“I didn’t know what you liked. Is it okay?”
“It’s perfect. I love mac and cheese. And chicken.”
“And cobbler?”
“Even better.”
We shared a smile, and my heart fluttered. What was it about him?
Ignoring the plastic cutlery, Gale pulled strips of meat off his chicken and spread them on top of his mac and cheese. Thunder rumbled. I wanted to say something about the previous night, express my enjoyment, but I didn’t know how to bring it up and feared making him uncomfortable.
It was a living, breathing entity between us, a current of energy I couldn’t ignore. I loved chasing storms, but I wished to be anywhere else at that moment. With Gale. Alone.
Scrambling for conversation, I asked, “What are you reading?”
“Oh.” He softly laughed and ducked his chin, seeming embarrassed. “Um… Dickens.Bleak House. I like classics, but I’m not a pretentious snob. I swear.”
“I would never think that.”
“Olivia does.”
“I’m not Olivia. I’ve never read Dickens, but I hear he’s good. Didn’t he writeA Christmas Carol?”
“He did.” Gale peeked up from under his lashes as he grabbed a plastic fork. “Do you read?”
“Not if I can help it.” My phone buzzed on the table beside me. I gave it a dirty look. “Correction. I read mostly horror. Whatdo you call those bite-sized books? Is there a name for them? They’re only a few sentences long. Sometimes a paragraph.”
Gale frowned. “Do you mean microfiction?”
“That sounds right. I read serialized microfiction horror.”
Gale glanced at my phone and back, clearly confused.
I chuckled and scooped a bite of macaroni. “It gets delivered to my message inbox at random throughout the day.”
“Are you making a joke? I don’t understand.”
“Yes. Sort of.”
How could I explain my mother? I could joke with Vern, but Stella Devereaux was far more complex than even he understood. In truth, her condition—if we were calling it that—wasn’t a laughing matter. I loved her. I wanted her to get help. I didn’t want to be the source of Elk City rumors. The pariah. The kid everyone whispered about.
Changing the subject, I asked, “Why Dickens?”
“I don’t know. I enjoy his prose and themes. He writes a lot of social criticism and likes to explore poverty and social inequality in his work. I read a lot of classics. Did a minor in English lit in college.Bleak Houseis one of the few titles he’s written that I haven’t read, so I’m rectifying that. It’s not an easy read, but I’m plugging my way through it.”
“Spoken like a true pretentious snob.”
Gale sneered playfully, and I laughed.
It was the most he’d ever shared, and I soaked it up. “A minor in English lit, and here I skipped out on college. I didn’t know what to take. Nothing interested me. I feel inferior.”
Gale huffed. “Believe me. I’m the inferior one. I don’t have an ounce of personality. You’re…” He frowned at his chicken but couldn’t seem to find the word. Eventually, he settled for, “So much better.”
“I’m not. We’re different. You read classic novels when you aren’t taking pictures and studying weather patterns. I feed straycats and hang out at the Salty Orange, drinking watered-down soda. If I’m lucky and Bobby’s got a crowd, he lets me earn a few bucks pouring drinks. I still live with my mother.”
“I still live with my dad.”
“But you have a degree and career opportunities. I don’t.”
