My head snaps to Betty, but her expression gives nothing away. Spence stands, ever the gentleman, and helps Betti and Bette to their feet. “Sure. I’d love that.”
As they head out, Betti elbows Bette and whistles. “You see that? That’s what my grandson would call caked-up. He taught me all the lingo.”
Spence throws his head back laughing, and Bette says, “You’ll have to excuse my friend. She’s a little off in the head.”
I watch them go, their banter echoing into the hall, and then turn back to Betty. She’s staring me down, and I can’t read her face at all.
I frown. “Why are you looking at me like—”
“You’re in love with him,” she says, cutting me off.
My mouth hangs open, my brain scrambling. “No. What? It’s not—”
She cuts me off again, voice steady. “That wasn’t a question, Ryan. You’re in love with him.” I slump, staring at my lap. Betty reaches over and tips my chin up with two fingers. “I think he’s in love with you too,” she says softly.
I sigh, shoulders heavy. “Yeah, okay. I’m basically head over feet for him. But I think you’re wrong about him, B. This is just casual for Spence.”
Betty hums, her thumb rubbing over my hand. “Listen to me. That man is gone for you. He’s fighting it, that much is clear, but it’s a battle he won’t win. His heart has already made up its mind.”
“How—how do you know?” I choke out.
She gives a knowing little smile. “I’ve been around a while, Ryan. Also, if you’re trying to be discreet about it, you two need to stop looking at each other like that.”
I close my eyes, trying to steady myself, before looking back at her. “Only one other person knows, though I think a few others suspect. But I’m not out. Obviously.”
Betty covers my hands with hers, firm and reassuring. “I can’t say I knew exactly that it was your sexuality, but I always knew you were holding something back. I don’t like to see you hiding, Ryan. No one has the right to ask you to hide who you are, understand?”
A small, grateful smile breaks through. “Yeah.”
She nods, satisfied. I squeeze her hand, holding it between both of mine. “I’m so glad I chose this place to volunteer. I love the work, but I think I get more out of it than I could ever give. I’m especially happy I got to know you, B. Don’t tell the others, but you’re my favorite.”
Her eyes are glassy, but she doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course I am.”
I laugh, and she squeezes my hand. “Push him. Not too hard, but push him. He’ll stay stuck if you don’t. Push him, then give him space to think. Then push him some more. You need to be patient, but I have a feeling he’s worth it.”
I lower my voice, teasing. “Is that how you snagged your husband, Betty?”
She leans back, smug. “You bet your sweet ass it is. Had him floundering on the dock before he even knew there was a hook in his mouth.”
I crack up and hold my hand out for a high five, which she slaps with gusto. Then I lean in to hug her, whispering in her ear, “I love you, you know that. You’ve been more of a mother figure to me than my own mother.”
She pats my back, voice thick. “I love you too, you big brat.”
Thirty-One
Closer to Free
Spence
It’s shocking how much butter goes into French scrambled eggs. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat regular scrambled eggs again. After Betti and Bette paraded me through their favorite haunts in the village—tiny bookstores and boutiques, a bakery that smelled like heaven, the pottery studio where Betti asked me to recreate that scene from Ghost—Ryan took me by the elbow and steered me into the bustling community kitchen. He introduced me to everyone by name, all these cheerful people in aprons, and then handed me his knife roll like it was a sacred object.
We made lunch for the residents together: quiches in every variety, a vat of tomato-basil soup, and Betty’s scrambled eggs. Ryan told me they were a requirement, that he’d won her over with them years ago. I tried not to ruin anything as I chopped and stirred, let him talk about how this place had become a second home over the years. He’d never mentioned any of it before, not to me, and when I suggested he film something for his cooking series he shut it down fast.
“No,” he said, eyes sharp. “No one knows about this, Spence. You’re the only person I’ve brought here. It’s just mine. But you’re welcome any time. I like the idea of sharing this with you.” I just stared at him, dumbstruck. He kept going like it was no big deal. “Besides, I don’t want to put them on display. They’re not props and I don’t do this for recognition.”
Now, driving home, my mind is still spinning. Ryan Buterbaugh. The guy I took one look at and wrote off as ameathead, a walking jock stereotype is nothing like I thought, and it unsettles something deep in me.
“Whatcha thinking about?” Ryan’s voice snaps me out of my spiral.
