I've only been in love once in my life. And he was a terrible choice. And yes, love is a choice. It may feel like falling. It may feel like a whirlwind of fragile, hormonal, gnawing, gnashing emotions, but when it boils down to it, you must make that first decision to step off the cliff into the freakish and scientifically unexplainable chasm that is love.

My chasm was named Evan. Is named Evan. I haven't killed him yet. Though I've spent many tequila fueled nights thinking about it. Evan dazzled me from the moment I met him. Every inch of my 5'nothing frame ached for his dark, suave, and surprisingly sophisticated seventeen year old looks. As sophisticated as you can get at that age—which basically meant he wore clothes the right size for his body, and he didn't mind wearing a tie to homecoming games. He had eyes that were like a mossy tree straight out of the Fangorn forest. He was effortlessly cool. Friendly with everyone. Cheerful to a fault. But also, effortlessly unattached. Above all the teenage chaos that rules in those last hormone fueled years of high school. And, even better yet, he liked me.

He actually liked me. The mousy, blunt, no frills sophomore that was perpetually stuck in a book, and fatally uninterested in the opposite sex. Until him, that is.

But not all stories end with a pat on the ass, a longing kiss and a russet sunset. And not all choices are good ones. So when I tumbled head over heels over the cliff for him, I also managed to scrape my elbows, bang my hip bones, and whack my head pretty hard on the way down.

And I'm pretty sure no one is going to let me forget it.

****

It's half past nine in the morning, and I'm on my second cup of coffee and beginning to feel like a functional member of society. It doesn't matter that I've been a slave to the bean for nearly a decade. Four am never comes easy. We weren't meant to be conscious while it's still dark outside. And I'm not meant to be conscious for at least a few hours after it's light out, if we're being honest.

"If he'd gone through with it, you would have been married for six months, today, Trink." The gravel voice comes from the end of the breakfast bar, and I take a long, deep, soul cleansing breath and picture fields of flowers and dancing butterflies.

"Thank god I got away." I huff, and refill Jacob's cup. He's a real asshole, that one. But this town is made of assholes. About 2,000 of them, and though they are assholes, they are my assholes. And I wouldn't have it any other way. I think.

"But he's a doctor." Jacob wraps a rheumy hand around his coffee mug and then gives me the most horrid, disapproving scowl. Like a baby about to bust it's gut over spilled milk.

"He was terrible in bed though. So I think I got the better side of that deal." I smile sweetly and Jacob lets out a loud, raucous bout of laughter. We have this conversation often. I've known Jacob since I could barely speak, and since he still had hair and didn't repeat the same story twelve times a day. He's the closest friend to my Uncle Rock, who is, funnily enough, my rock. My center. So, I put up with a lot. And so does he. Jacob likes to remind me, in his demented, torturous way, that I am better off. Better off without Evan and his Dr. McDreamy good looks and his Ivy League education. Seriously.

"You did, kid. You did. But still, with a doctor husband, who knows what you could be doing. Traveling the world. Eating cavier. Rubbing elbows with the beautiful people." Jacob raises his hand, waving it like a drunken conductor. He's wearing a blue and white plaid flannel shirt, with gray trousers. A uniform of sorts around these parts. Blue collar workers. Men who get their hands dirty, and go to work dressed for the weather.

"Only a few things unappealing about that statement there, Jake. First, you know I hate flying. So travel isn't so appealing. Second, I'm allergic to seafood, and I'm pretty sure that includes fish eggs. Hives aren't my thing. And lastly, look at all the beautiful people here that I can be rubbing elbows with! What more could I need?!" I gesture wildly around, nearly knocking into my employee Libby, who shoots me a dangerous glare before stalking off to serve coffee. Libby looks as if she slept in a nest of some sort, and suffered an epileptic fit while applying her eyeliner that morning. In all actuality, it's just the look she's going for. I commend her for it. It takes dedication to look that perfectly unkempt.

"You need your eyes checked, honey." Jacob grunts but smiles. "Your uncle has been talking about traveling lately. What will you do when he tells you it's time to fly, Trink?" Jacob knows that I'll do whatever I can to make my uncle happy. I pause, rubbing my hands nervously against the towel tucked into my apron, and I shrug.

"I'll try to talk him into a really nice road trip." I flash him a smile, and then head down the breakfast bar, refilling cups as I go.

The Shaky Spoon has just sailed over the peak of the weekday morning rush. People coming in for coffee and a quick breakfast before work. As the only real coffee place in town, and the only place to get a decent breakfast, we get really busy from about 6:30 to 9 in the morning on weekdays. Weekends are another story. We stay busy on weekends. Soon, I'll have to start the prep for tomorrow, and finish some food orders in the back, but for now, I'm happy to spar with Jacob and let my second cup sink in.

Over to the side of the small restaurant there is a group of women, all about my age, laughing and gossiping over who knows what. These are women I'm friendly with, but not exactly friends with. Elaine, Skylar, McKenzie, Dani, and Morgan. Some of them are married, some of them engaged, some hopefully single. They wear matching cardigan sets and get their nails done every Tuesday at our only salon, Beauty by Deb. Just one single slice of life here in Brush River. To the side of them, there are a few older, retired couples enjoying their morning coffee. And down at the other end of the bar is my cook, Henry, taking a couple minutes break during the lull to joke around with Jacob and flirt harmlessly with the Real Housewives.

Libby is cursing softly behind me, while doing her best impression of a barista. Most of the people around here just want their coffee hot and fresh. But occasionally we get the request for a latte or a mocha or something with a caramel drizzle. Libby will curse their name and their unborn children but she still does a decent job.

"Evan was a dipshit. If I never hear his name again, I can die happy." Libby scoffs as she raises an eyebrow in Jacob's direction. I bump her with my elbow, and can't help but smile. Loyalty.

"Jake's just playing."

"I don't know why everyone in this town still worships the ground Dr. Evil walks on though. He's sort of a terrible person." Libby stands up straight and lets out a puff of air, which blows her wispy blond hair up and out of her face. She's a pretty girl. Younger than I am by about six years, though it's hard to tell under all the eye makeup.

"He is. What does it matter though? I'm not the one that has to live with him." It's true though. This town can't seem to let it go. In the town microcosm, Evan and I were the equivalent of Brad and Angelina. Except with less leg and more coffee stains. It wasn't a comparison I encouraged, but we'd been together since I was a sophomore and he was senior in highschool. And with Evan's good looks, and my...passable looks, it was like a match made in heaven. A good underdog story. A Hallmark channel original. After more than ten years of being the golden couple, when our wedding didn't happen, I think Brush River was more upset than I was. And I was pretty upset. For awhile. It's not every day you lose your fiancé and your best friend, all in one whopping, humiliating go.

"How did your date go last night?" I change the subject, as I often do when things get a little to reminiscent around here. Libby scowls and then starts loudly slamming the milk steamer, clanging it around against the machine. I take a step backward. I guess her date did not go well.

"Well at least he offered to pay for dinner. He was on time and wearing shoes, so that's a plus." She announces over the screech of the steamer. I wait. "But having sex with him was like having sex with someone who was simultaneously drilling for oil in uncharted territories and doing the Macarena." She laughs then, shaking her head. My eyes widen, picturing about a thousand variations of this.

"I am...so sorry." I manage, scooping some dishes into a bin. Libby grins, though it's a bit hollow.

"It was fun, but I'm not getting on that ride again." She breathes out as the steamer stops screeching, and then begins making the espresso drink.

"I'm so glad I'm not dating." I murmur under my breath as I walk away.

I'm not scared of much. Heights are fine. Spiders are kind of gross, but I don't mind them. I hate thunderstorms. With a knee shaking passion I hate them. It's one of those inexplicable phobias. They leave me cowering at home under the blankets like a kid. But besides that, dating probably ranks as number one. It's not just being rusty. I was with the same man for ten years. And only him. Ever. But my faith in humanity hasn't quite been restored. Libby isn't helping either, with her colorful stories.

The ringing phone breaks me from my reverie and I walk over and grab the ancient, grubby kitchen phone from it's holder. No one ever calls this phone. No one except one person.

"Uncle Rock." I answer without thinking twice.

"Morning, sweetheart." My uncle says, his voice gruff and low, but still somehow warm and comforting. He is, for better lack of phrase, a man's man. A mechanic since in the womb, always working with his hands, fixing things. He owns one of two shops in town, though everyone knows Rock's shop, The Rust Depot, is the best. At 64, he's getting up there in age, but nowhere near close to retirement. I have a feeling he'll die in his immaculate shop, smiling as he rests among car parts and the soft crackle of FM radio.

"I didn't forget. I have to meet the contractors at the old house at one." I glance up at the school house clock on the wall. The Shaky Spoon closes at 3, so I will have to leave early, but Libby and Henry will have things under control. Our lunch rush is never too bad.

"Good girl." Rock says, and I can tell he has a smile on his face. "But I need another favor. I've got Gordon Trembley's car on the rack, and I just got a call from someone needing a tow. He's right out on 519, past the Morgan's farm. You just need the pickup."

When I'm not being left at the alter, or serving coffee to the grumpy citizens of Brush River, I also moonlight as a tow truck driver for my Uncle. I can't say it's my favorite job, but I like lending him a hand. And he only calls me when he's really in a pinch. His blood is my blood, and working with my hands is just something we do. Sometimes slinging beans and ordering around grumpy employees just isn't enough.

I fight back a sigh though, feeling somewhat wary from the busy morning.

"Sure, Unk." I start pulling at my apron. "I'll come to the shop and grab the truck. Be there in ten."

It's September in Brush River, which means cool nights and early mornings and warm afternoons. It's just about ten am when I finally make my escape from The Shaky Spoon, leaving the rest of the morning rush in the mostly capable hands of Libby and Henry. My other employee, Amy, will be in any minute to help relieve Libby. We work like a well oiled machine. It's a small crew, but they're completely dependable. The Shaky Spoon has been mine for five years, but I've worked there for nearly ten. The last owner was a stodgy older lady, with a bite as mean as her bark, and a rather special intolerance for customer service. Someday, I hope to be just like her.

"Rock?" I walk through the main doors of the Depot, which is just a three minute walk down Main street, and over one block. I can hear the radio going, appropriately static-y and cackling with some radio hosts' indiscernible chatter.

"Back here, Max!" He calls from the back of his shop. He keeps everything nearly spotless, and in spectacular order. He takes such great pride in his shop, it's inspiring really. It's what inspired me to take over the Shaky Spoon. He'd set such a great example for me growing up. Of how to run a business. And how to be a good boss. I've always had a clear hero to look up to.

Rock has two employees—a college aged kid named Freddy, who...definitely has never been to college, but is sweet and a hard worker. And an older man named Phil, who is in his mid-forties, has a wife and two kids and a lovely little house over on Peach Street, by the post office.

"Hi. So who's stuck on 519? It's not one of the Kensington sisters is it? I told Jessica two weeks ago she needed a new battery." I walk through the shop and find my uncle, mostly hidden under a vintage Chevy. He's wearing the uniform he's worn for most of his life. Steel gray Dickies work pants and a denim shirt, rolled at the sleeves. Rock slides out, wiping his hands on a rag.

"No. It's not them. Jessica was in three days ago getting a new battery. It was a man, I didn't recognize the voice. Are you sure you're okay with going?" Rock sits up, and raises a bushy white eyebrow. His eyesbrow are the only hair on his head, and his bald dome shines in the early morning light. I give him a scowling look and huff softly.

"Yup, I'll be fine. I have my phone with me. If I'm not back in twenty, then you can send out search parties." I wink at him, and he chuckles softly.

"Right. Be safe, Maxine. And thanks again. For this afternoon, as well. I'm finally getting my act together. Getting your mom's house fixed up." Rock stands up and leans against the side of the classic car. He's watching me carefully, waiting for my reaction. I shift on my feet, looking away slightly. He talks easily about my mother, but it's still hard for me. It's been 16 years since we lost her, but it feels as if it were yesterday.

"I'm glad, Unk. We can sell the house and be done with it." I say softly, my voice clipped, colder than I had intended.

Rock grimaces slightly, his square jaw tightening. I don't meet his eyes, as I know I'll see disapproval there. He wants me to take the house. It is mine, after all. Mom left it to me. Only, I want nothing to do with it. It's too full of memories. Too full of her. Plus, no one has lived in it a long, long time. It's in complete disarray.

"Max...it's your house—"

"Uncle Rock." I say, trying to keep my voice light and joking. "It hasn't been my house since I was 12 years old. I like where I live now. And when I can't live there anymore...I'll find somewhere new to start over. You got any room here?" I say with a smile and a shrug. I walk over to the peg board on the wall, locating the keys to the pick up. Rock is quiet for a moment before he speaks.

"I'm sorry I didn't take care of it. Maybe if you see it when it's restored, you'll want—"

"Hey, I'll be back in a few minutes, okay?" I cut him off, and try my best to smile. He sees right through me but doesn't push. My uncle nods and then gives me a quick pat on the back as I turn toward the big open garage doors.

"See you in a few, Maxine." He says, a hint of sadness in his voice.

****

I turn and head back out into the crisp morning. It's bright out, the sun high and clear, but there's a bite to the air. I shiver, and climb into the pick up. I should have worn a sweater, but I've left it over at the Spoon. I'm left in just a thin gray tshirt and jeans. After this quick tow, I can go back to work, and warm up. Have Libby make me one of those mochas she's so fond of creating.

The drive out to 519, just past the Morgan's farm, is not a long one. On the way, I think about my mother and the old, abandoned farmhouse that stands on half an acre next to my Uncle's own property. She was an amazing woman. Strong, sweet, and incredibly smart. Even after my father left, left us both in the middle of the night when I was just a baby, she never let it discourage her. She didn't speak of him much, and somehow, she never really spoke badly of him. She could have. She should have. But she was somehow above it all. It was saint-like, in a way.

So it was all the more infuriating when I was barely 11 years old, and we'd found out that she had cancer. A rather aggressive sort, too. So aggressive, that by the time I turned 12, she was gone. It had been like a living nightmare, losing someone so quickly and yet slowly at the same time. There had been time for talks and goodbyes, but not nearly enough time to wrap our heads around the sad truth.

After she was gone, I moved in with Rock. And we didn't go back to her house, aside from clearing out the furniture and closing it up as best we could. It was too painful. To obvious. And so easy just to leave it be. That had been 16 years ago. And now, for some strange reason, Uncle Rock has decided he wants to fix it up, and possibly sell it. I've made it more than clear that I don't want it, nor do I want anything to do with the remodel. But he seems set on it. Set on getting me involved. Which is probably why I'm being forced to meet with the contractor later. His first attempt at getting me sucked in.

I find the broken down car just outside the Morgan's farm, and at first it looks to be abandoned. As I pull up, I see someone under the hood, their face and body obscured by being hunched over the car. It's a small thing—some sort of rusty red economy car, and one that has definitely seen better days. It will be easy to tow, and I know I'll make it back within that twenty minute window I promised Rock.

Sliding out of the driver's seat, I make my way toward the car.

"Hey there." I call out. I can see the man's back, as he's banging something inside the hood. I frown, knowing for sure that banging wildly against the car isn't going to fix much. I hear a soft curse, and then the man stands up abruptly, his head crashing against the low hood of the car. I wince. It had to hurt.

"Bloody fucking hell." His voice is low, throaty in a surprising way. And he has a bit of an accent, which is surprising and also strangely intriguing. Ah, a stranger, in a strange land. How exciting for a Monday morning at ten a.m. You sir, have my attention.

"Hi?" I make a face, and awkwardly walk toward the cursing man. He stands up then, this time making sure to clear the hood before he does.

When he turns around, I'm a bit surprised. More than a bit.

Maybe I don't date anymore. And maybe my female parts have shriveled up, rendered useless with disuse, but I'm still perfectly able to detect and identify a good looking man. And hello! We have a winner. I take a half step back, mostly because I can practically feel his gaze, radiating outward like some sort of terribly dangerous and oscillating heat wave. I'm speaking poetically here, but really, he is just staring at me with a bewildered, slightly annoyed look on his stern, rather classically male face.

"Hi. Can I help you out?" I say, blinking dumbly. My brain has momentarily left the building. I'm suddenly like a little bambi, stunned in headlights as my thoughts zero out and my knees do this weird, wobbly thing.

The stranger straightens to his full height, and I'm pretty sure he's at least seven or nine feet tall, with shoulders to match. He's not hugely muscular, but I can see the sinewy muscles of his neck, and the ropey veins in his bare forearms. He has sandy, brown sugar colored hair that's a bit wind ruffled. And eyes. Yes, he has eyes. Two of them, to be exact. And they're looking right at me. Scrutinizing. Not exactly friendly either. Or perhaps it's because of their dark color. Dark, chocolate brown. Or at least I think they are. I can't quite tell because that would require making eye contact, and I'm not sure if I'm fully capable of that.

Oh lord, I feel like I need an adult.

"That depends on whether you know what the hell is wrong with this piece of shit, darling." He drawls, but instead of a southern accent, which is much more common 'round these parts, it is definitely British. Or Australian? Or probably British. I can't quite tell. He's rather soft spoken, and I'm nearly two seasons behind on Downton Abbey, so I'm rusty with my accents.

"Let me take a look." I find my words again, like a normal, educated 28 year old, and take a step forward. I'm stopped though, when he starts laughing. I'm drawn to his mouth. His mouth is interesting. He has lips that are almost too full for a man, but with the rest of the rugged, half lumberjack/half bad boy on the run look he has going on, they are really just...distracting. Distracting in a "he's bad, don't tell your mother about him" kind of way.

He laughs again. It's a soft sound, and... it's not entirely friendly. I raise an eyebrow, pausing as I watch him shake his head and run a hand through his messy hair.

"Listen, darling, I don't think you can help me. So, be on your way, and I'll wait for the tow." He says, his rather charming accent turning quite condescending and...ew.

I stiffen, realizing that he thinks I'm just some floozy who stops on the sides of the road for tall, sort of dark, handsome strangers. Do people really do that? I don't know. It sounds really unsafe. Either way, this British (or Australian?) prick, seems to think I can't help him. And definitely doesn't realize that I am his knight in shining armor. I take a deep breath, suddenly finding it much easier to speak.

"First of all. I'm not your 'darling'." I scrunch my nose up at him and then give him one of my patented 'fuck you!' smiles. "Secondly, you wait for that tow. You can wait all day long for all I care." I give him a quick, happy little shrug and then I turn on my heel back toward the truck.

What an asshole. What a prick. What a sexist idiot. And he's not even that attractive. Not anymore. It doesn't matter how handsome you are, if when you open your mouth you sound like a braying donkey.

Mr. Donkey doesn't get another word in, before I'm back in the pick up and making my way back down 519. Rock is going to get a real kick out of this. And maybe, if Mr. Donkey is lucky, he'll get his tow whenever Gordon Trembley's Chevy is fixed up. Probably in an hour or two, maybe more if he's not quite so lucky.