Page 20 of Small Town Boy

“All I said was she was cute when Dustin asked what she was like. That’s it. And fucking see if I tell you anything again, rock star.”

“What?” Dustin questions. “Out of you, that’s a big statement.”

I can’t deny he’s right. Doesn’t mean I like it though.

“Moving on.”

“Dawgs win?” Sylvie asks, granting me the reprieve I’m desperate for. She always was my favorite.

Her innocent question stumps us though, since none of us apparently thought to look up the final score on the way over here. Hell, I don’t even know what time the game was or who UGA was playing. I make a mental note that we need to either give up the ghost on our ruse or determine a better plan for covering for ourselves. All while wondering if I can pull out my phone and look it up without being noticed.

“They sure did!” Brandt Rawlins, Milo’s best friend and business partner, says as he walks by, hands filled with empty pint glasses. “Clemson needed putting in their place too.”

I watch as relief washes over the faces of all my buddies, the women in our life seemingly none the wiser that we didn’t actually know that answer.

“But seriously,” Nash says, leaning back in his stool, arm slung over the back. “You gonna ask her out?”

“I thought we were moving on,” I grumble.

“Nope.” Nash pops the p, letting the sound hang in the air, an echo that nobody wants.

“What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” Willa insists. “Stop being such an instigator.” She slaps Nash with the back of her hand, but he doesn’t notice.

“It’s what I do. And y’all can’t tell me there is anything more exciting going on in this town.”

“Actually…” Kenzie interjects.

She launches into a story about something that went down at this week’s Hickory Hills Service Committee meeting. I nod at all the right moments, pretending to follow along with the riveting tale of how Bernice Myers showed up to the meeting and sat in the seat of Mrs. Burch—the woman who has charged herself with overseeing all things Hickory Hills news related, a.k.a the head of the rumor mill. I’m never one to care too much about whatever gossip is flowing through this little town—and there is usually plenty—but tonight, I really don’t care. Tonight my mind is entirely occupied with a beautiful outsider with honey-colored hair, matching eyes, and a coy smile that makes me want to do backflips.

Who also happens to be the same woman who just walked out of here without giving me a second glance.

Challenge accepted.

“Wait, who’s Bernice Myers?” Dustin asked.

“The slutty redhead KatieRae Gates’s ex was caught red-handed with,” Willa explains.

“I think I missed that story,” Dustin replies.

“You did not. I explained the whole thing to you. She caught him, so she moved away to Atlanta, met that professional soccer player…that was why she was on the trip to Nashville where you saw Moira, which led to me calling you…” Kenzie prompts, looking at him, waiting for him to catch on.

He simply shakes his head and continues to drink his beer. Can’t blame him there. Kenzie rolls her eyes, continuing on with her story, both Sylvie and Willa riveted. Dustin and Camden are equally captivated—not with the story, but with their women—whereas Nash has turned to his phone, doomscrolling through some app.

Suddenly, I feel like the fifth wheel. Err, seventh. Three nice pairs—even if Nash and Willa are the exact opposite—and then me. It’s an odd feeling, especially since we do things with the seven of us all the time. So clearly, it’s a me thing. Something about how my mind isn’t where it’s supposed to be.

I force myself to take a drink, my beer going warm in my hand. But worse than warm, it’s gone sour. Or again, maybe that’s just me. Either way, the funky aftertaste lingers, my tongue feeling like it’s coated in a film.

Definitely time to call it a night. Nothing good can come when the beer no longer taste right.

“I’m calling it,” I tell the group, sliding my still half-full pint back onto the bar.

“What?” my brother asks, looking up from his phone and facing me. “You can’t call it. It’s still early. Plus it’s Saturday night!”

“What’s your point? Some of us worked all damn day.”

“I worked,” he mutters, waving me off.