Page 18 of Within These County Lines

“No.” She folds her arms.

“Have you talked to him?”

“Just through email.”

“Is he staying at your house?”

“Hell no.” She wrinkles her nose. “Enough about him.” She waves me off. “We dodged him for a reason.”

“Are we being too harsh?”

“Harsh is direct and unforgiving,” she says. “That’s how you send a clear message. My dad sent one to me after he left home when I was eleven. That’s why I know Murray, the eighteen-year-old star wide receiver of Stillwell Trail’s football team, can handle one too.”

10

After work, I arrive at the Bean to meet Murray—time and place set by Whitley.

We haven’t spoken since Sunday, and I can’t help but wonder what’s left to say. For me, we’re at the end of the phone call, just listening to silence, him waiting for me to hang up.

The diner isn’t actually named the Bean, but that’s what most people in town call it. It’s an oversized silver Airstream van that’s long since faded to brown. Trains rumble past on the railroad tracks beside it, kicking up dirt with every trip. Over time, the dust has settled onto the diner’s outer shell, giving it a sandy coating that makes it look like a baked bean.

The management never bothers to clean it, so everyone in Penango leaves their mark, etching thoughts and messages into the dust with their fingers as they leave lunch. Most recently I’ve seen STHS Seniors, dick, I’m dirty, and God Bless Penango.

As soon as I park, I spot the side of Murray’s blond head through the window, hovering above one of the red leather booths like a tall, yellow flower growing above its fence, but I know his pretty facade is fake and full of pests.

My earbuds die before the latest podcast finishes. I started a new one called LGBTQ&A, which interviews queer people from all over. I’m hoping to hear about someone who’s gone through what I’m dealing with now. Maybe visions are part of the coming out process. Or maybe some of us are just superheroes. If it’s the latter, I better have the ability to fly or make people disappear—both of which would help me get Murray out of my sight.

I toss my earbuds into the cupholder and rest my chin on the steering wheel, taking a few deep breaths. They don’t stop my insides from quivering. I briefly consider reversing out of the lot before Murray spots me, but I know it’ll only drag this misunderstanding on longer. I need to focus on work and getting to college. I want to. But Murray is in the way, and that’s exactly what he wants.

I can’t let him win.

As I head inside, I pass the word love carved into the dusty exterior wall of the Bean. It doesn’t make me groan, laugh, or tear up. I just stare at it, indifferent—all it’s meant this past year, all it was between me and Murray.

I try to slip into the Bean unnoticed, walking in with a family, but the second I step through the door, my eyes meet Murray’s. He jumps to his feet. A smile spreads across his face, but my glare quickly shuts it down and pulls his lips into a frown.

He cracks his knuckles, a nervous habit of his that always stresses me out. I head to the booth and sit across from him without saying a word. He stands there for a beat, looking past me. Maybe he’s searching for Whitley or checking if I brought backup. I haven’t. But now that he notices, I kind of wish I had.

He finally sits, then folds his hands on the table.

Even though I’m trying to end things between us, my attraction to him hasn’t faded—not even a little. I don’t think it ever will. I’ll give him that. His hazel eyes, framed by thick, dirty blond brows and dark, permanent circles beneath them, still make my legs weak, even as I sit. The blond hair on his muscular arms catches the sunlight streaming through the window, making it gleam.

“Hi,” I say.

He rubs his head and looks everywhere but at me.

Running my hand through his freshly buzzed hair feels like petting a Labrador puppy. It’s soft and comforting. Or at least, it used to be. It’s definitely the softest hair in Pennsylvania, probably even the whole country, though I don’t have much nationwide experience to back that up.

“How are you?” he asks.

I pick up one of the sugar packets next to the salt and pepper and slide it between my fingers. “To be honest . . . I’m confused why I’m here.”

“No,” he scoffs. “I don’t want to start our conversation with that basic question.”

I recoil from the table. “You asked? I feel like this should be about what I want after what happened on Sunday.” The heat blooming in my head concentrates behind my forehead wound. I make sure it hasn’t reopened with the faintest touch.

Ten seconds of silence pass.

“I’m really, really sorry,” he says.