“Fuck me,” I muttered. “And who told youthat?”
“Jessica — she’s a teacher at Camden-O’Leary High — she heard it from Reggie himself, who was bitching in the break room about how you’d led himon.”
“What?” I was faintly outraged. “I didnot!”
“Shetold Coach Simms,” Dare continued relentlessly, “andhementioned it to his wife, Peggy, who’s one of our visitor’s center volunteers, soshementioned it to me, likely because she assumes that every gay man knows every other gay man and can divine their inner thoughts and motivations.” He paused for air. “Which in this case, I’m pretty sure Ican.”
“Stop, please. You remind me of my mother,” I grumbled. It was not a compliment. I sometimes forgot that Camden had its own gossip network that was at least as fast – and inaccurate – as O’Leary’s. “You were in the Air Force, you carry a gun, and you just managed to sound like Carolyn Sloane when she’s at MaryAnn’s getting her hairfixed.”
“I’ve always liked your mother,” Dare saidsardonically.
“And what do you meanin this case you can?” I demanded. “I haven’t talked to you in almost two weeks.” Not since the night before Ev came to town. “What the hell do you think youknow?”
“Goode’s Diner. Half an hour. Wear somethingprettyfor me,” the asshole who used to be my friend said. I swore I could hear his smirk through thephone.
He disconnected the call and I flopped back on my pillow in the wrought-iron double bed, staring at the ceiling of what used to be my grandparents’ spare room and was now mine. Ceiling-staring was pretty much my hobby these days. It had gotten so that I knew where every tiny crack and bump was, even in thedark.
A chill breeze blew in through the open window, bringing with it the comforting smell of wood smoke, and I ran a hand idly over my bare chest. One of the neighbors had started up their wood-burning stove to combat the early-autumn cold snap — probably the Daleys across the street, since Mrs. Daley said the cold aggravated her arthritis, and Mr. Daley lived to keep his wifehappy.
My grandparents had been like that. When my grandmother had stopped being able to bend down to weed her garden bed, my grandfather had done it for her. And when his cataracts had acted up, she’d gone out and gotten her license for the first time ever, at age seventy, so she could take over the driving. When I got old, would anyone care enough to step inand…
Oh.Oh, God.Ew.No. Vomit. Irefusedto sit and fret about fucking dying alone. I was thirty-eight, not eighty-three.
I had just reached a new low in a week of all-timelows.
Closer to two weeks,really.
Whatever.
I threw the faded quilt off me and forced myself into the bathroom toshower.
The wholecry-and-whine-because-the-cute-boy-doesn’t-love-mething had never been my style, not in high school and sure as fuck not as an adult. I could honestly say I’d never wondered what they were doing when we weren’t together, or worried about whether they were happy, or gave a shit why they weren’t returning my many, many,manyphonecalls.
I’d never had a guy I’d been so hung up on, I’d been unable to swipe right on a hookup for over aweek.
Nearlytwo.
If a hot guy wasn’t into me, which happened often enough, I’d simply find another one. Thanks to modern technology, my next hookup was only a swipe and a click away, after all. No wedding announcements, no broken promises, no matter what Reggie Chocolate-namesaid.
Then, I’d met Everett Maior, and suddenly Iwasthe guy who was pining for someone. I didn’t fucking like it. Not one bit. It was goddamninconvenient.
It wasn’t that I had feelings for Ev, obviously. I was still the same commitment-cautious person as ever andI barely knew theguy.
What I felt for Ev was a very specific craving. I mean, if a person planned to have one of Ash Martin’s famous tequila-lime cupcakes, and spent days fantasizing aboutexactlyhow that cupcake might taste and how delectable that cupcake would smell, it would be reasonable for them to be disappointed if they got to the bakery and found it was closed… for a fucking week. Or two.Right?
And would it make sense for that person to just go across the street to Goode’s and get a baked potato? Hell, no. Potatoes were tasty, and they might curb your hunger, but they wouldn’t besatisfying. You’d be thinking of the cupcake the whole time you were eating the potato, and that wouldn’t be fair to the potato,so…
Wow.
I was comparing men topotatoes.
Okay, maybethiswas the newlow.
I lathered my hair and turned the water up hot enough to scald the thoughts out of mybrain.
I had no idea what had made Ev decide that I wasn’t a person worth knowing anymore. At first, I’d thought maybe he was horrified by Karen when he ran out of the bakery — not an uncommon reaction — or overwhelmed by so many new people, or genuinely concerned about Henry. But I’d tried to talk to him later that afternoon when he’d stopped by Julian’s clinic to pick up Daphne (after spending most of the day hanging out in Julian’s waiting room just for that purpose), and Ev wouldn’t even meet my eyes. He was back to being the same closed-off guy I’d found on the side of the road, only worse because this was a conscious retreat. He'd walled himself off from me, thoroughly andeffectively.
I’d stopped by the hardware store. I’d taken to standing outsideFanailleevery morning like a fucking stalker — and yes, I know just how uncool that was. Still, no dice. He’d nod and smile pleasantly enough, but he wouldn’t lookatme, he lookedthroughme. I had no idea how I’d pissed him off, and no clue how to make it better, or if I should eventry.
