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“You don’t need to follow me around,” I grumble, even though I like him with me. I won’t admit it though. I’d never admit that. I’ll take it to my grave. “Don’t you need to go back and help Ryan?”
“Nope. He’s got this. He knows how to manage.”
I doubt that very much, but I don’t say so, just keep walking.
“You come here a lot?” he asks, his hands in the pockets of his overalls. I shove mine in my pockets too and feel the ornament brush against my fingers. Damn thing.
“No,” I lie. I do come here a lot now that it’s warm enough for the town to host it. But I only find myself wandering the stalls becausehe’shere. Just like I sit in choir practice every week to see him on the risers, his mouth open wide as he belts out a tune. He looks so damn silly and hot at the same time.
He’s addicting. Keeps me coming back again and again, even though I don’t want to. Even though I tell myself not to.
Just like when I planted my mouth on his again and again.
I tell myself not to go there, and yet I can’t help myself when it comes to him.
“You should. It sure is fun. Lots to see and you can get a lot of fresh produce. If you like that sort of thing.”
“I hate produce,” I say, and Jimbob looks appalled.
“Well, I bet that’s because you’ve never had it cooked the right way.”
“Bet I haven’t,” I say and peer up at him.
He meets my gaze and something softens in his eyes. And I hate that, hate how he’s looking at me right now, almost like he feels sorry for me, but he shouldn’t. There’s nothing to feel sorry for. My life isn’t bad. It’s a little unconventional, but it’s just fine.
“You should let me make you some good roasted veggies. Bet you moan when you eat them like you did back there.”
I snort. “Doubtful, man.”
He shrugs, not believing me, and then keeps walking. We pass by a few other stands, some pie, some soap, and then we stop at a booth with jam.
The older woman behind the table squeals when she sees us and reaches her arms out for Jimbob, who leans in, nearly toppling over the stand as he goes.
“Hey, Mrs. Huxley. How you doing, ma’am?”
The woman titters. “Oh, don’t call me that. I’m not that old.”
She is. She’s that old. She looks to be about six hundred years old. Probably met the dinosaurs.
“You aren’t, but my ma would swat me if she knew I spoke to you without a lick of respect.”
Mrs. Huxley laughs at that, and I just watch the encounter with a slightly parted mouth. It’s so odd, so foreign, the friendly way people are with one another. Back in New York, people didn’t act like this. They didn’t make small talk or try to be polite. They just diverted eye contact and, at times, hissed. If you were real lucky, they’d swear at you.
And here I am now, where people hug and call each other polite names and smile.
Lots of smiles.
Lots of sunshine.
They could bottle it up and sell it. Not that I’d buy it. Wouldn’t want it. Would stay far, far away from it.
“Who’s this?” Mrs. Huxley asks. Her eyeballs swivel to me, and I swear, they almost roll out of her head. I’m pretty sure the tendons keeping them in their sockets are worn and about ready to fail at any moment.
“This is Braxton. He’s newer in town. He works over at the feed store.”
“Oh, my, well, hello dear,” she says and reaches out to me. I reluctantly walk into her arms and let her squeeze me. She smells like old lady perfume and mothballs, so I just hold my breath before pulling away.
“Hi,” I manage to say on an exhale.
