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I drag the coveralls out and shake them, sending dried grass flying. There’s a long tear down the back, which is probably why they’re in here. But they seem serviceable. “Here,” I tell her. “You can put this on.”
She wrinkles her nose, but accepts the outfit from me. I turn my back as she unzips the front. It’s probably going to be awkward getting into them.
“At least it’s not navy blue,” she says.
“What’s wrong with navy blue?”
“It’s for police officers and pilots. And I look like death in it.”
I grunt and lift more tarps to see what’s underneath. I don’t find a normal blanket, but there is a softer covering, the kind you lay over plants during a freeze. I spread it over the cot to make a more comfortable place to sit.
Ensley zips up the coveralls, so I figure it’s safe to turn around.
But I have to hold back my snort. She looks like a kid playing dress-up. The pant legs cover her feet, which is good, I guess, for keeping warm. The sleeves fall long past her fingers. The waist is somewhere midthigh.
She tries to pull out a hand to roll up the sleeve, but the sheer bulk of the uniform makes it difficult.
“Here,” I say. “I’ll do it.”
I think she’s going to jerk her arm away, but she doesn’t. I unsnap the cuff and roll the heavy fabric until her hand appears.
“Thanks,” she says. “I can manage the other.”
I shrug and turn away, pouring another cup of bourbon. I’m not bothered by the cold. I sit on the cot and watch her struggle with the cuff while I drink.
Her dark hair fluffs out as it dries. It was always naturally curly when she was a kid. A few pieces are stuck in place by pins. She’s a mess, but a cute mess, like she’s just gotten out of bed after a busy night.
I shift my thoughts. The silk boxers give far too much away.
“So what’s that blanket you found?” she asks.
“Something to cover plants.”
She runs her hands over it. “It’s pretty rough.”
“Better than whatever might have been on the cot.”
“That’s true.”
I pluck the unsquashed package of Doritos out of the plastic bin and open the top. I angle the bag toward her, and she takes a handful.
“Take two on the fancy dinner,” she says. “This time as Mike.” She points at the patch stitched onto the chest of the coveralls.
I grunt, the closest thing I have for a laugh. I’ve used up my allotment of patience for the evening. It takes a lot of effort for me to exchange inane pleasantries, and I’m done.
We crunch on Doritos, and I pour each of us more bourbon. Now that she’s covered up, the tension drops significantly.
“Here, we can arrange this better.” She hops up, unfolding the blanket so that there’s an extra length, and settles it over my knees. “I don’t want you to freeze.”
Every response I could give her—fineorI’m not cold—seems wrong, so I shove another chip in my mouth. The bourbon is doing its work, and I feel relaxed, especially now that Ensley is more or less taken care of. She’s stopped shivering and stares into her plastic cup like she’s reading tea leaves.
“So.” She can’t seem to go more than ten seconds without talking. “Do you talk to Garrett anymore?”
“Nope.” I crunch a chip to make clear I do not plan to elaborate.
There’s nothing to tell, anyway. Garrett was in my friend circle in high school. But while Franklin and I got into Georgia Tech, Garrett stayed home to work maintenance at the city bus barn. I didn’t mean to lose contact, but life happened.
Ensley picks at the frayed edges of the coveralls. “I guess it might have been different if Garrett had been able to go to college.”
