"Don't be stupid, Ashby," I say to my reflection.
The reflection isn't buying it.
I’m still staring it down when Carl's voice calls up from my porch.
"Son, you decent?"
"Sometimes."
I hear him laugh through the screen door. "Well, come out here a minute."
I wipe my face on a dish towel and go. Carl is leaning on my porch rail with his hat tipped back and his toothy grin cranked up, and I know what he's going to say before he opens his mouth.
"Six o'clock at the Shed. Welcome mixer."
"Carl."
"Don't youCarlme. You know the rules."
"I went last week."
“You’re supposed to goeveryweek." He squints at me. "You all right, Ashby? You look a little?—"
"I'm fine."
"Mmhm." The grin gets wider. He's a man who enjoys his job way too much. "Wear a clean shirt, son. And do something about that face. Trim it or shave it, I don't care which."
“Yes, sir,” I say, with a solemn nod.
He tips his hat and ambles back down the path whistling, and I stand on my porch with the dish towel still in my hand. I consider, seriously, not going. Carl isn't going to fire me and Lucinda will just pout for about a whole minute then feed me a cookie.
Ishouldskip it. Becauseshe’llbe there. Lark.
But I really don’t want to piss these good people off.
So I take the hottest shower the tank will give me, and stand under it a good while longer than I need to, thinking about things I shouldn’t be.
After, I trim the beard, I put on the blue button-down Lucinda gave me for my birthday. She said it matched my eyes and made my broad shoulders stand out.
I roll the sleeves to the elbow and scrub my hands with the heavy pumice grit I use when the forge black won't come out—and when I'm done, my hands are the cleanest they've been in six months. I stand there staring at them.
Who are you trying to impress, Ashby?
I glance up at the mirror. The reflection meets my eyes with a resoundingduh.
"Goddammit."
I put on my good hat and stomp out.
The sun's gone down behind the hills and left a red smear above them, and the string lights on the Shed come into view through the oaks before the building does—a long glow strung across the grass.
I can hear the band tuning. Fiddle. Bass. Somebody testing a mic. My clothes suddenly seem too tight and I feel like a kid walking into his first dance.
The Shed smells of brisket and sawdust and a dozen different perfumes, and it's packed. Low chatter filters through the space, while boots scuff along the polished concrete floor.
Lucinda’s in the middle of the crowd in a checkered dress, hugging people. Carl’s behind the bar clapping Jed, the bartender, on the back. The band on the little stage eases into the first song of the night, a twangy Texas two-step.
The line for the BBQ is too long, so I get a beer and find my spot, the corner post at the back wall. I lean on it with one boot hooked behind the other, and I tell myself that after forty-five minutes I've done my civic duty and I can split.