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It was already late, nearly evening on Friday. They'd be returning to Salvation after the conference's Sunday-morning prayer service and luncheon, which didn't give her much time to reason with him. "What will you do?"
"Counseling probably. Maybe I'll go back to school and get my Ph.D. in psychology. I don't know."
She played her trump card. "Your brothers are going to be so disappointed in you, not to mention your parents."
"We all have to live our own lives." They were approaching an exit ramp, and he pulled over. "I'm hungry. Let's get something to eat."
He knew as well as she did that the conference kicked off with a buffet dinner at seven, and her car trouble had already made them late. She hadn't wanted to spend too much time alone with him, so she'd planned to drive separately to Knoxville, but when she'd tried to start her normally reliable Honda, nothing had happened, and she'd been forced to go with him. "It's already six, and we really don't have time."
"Are you afraid somebody's going to give you an F on your report card if you're late?"
This sarcasm was new to him, one of several changes hat had taken place since she'd told him she was quitting, and she didn't like it. "It's your conference, not mine. I wouldn't even be going if you hadn't nagged me into it."
Her two weeks' notice had been up nearly a week ago, but he'd bullied her into staying on the job through this weekend, and since her new position at the preschool in Brevard didn't start until Monday, she'd agreed. Now she wished she hadn't been such a pushover.
Being with him had grown even more painful since last Friday night at the Pride of Carolina. What had happened in the front seat of his car had destroyed her illusions that she might be getting over him. She still loved him, and she knew she always would, even though being around him this past week had felt like a ride on a runaway roller coaster.
He alternated between uncharacteristic bouts of snappishness and being so sweet and thoughtful that she could barely hold back tears. When he wasn't snarling at her, he displayed an almost puppy-dog eagerness to please. She knew her accusation that he hadn't been a friend had stung him badly, and she only wished she could chalk his behavior up to an emotion other than guilt.
Sometimes she'd catch him watching her, and even her inexperienced eyes recognized the desire she saw there. It should have made her happy. Wasn't that what she'd wanted? But the knowledge only depressed her. She didn't want to be some babe he lusted after. She wanted to be his love.
She realized he'd passed the fast-food restaurants that sat near the freeway exit. "I thought you said you were hungry."
"I am." But he continued to drive down the two-lane country highway. Finally he slowed and made a left turn into the parking lot of a dingy diner that sat next to an eight-unit motel.
The diner's gravel lot contained mostly pickups. As he parked between two of them, she regarded the place with distaste. Its dirty mustard asphalt shingles and flickering neon beer signs hardly looked promising. "I think we should go back to the Hardee's."
"I like this place."
"It's not respectable."
"Good." He jerked the keys from the ignition and threw open the door.
It was going to be a long weekend if his mood didn't improve soon. Gruder Mathias, one of the town's retired clergy, was preaching for Ethan on Sunday, and Monday was his day off, so he wouldn't be in any hurry to get back.
With a sigh of resignation, she trailed after him to the entrance, which featured a pair of heavy wooden doors in a fake Mediterranean motif. She heard the whine of a country ballad even before they stepped inside.
A blast of air-conditioning plastered her tomato-red ribbed tank dress to her body. She smelled hot grease and stale beer. At the dimly lit bar, a group of ol' boys wearing gimme caps and muddy jeans sat drinking beer and smoking.
Since it was still relatively early, most of the tables were vacant, as were the brown vinyl booths. Dusty plastic vines that looked as if they'd been stapled to the paneled walls a decade earlier provided the decor, along with some framed health-department certificates that had to be forgeries.
Ethan steered her to a booth in the back. As soon as they were settled, the bartender, a no-neck bald-headed man, called over for their drink order. "What'll you have?"
"Coke," she replied, hesitating only a moment before she added, "In the can, please."
"I'll have scotch on the rocks."
Kristy gazed at Ethan in surprise. She'd never seen him drink strong liquor. He didn't even order margaritas in Mexican restaurants.
She had to remind herself that he was no longer her responsibility, so she bit her tongue.
One of the men at the bar turned to stare at her. Having men notice her was still new enough to make her uncomfortable,
so she pretended not to notice.
The bartender brought over their drinks, then slapped down two laminated menus sticky with old condiments. "Jeannie'll be with you in a minute. Special tonight is fried catfish." He walked away.
Kristy poked the grubby menus out of the way with her little finger. Ignoring the empty glass of ice cubes, she wiped the rim of the can with her paper napkin before she took a drink. The Coke was warm, but at least it was sanitary.
