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“Huh. You make that sound like a euphemism.”
I almost wished it was a euphemism. “It’s not.”
“Can we be sure, though? Because everything in that wackadoo town is a double entendre, so it’s possible—”
“Seamus!”
“Fine, fine. If you’re not refinishing his floors, then I guess you’re… refinishing his floors. Ba-dum-bum.”
My exhale made a white cloud in the air between the driver and passenger seat. “I hate you.”
“The same way you hate Hunter Jackson and Licking Thicket?” he teased.
“I don’t hate the Thicket. I just… don’t… belong here,” I muttered. “I never did.”
“Sure. Because it’s backward and ridiculous and filled with Jacksons and Nutters,” he said reasonably. “You can’t live the life you want in a place like that.”
“Maybe not backward,” I argued, as though Seamus wasn’t repeating things he’d heard from me over the years. “Turns out they might be more accepting than I remembered.” I hesitated. “But the rest is true enough. There’s at least one too many Jacksons in this town.”
“Uh-huh.” He chuckled. “But really, Charlie, how bad could your ‘date’ be? It’ll get you one step closer to winning that stupid bet with your mom, and if you’re busy refinishing Hunter’s floors—in whatever way we interpret that—at least you won’t have to spend the entirety of Thanksgiving-Eve-Day at the farmhouse with your extended family.”
“I wouldn’t anyway,” I said, remembering the sign I’d seen earlier. “Tomorrow is the Licking Thicket Stuffin’.”
“The… what?”
As I explained another of the Thicket’s hokey traditions, Seamus laughed so hard I was legitimately concerned he might choke himself.
“It’s not that funny,” I informed him, as though I hadn’t had the same amused-horror reaction when I’d been reminded of the event. “It’s just a chance for the town to swap… well, stuff. Thanksgiving stuff. Casseroles. Pies. Congealed salads.”
“What kind of salad?”
“Congealed? It’s made with different kinds of Jell-O, and usually pineapple chunks or cranberries, and sometimes mayonnaise or cottage cheese or marshmallows, and… You know what? Never mind.”
“Dear God in heaven.” Seamus let out a shuddering breath. “That might be the most troubling thing you’ve said yet. Licking Thicket is trying to poison you.”
“It’s not so bad,” I admitted, not sure if I was talking about the food or the town. “Better than spending time with Hunter Jackson in any capacity.”
When I said the words, I actually meant them. But two hours later, when I’d returned to Amos’s house and found that the whole family had congregated there for a spontaneous, raucous celebration of my new reputation as “the most expensive waste of a bid in Biddin’ history,” I decided maybe Seamus was right.
Maybe spending the day doing manual labor for Hunter Jackson was better than having to attend the Stuffin’ with these Nutters. Like Seamus had said, how bad could it be?
Chapter Four
HUNTER
I didn’t come up with my brilliant scheme until I’d gotten home from the Biddin’ and consumed a quantity of Dickel that had made even my silent thoughts sound whiskey-slurred. By that point, I’d convinced myself that Junior Nutter had provoked me into bidding on him the same way he’d provoked me into getting half-hard for him in the parking lot later—drunk logic didn’t require me to contemplate how he’d done either of those things, which was why it was superior to all other forms of logic—and it was therefore also Junior’s fault that the entire Thicket would be taking a renewed interest in my romantic business when I’d actively been trying to avoid the spotlight for years.
Refinishing floors was too easy for him, I decided. Junior deserved payback in kind.
So, I’d sent out a few drunken texts.
Remarkably enough, in the too-bright light of day the following morning, my idea still seemed nearly as brilliant as it had the night before… though, admittedly, I wasn’t known for being clearheaded when it came to Junior Nutter, even without the hangover headache throbbing behind my eyes.
“Here,” my sister said, shoving an old duffle bag at my chest. “Don’t tell anyone where you got it.”
I stood at my kitchen counter in nothing but pajama pants and a first-sip coffee haze. I’d long ago stopped bitching at her about barging in without knocking. I glanced down at the bag. “Why not?”
“Because it’s the mascot costume from St. Mary’s in Memphis. Don’t ask me how I ended up with it—it’s a long story, and I’d prefer you retain plausible deniability if anyone recognizes the famous Lady Turkey.”
“Lady Turkey?”
“Yeah. It’s a girls’ school. Don’t worry, though, the costume’s man-sized. There’s a pair of tights that are really stretchy, and then he can just step into the actual costume part and zip it up. There’s a headpiece in there and shoe coverings too. My senior year at Rhodes, one of the defensemen wore it for a joke, and if a defenseman can fit into it, Junior sure can.”
I didn’t bother commenting that a football player at her tiny private college didn’t necessarily imply large or muscular or that the Junior I’d met last night had been distractingly both.
