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I snort. “You kiddin’? My mama knows everything. Besides, Mr. Lemon knows her. She and my papa used a fund or somethin’ to help repair the seats in the auditoriums when they got water damage from that bad storm ten-fifteen-something years ago.”
“Oh, Hurricane Hailey, right.” Bobby nods distractedly, then peers back down at his phone.
I shake my head. “Staring at that text a hundred times isn’t gonna change the words in it, y’know.” I frown and glance at the window to my side, listening to the night breeze disturb the trees in Bobby’s front lawn. “What’s my restless mama doin’ awake so late, anyway?” I wonder out loud. Probably planning stuff for the Ball while inventing a hundred more reasons to hate the McPhersons.
“I mean, I should go on it, right?”
I face Bobby at once. “Huh?”
“The date.” He sets his phone down next to him and crosses his arms tightly over his chest, his oversized white t-shirt that he changed into after his shower crinkling up. “I should go ahead and go on it, right?”
For a second, the words “Hell no!” are on the tip of my tongue. I picture the most pretentious, annoying gay guy my mama might have found through a friend-of-a-friend, and don’t want Bobby to be put through that headache of a bad date.
Then there’s the opposite extreme: some gorgeous, handsome motherfucker in fancy clothes making Bobby swoon and gush afterwards over how amazing his date was.
Both possibilities bother me immensely.
“Well?” Bobby prods me, impatient. “Should I? Shouldn’t I?”
“I …” My words come out weirdly deflated and sad. “I think … it’s, uh … up to you, I guess.”
Bobby looks troubled by my answer or tone of voice, his lips curling into his mouth as he mulls it over, frustrated.
My heart turns into a full-on drum solo in a marching band. What the hell am I panicking about? “Listen …” I start, sitting up from the beanbag chair and leaning forward. “It’s really up to you, alright? But … also consider that my mama has a certain kind of taste. An uppity kind of taste. A refined and … and …”
“Jimmy, are you tryin’ to call your own mother stuck-up?”
“No.” I shake my head too quickly. “Nah, wouldn’t dare.” My shoulders rise and drop with a sigh. “But you know my mama. I think you need to consider that if you go on this date—which is a blind date, by the way—it might be with someone you won’t like, and then there you go, wastin’ a perfectly good Saturday night.”
Bobby quirks an eyebrow, confused. “So … I shouldn’t go …?”
“I’m not tellin’ you what to do. And I’m not tellin’ you what not to do. I’m just …” My tongue trips me, and I’m left staring at the floor, searching for words and coming up empty.
“Well, gee, you sure aren’t any help,” mumbles Bobby with a sigh, glancing away.
I stare at Bobby looking confused and lost. A fire sets within me, which pushes my body out of the hungry beanbag chair. I hop across the room and plop down on the bed next to him. Bobby looks at me as I lean back against the headboard, then throw a lazy arm around him, pulling him against me.
“Um …”
“What?” I throw at him. “I just wanna comfort you for a sec. You’re freaking out about this whole date thing, and—”
“But we made that deal, didn’t we? Last weekend?”
I turn my head toward him. “Do you see me tryin’ to kiss you? I’m keeping my end of the deal. I learned my lesson.”
Bobby gives me a long, quizzical look. Then, after a moment of indecision, he finally gives in, allowing me to hold him, his head resting against my chest.
We spend some time just like that, Bobby cuddled against me, my arm around him, and the murmur of the too-soft TV in front of us. The only other light in the room is a tiny lamp near the bed with a soccer-ball-print lampshade I’m pretty sure he’s had since before he sprouted hair in his armpits.
Instinctually, my hand starts to rub up and down his back comfortingly. It’s barely a thought; I just start doing it.
“I’m sorry if I’ve been ignoring you.”
I peer down at the top of his head. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I didn’t mean to.”
Those words mean so much to me right now. “Thanks, Bobs. I know you’ve been pretty busy with your new job and all. They had you working the whole dang week, you realize that?”
“Well, I have tomorrow and Sunday off,” he points out.
“Sure, but … that’s still six days in a row they worked you.”
“Sunday was just a training and orientation thing.” After a bit, he reconsiders. “Well, an eight-hour-long training and orientation thing … I guess. Yikes, you’re right. Six days straight.”
I chuckle softly. My hand still rubs up and down his back. I fucking love this guy. I want everything in the world for him. “You seem to fit right in there. That projector hall was really cool. I just hope I didn’t make your boss have a bad impression of you.”
