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Trey smiles patiently at me. “Maybe just try to let him be the one to come to you.”
“Wait for him to come to me? Shoot, I’ll be waitin’ forever for that. He’s as stubborn as a …” I sigh frustratedly. “… as stubborn as somethin’ that’s really stubborn.”
“I know it’s hard,” Trey assures me, “but sometimes, you just can’t force a thing. Even with a close friend.”
“We’re closer than close. We’re like brothers.”
“Well, even more so. You … just need to let it happen in its own time. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, right?”
“Nah.” I look down at my bad foot, angry at it all over again. “I don’t want to just sit around waitin’. I don’t wait. I do things.”
“And sometimes you do too much, as is evidenced by the fact that you’re here in this office at all,” Trey points out smartly. “And if anyone’s an expert at guys just doin’ what they want without a care about their own bodily injuries, it’s me, seein’ as I’m married to the stubbornest of all.”
I smirk. Cody’s a bullheaded guy, I know that much. But I just don’t care right now; I need a solution to Bobby, and “waiting” is simply not gonna do.
“So just give him some time,” Trey finishes. “The ball is, more or less, in Bobby’s court.”
“Bobby hates basketball.” I huff and cross my arms, unsatisfied with his advice.
“It’s a tennis reference, actually.”
“He hates tennis, too.”
Trey rises from his stool, then gives me a reassuring nod. “Well, I gave you my advice, but … I’m just one guy in a crowded little town, growing more crowded by the day. Take my words with a grain of salt, alright?” He shrugs. “Or pepper, if you hate salt. Or sugar. Whatever grain you want.” He smiles, then reaches to help me off the table. “You ready for your X-Ray?”
I stare at my foot. Somehow, I hear the distant laughter of my brother and Marybeth cutting it up at the counter through the closed door. Their merriment makes the frustration in me mount further for some reason. The frustration is like some itchy thing that’s crawling over me bit by bit, something I can’t properly scratch at no matter where I dig my nails, something without even a shape.
But it sure has a name.
Bobby fuckin’ Parker.
11
BOBBY
I hold open one door, Vince holds open the other.
“I hope you enjoyed your show. Thanks for coming.”
That’s what I say to each customer, exactly the same as I said to each departing customer in the previous four showings in which I’ve dutifully held the door open before cleaning.
Which is similar and yet slightly different from the thing I say when I stand at the front podium to tear the customers’ tickets:
“Thanks for coming. I hope you enjoy your show.”
I don’t suspect my brain is going to be getting much exercise as an usher at this movie theater.
My vocab sure isn’t expanding exponentially.
“How’re you holding up on your first Friday night shift?” asks Vince when we take a short on-the-clock break at 8:15, the pair of us sitting in the back row of a theater we just cleaned. “See what I mean about how hectic it can get?”
I don’t want to disappoint him, but the workload feels like a lot of the same as the weekdays, only with more popcorn to sweep. Still, I give him an assuring nod. “Definitely.”
“Don’t get overwhelmed, though. Tonight’s the worst of it. Saturday nights die down fast because everyone goes to church early the next morning.” He starts scrolling through his phone, bored, then yawns tiredly. “Shift can’t end fast enough. Hey, you aren’t squeamish, right? Dumpster duty is the worst on Fridays.”
I make a fake gagging sound. “Lookin’ forward to it,” I reply dryly, earning a chuckle from Vince.
With him busy on his phone, I pull out my own.
Unless one of my friends from college actually bothers to hit me up, say hi, or shoot me some random message, there’s really only one person I’d be sure to have a message from, and we all know who that super, special, cocky individual is.
But my phone shows no notifications.
Just like it did this afternoon. And this morning at breakfast. And right when I woke up early for a little jog.
And last night before I went to bed.
And yesterday after dinner.
And during my shift.
In fact, I haven’t gotten a dang thing from him since he sent me that weird text joking about breaking his ankle Wednesday.
What a weird thing to joke about, by the way.
“Waiting on your boyfriend to text you?”
I flinch, then give Vince side-eye. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Who?”
“Jimmy.”
“No, I meant your actual boyfriend. Aren’t you seeing a guy?”
I stare at him fully. “Uh, no. I’m not. Who told you that?”
“My sister. She said you’ve got plans to go on a date with him tomorrow on your day off, in fact. Out in Fairview.”
