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I think back to the few other guys I went out with that turned out to be nothing serious and how Rigger was not like this at all. Nor was he like this when I met Devin. And the only difference was … I wasn’t all that crazy about any of them.
Rigger can see how much I like Ben and it scares him. Why, I’m not sure. Ben’s not dangerous, he’s proved that. He’s only dangerous to King.
“Better the devil you know,” I argue.
Rigger doesn’t say anything to that. The waitress brings our food and sets it down. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No.” Rigger answers without looking away from me.
I look at the fries on my plate. “Some ketchup, please?”
With a brusque nod the waitress walks off.
“That was kinda rude,” I tell Rigger.
“I’ll leave her a big tip.” He spins in the booth and lifts the bun on his burger, pulling off the tomatoes and smushing it back together before taking a bite. He then spins the plate on the table until the tomato slices are facing me. I pick them up and drop one on my plate, the other inside my mouth.
This has been our ritual for several years. I once asked why he didn’t just tell them to hold the tomatoes on his sandwich.
“Because you love them,” he had replied.
The waitress brings my ketchup and I thank her, flipping open the lid and squirting a generous amount over my fries.
“You and your soggy fries,” Rigger teases.
“You and your tomato repulsion.”
He chuckles. “We do have our little quirks.”
“They’re not quirks. They’re preferences. I like tons of ketchup sitting on my french fries until they get soggy and you like making sure no tomato gets left behind.”
Rigger smirks, bobs his head. “We have a way of dancing with one another. It’s nice to have that.”
“Yes, it is. There aren’t too many friends who have what we have.”
He casts a serious look my way, drops his burger on the plate and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “No, there really aren’t.”
We spend the rest of our lunch talking about mundane things like movies we want to see, the upcoming holiday next week. As we walk through the parking lot back to our cars Rigger says he’s not planning to spend Thanksgiving back east.
“Your mom will be disappointed.” Rigger usually hangs out with his younger brothers in North Carolina for Thanksgiving, and he’s the only one of the three who takes the time to check in on their, and I quote,demented-ass mother.
“She’ll understand.”
“What will she understand?” We reach my car and stop. I lean against the trunk and cross my arms.
“She’ll understand I have work shit to deal with.”
“What about your brothers? I’m sure they’ll want to know what work shit is more important than spending the holidays with family.”
Rigger tightens his jaw, looks away.
I poke him in the chest. “Hey, you better not be keeping secrets from me.”
He shakes his head, tightens his lips for a second.
Why the hell is he acting so weird?
“Let me ask you a question.”
