Around sundown, Luke texted a list of things I’d need and a link for where to buy them. I replied with a thanks, but that was all I got. Then Wednesday, he managed to avoid me again. That night, I’d heard something and made it to the window in time to see his tail lights disappearing down my drive. Thursday was the same thing. By Friday, I was sick of it.
He was officially avoiding me, and I had no idea why. I couldn't even ask one of his friends, because I didn't know any - but I knew where they hung out. That was how Ashton convinced me to show off the local cuisine. Granted, he'd been shocked to hear that there was only one place to eat - and it wasn't even a McDonalds - but he was adamant that he get some real country cooking before he went back to the land of civilization. I knew he was just trying to cheer me up, but it worked. When he offered to let me drive the Porsche? Yep, sold. The idea of bumping into Luke was just a bonus at this point.
I pulled into the gravel parking lot going slow. The entire strip, including the feed store and gas station, was packed. Dozens of trucks lined every available space. I saw quarter-tons, half-tons, one-tons, and bigger. A handful of cars were scattered in between, but it was clear that this was farm country. Beside me, Ashton was looking around in awe.
"I really don't remember any of this," he said.
I found a spot and parked. "Because Gran tried to keep us away from the locals, mostly. Yeah, and the grill is new. Wasn't here the last time I came by, but that was almost three years ago."
I pushed open my door and stepped out. He followed a second later. The smell of fries was obvious, but so was the laughter. I’d expected this place to be some kind of replacement for a bar, but looking through the windows, I saw more families than anything else. The line also wasn't too bad.
Ashton followed my lead. When we got to the counter, he was gawking at the options. "What's a calf fry?" he asked.
I just waved him away from that. "Pretty sure you won't like it."
Instead, he turned his smile on the woman waiting for him to decide. "Ma'am," he asked, putting on all of his charm, "what would you suggest some city boy try if he wants to be a little adventurous?"
She chuckled and pointed up. "Fried catfish. Good southern meal for ya, and it's just fish. Where ya from?"
"New York," he admitted. "So sure, I'll try that."
"Sides?" she asked.
He lifted his hands and shrugged. "I'm feeling brave."
"How about coleslaw and some fried okra, then. I'll throw in some macaroni for ya, just in case ya don't like the okra." Then she looked at me. "And you?" Her tone lost the kindness.
I put both hands on the counter and leaned forward a bit, trying to see into the kitchen. It looked clean enough, so I’d be brave. "Pulled pork sandwich and sweet potato fries, please."
"Sure. That's gonna be seventeen eighty-two."
"Sold," Ashton chuckled, swiping his card through the reader before I could reach mine. "Ok, now what?"
I stepped back, realizing I’d put my hand in something sticky. Hopefully it was just a little spilled soda. "Grab a table, would ya? I have to wash this off."
He pointed to an empty one in the corner. "I'll be over there people-watching. Don't leave me for too long, sweetie, or I might get scared."
I rolled my eyes and said, "Whatever," then headed to the ladies room.
Pushing open the door, I caught the reflection of someone around the corner jerking her shirt back into place, but it wasn't fast enough. The dark-haired girl tried to pretend she'd just been primping in the full-length mirror, but I'd seen a line of red marks. One after the other, all placed carefully where they wouldn't be seen, and I knew exactly what they were. The girl couldn't be more than thirteen, and she thought her only release from the angst of being a teenager was to cut it from her own skin.
But confronting her wouldn't do any good. I knew that all too well. Making my way to the sink, I pretended like I hadn't seen a thing and just washed the stickiness from my hands. The girl didn't move, watching me through the mirror, frozen in fear. I calmly dried my hands, then opened my purse to find my lipstick. Digging around like it was lost in the bottom, I found a small glass vial.
"Here," I said, reaching over. "This will keep that from staining your shirt." It was liquid band-aid. I used it for everything from a run in my pantyhose to making crystals stick to my cheeks at a photoshoot, but it would work. "Might sting, but I think you can take it," I added.
The girl's mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "I just got scratched by my cat."
"Yeah." I lifted the end of the bottle, proving I was honestly offering it. "Mine used to do the same thing. Trust me, it's a lot easier than a paper towel."
We both knew that a cat had nothing to do with it, but the pretense made it easier for the girl to accept the offer.
"And it won't stick to my shirt?"
"Nope, and doesn't smell, either. Go ahead."
Before the girl could make some excuse, I started freshening up my lipstick. I took my time, digging for lip liner as well, just to buy another minute. Finally, the girl gave in and lifted the side of her shirt, then uncapped the bottle. From the corner of my eye, I could see the girl's reflection look at me, checking to see if she was being watched, but I just kept working on my face. Soon enough, she swiped the brush end over the first of four cuts, sucking in a little breath.
"Give it a second," I said, wiping the corner of my eye as if removing a smudge of eyeliner. "Needs to dry."
