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“Yes,” says Kent, “you have. Your point is made. Now can we go somewhere and talk like two adults?”
“Actually, it just occurred to me that I haven’t eaten anything since the breakfast your mom and Skipper made for us, and I smell fried food somewhere.”
“That’s me,” states Kent dryly. “I was knee-deep in the fryer out back.”
Oh. “Then that’s apparently what I’m craving, and that is where I will be heading. Excuse me, boys.” I pass right by them, deliberately brushing up against Kent—I have never wanted someone to stop me, yank me against their body, and make out with me so fucking badly before—and make my way toward the back door.
As predicted, he’s right on my heels. “Jonah. We need to talk. Come on.”
“We are talking. I’m just going to be eating while we do so.” I pull open the door and let myself outside. The salty breeze hits my face—as does an assortment of fried fair foods, of which there seems to be countless varieties. “Wow. Is this what I’ve been missing? Why didn’t you take me to the fair while I was here? I would’ve stuffed myself from day one. Ooh, is that a cotton candy machine?”
“Jonah.”
“Actually, this feels wrong. I wasn’t technically invited. Should I go find Mr. Hopewell and congratulate him for twenty years of success? Oh. I didn’t even visit the fair at all while I was here, so that feels wrong, too.”
“He won’t care. He doesn’t know half the people here anyway. Jonah, we need—”
“But it’s his own house, and I’m a guest.” I grab my stomach. I think it just growled. “Uh, okay, maybe I’ll eat first, congratulate later. Yeah, that sounds like a good compromise.” I find myself in front of a corndog stand. “Oh, wow, are these free?”
Just before the vendor speaks, Kent reaches over the stand, grabs one by the stick, and thrusts it into my hand. “Obviously Martin doesn’t charge his own guests to eat.”
“Ooh, generous. Martin? That’s Mr. Hopewell’s name? Thanks,” I say to the vendor, who just stares blankly at us, having done nothing. Then I take a bite—and discover that I am in possession of the best fucking corndog I’ve ever tasted. “Thanks!” I say again with renewed vigor, surprised and happy, then go for another bite, moaning.
Kent is staring deadpan at me. “Are you done?”
“Done what?” I ask, mouth full. “I just started!”
“You’re eating. You’re happy now. Can we talk?”
“Can you apologize first?”
“Apologize?”
“Yes.” I continue stuffing my mouth as I slowly stroll along the deck. Though it’s crowded out here with people eating and mingling (the vendors and guests all know each other), I find myself strangely calm. “Yes, apologize.”
“For what?”
“For ditching me earlier with little to no explanation other than I need to spend my last night here with my friend. For acting like whatever developed between us over these past few days meant nothing to you. For—”
“It doesn’t mean nothing to me,” Kent objects.
“—leaving me with the world’s biggest boner in that cabana on the beach …”
He scowls at me. “I was protecting you.”
“From what? This makeover I just forced on myself?”
“I liked you how you were before.”
Some guy with flirty eyes is approaching me. “Are you sure about that, Kent? I was hiding a staggering amount of nose and ear hairs they had to pluck that I didn’t even know existed. One of the hairstylists almost fainted.” And there goes the flirty-eyed guy, turning right back around and heading off, never to be heard of again.
“So?” Kent slaps a hand to his own chest. “I smell like a vat of month-old frying oil and sweat.”
“Are you trying to turn me on?” I ask sincerely.
“I’m trying to tell you it isn’t your looks that drew me to you at all. It’s … all of you. That first exchange we had at the window of the Blue Coral, the way you didn’t take any of my shit, the way you just …” He averts his eyes, as if dreamily drawn back to that fateful day so long ago.
Oh, wait, it was literally Friday.
“You told me you farted on my funnel cake,” I remind him after another bite, “and I still met up with you at that bonfire that same night. Obviously I’m the kind of guy who doesn’t care how you look or smell, either. Or that you’re greasy and filthy and … and sweaty, and—” Really, this is all turning me on. Totally doing it for me. What kind of freak am I? Is this foreplay? “I’m actually pretty gross, too. Do you know how much goopy, overpriced product is in my hair right now? I think I just maxed out a card.”
Kent stops me by the railing. My back is pinned to it as he comes close. “Look, I’m sorry for pushing you away. I’m not good at this shit.”
