential solution." I stood, preparing to return to the office work I'd abandoned. "No agenda beyond that."
David didn't thank me. Didn't smile. Didn't acknowledge that anything had shifted between us.
But he paused before I left, and that was new.
"You're different," he said. "From when we first met."
"Different how?"
"Less... watching. More..." He waved his hand vaguely. "Here."
I didn't know what to say to that. So I just nodded and returned to the office, leaving David alone with his phone and what might have been the beginning of something other than hostility.
Stevie caught me ten minutes later.
"Did you just have a conversation with David Rose? A real one?"
"Something like that."
"He didn't insult you."
"He came close."
"But he didn't." She leaned against the office doorframe, studying me with open curiosity. "That's basically friendship for David. Or at least the absence of active contempt."
"Is there a big difference?"
"Around here? Huge." She crossed her arms. "What did you talk about?"
"Skincare, mostly. And how the general store can special order things."
"You gave David Rose skincare advice."
"I gave him logistics information. The skincare part was his."
Stevie's expression did something complicated—part amusement, part assessment, part something I couldn't quite read.
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Knowing things. Seeing solutions. Connecting dots nobody asked you to connect."
"Is that a problem?"
"It's a pattern." She pushed off from the doorframe. "And patterns make me curious."
She left before I could respond, her footsteps echoing down the hallway toward the front desk, and I wondered how much longer I could keep being helpful without making her suspicious of why.
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