Of course, he doesn’t. Popping his feet up on the cooler, he asks, “So what’s so much better up there than here?”
I shake my head tiredly. “It’s…different.”
“Good different?”
“Different,different.” Apparently I’ve told some kind of joke, because Kenny starts laughing mid-chew. My hackles raise. “What’s funny?”
“You makenooosense.” His laughter ebbs when he notices my flat expression. “If it isn’t agooddifferent, why the hell would you rush back there when your contract here is done?”
“It’s not that simple?—”
“Yeah, ‘cause you’remakingit notsimple.Women.” He blows out a breath, shaking his head. “Which place do you like more?”
It’s not aboutliking.It’s about my future. Besides, “I’ve only been here for two months?—”
“Exactly,” Kenny says, cutting me offagain. Fried oyster bits flick off his fingers as he points at me. “You’ve only been here for two months. You gotta give it more time before you know how you feel.” His tangled hair swoops across hisforehead as he inclines his head. “I mean, really, why are you rushing? You can probably get a job up there any time of year. It’s not like August’s the only time people hire, right?”
I drop the oyster I was planning to eat, irritation eliminating my appetite.
Kenny proves he’s notentirelysocially inept when he raises his hands. “You look mad.”
“I’m not mad,” I ground out.
I’m tired. Overwhelmed with decisions. Stressed about my interview and skipping out on the farm. Thinking about Anson’s offer. Excited to talk to Grayson tonight.
And,yeah, feeling the increasingly strong urge to throw a fried oyster at Kenny, who thinks he has all the answers to the world’s questions, but justdoesn’t get it.
“Look,” he starts softly, like he’s speaking to a rabid coyote, “I’m just saying you could stick around for a little. You end up not liking it, you go back to what you were doing. You only would’ve missed out on, like, six months of your life up there, and you’ve got—” he looks me up and down—“atleastfifty years left, unless you die in a car crash or something, but that probably won’t happen because I’ve seen you pull into the parking lot and you drivepainfullyslow. So six months is nothing.” He resumes eating, giving me an eyeful of mushed food when he adds, “If you do end up leaving, though, just give me a heads up so I can take time off and avoid Boss. I’mnotdealing with that.”
“Sure thing,” I mumble. Do I really drivethatslowly?
“Thank you.”
I shake my head, fighting an oncoming headache as Kenny continues to munch away, like he didn’t just try to separate me from my sanity. As he mumbles, “Fuck, this is so good,” I reluctantly try to cool my annoyance.
He’s not trying to rile me. Kenny just doesn’t have a reliable filter—oranyfilter?—and he’s punching a sore spot.
Taking pity, I sigh and say, “Hey, Kenny?”
“Yeah?”
“That smiling goddess, the one you see at Dyl’s?”
He nods, eyes taking on that dreamy quality again.
“Swallow your food before you talk to her, and maybe she’ll smile at you, too.”
It’slate by the time I get back to Grayson’s.
I should be crawling to the couch, but I’m buzzing with energy. Not the good, productive kind, but the kind that makes your armpits sweat and brain ping-pong like an arcade machine. Even Dave seems to sense it, giving me a wide berth after delivering his standard-greetingquack.
Grayson texted to say he’d call me at nine—a good thirty minutes from now. Which means I currently have nothing to distract me from the guilt and anxiety and indecision that have only grown stronger since I left the festival.
I’m spiraling.
For no good reason.
My feelings are blowing themselves out of proportion, because I’m tired and hungry and haven’t had a goodthe-world-is-crashing-down-on-memoment in two months. That’s all it is.
