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“I was already on her good side by default,” Bobby said.“I didn’t make that crack about the 4-H club.”
“Yeah, but you’re missing my point: you’re so good at this.You’ll be such a good detective.”
The tires hummed on the worn county road.
Then he said, “Thanks.”
It was like the night before all over again, except now we were in a car.
If you, unlike me, don’t experience a constant, low-grade panic about all social interactions, especially ones with your significant other—if you’re not constantly analyzing and reassessing and trying to decide if you made a mistake or if someone is mad at you or if you missed some key social cue—it’s hard to explain how a short silence and a one-word answer can set off your internal alarms.All of them.Every.single.one.
“What?”I asked.
“Huh?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.Thank you for saying that.I appreciate that.”
“You’re upset.”
“I’m not upset.”
We drove for maybe half a minute before I said, “I don’t understand what happened.I think you’re good at your job.I think you’d make a great detective.You’re the best deputy with the sheriff’s office, and that’s not just me talking as your boyfriend.Everybody knows it.What you did today, with Sissy, that’s proof.”
This time, hetook a breath.
“Bobby—” But I stopped.
He looked over.He switched hands on the wheel so he could squeeze my leg.He even smiled.“Thank you.That means so much to me.I love you.I’m so lucky to have somebody as supportive as you.”
I must have mumbled something, because the moment passed, and then it was over.
We drove the rest of the way without talking.He kept his hand on my leg, and his face was smooth.
I tried texting Millie, but she didn’t answer, so Bobby took me back to Hemlock House.When he stopped at the front door, I waited for…something.But he leaned in for a kiss, and then I found myself moving automatically: reaching for the door, throwing it open, scooting out of the cruiser.
“That was definitely longer than a lunch break,” I said.“Is anybody going to wonder where you were?”
Bobby’s grin was boyish—and full of trouble.
“Oh my God,” I said.“That isnotwhat I meant.I meant people are going to talk.”
Bobby’s grin got bigger.
“I’m done with you,” I said as I shut the door.“Goodbye.”
And all of that was normal.All of that was easy and light and the way things always felt between us.
It was so normal and easy and fun and light that I spent the next half an hour jamming thumbprint cookies in my face.
You can only do so much of that, though, before you either go into a diabetic coma or you run out of cookies.I ran out of cookies.I checked my phone, but I still hadn’t heard back from Millie.She was probably doing more Christmas stuff with her family.I tried Keme, and I didn’t hear anything back from him either.That wasn’t actually all that surprising.One time, I’d seen his phone.There were, like, three hundred unread messages from me.And they were important, too, likeCan you bring me a Coke from the kitchen?andHow much cake is left?andAre these my socks or yours?andI will do all your chores next week if you tell Bobby I went to the gym.
A quick lap of the house confirmed that I was home alone—Indira and Fox were still at the market, and although I found the keys to the Pilot in the den, Keme must have brought the SUV home and left again.I thought about playing Xbox—there’s nothing quite like mindless violence for self-soothing—but a voice that sounded suspiciously like Bobby’s pointed out that this was prime writing time, and I’d regret it if I wasted it.
Which was how I ended up in the den, in my favorite chair, with my favorite blankie—and yes, with some hot cocoa—staring at the screen while I tried to get my favorite fictional detective to do something.
Something was wrong with the plot; that was the problem.