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ME
At Biggie’s waiting on my pa to get me.
JIMMY
Why? It’s just a ten minute walk to your house. Fifteen tops.
ME
My pa said he’d pick me up at 6.
JIMMY
Screw that. I’m coming to get U.
I frown at my phone. Once again, that insufferable Jimmy-always-gets-his-way thing.
But on the other hand, it saves my pa the extra five minutes to swing by Biggie’s and grab me. Plus, I think I need a little time with my friend to figure things out. My mind’s been pretty shot all day, dreading what I’ll say to Jimmy when I finally see him.
Maybe he has a thing or two to get off his chest as well.
That’s probably why he’s been hounding me all day.
After shooting my pa a quick text telling him that Jimmy’s giving me a ride, I rise from my seat to pocket my phone. My eyes catch sight of Mrs. Tucker through the kitchen window, where she spots me through a haze of grill steam and smoke, then gives me a quick wave and a smile. “Hey there, Bobby!” she shouts out, her cheeks rosy and her forehead covered in sweaty bangs.
I give her a warm smile and a wave back before she rings the bell with someone’s order, then disappears. I’m sure she would’ve offered me a bite, but the place is busting at the seams already with hungry mouths and a zillion orders, and she’s so busy she can’t even pull out of the kitchen for a proper hello.
Sunday evenings are no joke in Spruce; every food place is exploding with people, and Biggie’s is at the top of the list.
A new teenage server I’ve never seen before—probably one of Mr. Tucker’s new hires—rushes up to the counter, out of breath, to collect the order and hurry off to a table with it. He’s got a total baby face, cute smallish ears, and a sweet demeanor that makes his cheeks look permanently flushed.
I watch him, curious. After just a few seconds of observing the stressed-out kid, I’m already fairly sure he’s gay, but hate jumping to such a hasty conclusion. Just because he walks a certain way and carries dishes a certain way doesn’t mean—
The teen flicks his eyes in my direction.
He throws me a tight-lipped, nervous smile, fusses with his hair for a second, then wrings his hands as he approaches another table, greeting them cheerily.
Okay, definitely gay.
The growl of Jimmy’s engine is my cue. I bid a silent goodbye to the mystery overworked server, wishing him well as a young maybe-gay teen at Spruce High, then push my way out of the door.
I find Jimmy’s truck parked right there on the curb, as well as Mr. Jimmy Strong himself leaning against the side of his vehicle with his arms crossed and a foot propped up on the wheel like he thinks he’s some country boy model posing for a photo shoot. He’s wearing a tight pair of his jeans, brown boots, and a tattered tank top with some greasy dark stain right near the hip. His signature threadbare red-and-white cap sits atop his proud head, squashing down his short, sweaty hair.
He gives me a charming smirk and a chin-lift. “Hey, Bobs.” His eyes drop to my shirt, and suddenly his look changes. “Good Lord in Heaven, what do they got you wearin’ at that place?”
“If I got hired a year earlier, it would’ve just been a nice polo shirt,” I point out. “Now the uniform is all fancy and annoying and totally—Ugh, it’s hot out here. Can we just go?”
Jimmy gives me a cute little obedient salute, then pops open the passenger side door for me. I hop inside. He slams it shut, then comes around and slides into the driver’s seat.
He cranks his truck into gear. “So your mama says dinner’s about to be ready any minute. Gave her one flashy flash of my eyes and I’m invited.”
I smirk. “You’re flirtin’ up my ma now for dinner?”
“Nah, just bein’ myself. Y’know how it is. The Strong charm.”
I roll my eyes as he drives off down the road. “You and I gotta have a talk about that totally out-of-check ego of yours.”
Stupid country boys and their big pretty brown eyes.
I give the side of Jimmy’s face a look. Is it a bad time to bring up the whole hotel-room thing? How do I even bring it up? Hey, uh, so you remember that night you kissed me? No, that’s stupid. Hey, Jimmy, so listen, I want to talk about that semi you gave me when you put your lips on mine, and—No, definitely not. Hey, Jimmy, remember when you cuddled me to sleep, and I felt like your boyfriend?
“You look constipated.”
I blink. “Say what?”
“You.” He throws me a look as he turns the corner, his truck rumbling as it coughs and spits from the strain of accelerating. “I said you look constipated.”
