Page 11

Can’t stop thinking about it, whole way home.

Even when we’re back at the house and Trey, Cody, and Pete get a bug up their butt to have a spontaneous game night, setting up Clue on the dining room table, I’m shuffling cards distractedly and replaying in my head over and over the insanity of our time at that restaurant.

Pete’s asked me a dozen times if I’m okay. Trey and Cody, too.

Even Cody’s mom kept patting me on the back like I’m in need of therapeutic soothing after my dance with death before she and Reverend Arnold went home—their separate ways, allegedly.

I told them all I’m fine.

But when our game of Clue commences, I get an earful from Trey and Cody anyway, who have stories and more stories about the “rollercoaster” that is Anthony Myers. I hear about something that happened back in high school involving Anthony stealing the prom date of the mayor’s son, then everyone vilifying him. I hear about him wanting to be a vet, then giving up his dream because of bad grades and money. His attempt at joining the Army, which backfired when he injured himself in boot camp. Then his family dog dying just a year ago. I hear more than I want to hear.

But the gist is that he’s a troubled guy, and Trey is certain he’s sorry for grabbing the habanero hot sauce by mistake instead of the tasty A1 I very obviously asked for.

Yeah, that’s what I told everyone. That it was a big mistake. Anthony must’ve grabbed the wrong sauce.

I also insisted to them that I ordered my steak well-done.

I don’t know why I did that. Why I covered for Anthony. Why I felt struck with this completely misplaced ball of sympathy when I recovered from choking, half-hanging from Pete’s arms, staring at Anthony and the expression of terror on his face.

Even he knew it went too far.

I could see it.

The guilt burning in his pretty blue eyes.

“Wait, what the hell?” says Cody an hour into the game after all the suspects are drawn. He snatches the solution envelope and pulls out the three cards. “Mr. Green and Colonel Mustard in the study? There’s two people cards in here! No weapon! The fuck?”

“The weapon is in their pants,” says Pete with a smirk, “and I can guess what they were up to all alone in that cozy study …”

Cody shoves at Pete. “You went and put two people cards in here, doofus!”

“Big deal. I hate this game anyway.”

“Why didn’t you say so??”

“I wanted to play Monopoly and Boardwalk your ass!”

“Boy, I’d railroad you, bankrupt you, and send you to jail . Don’t pass go, don’t collect $200!”

While the old pals keep razzing each other back and forth, Trey quietly excusing himself to top off all our drinks, I sit back and stare at the pieces on the board, our respective characters, the weapons strewn out everywhere—tiny rope, tiny candlestick, tiny lead pipe, all of them.

I don’t need a game of Clue to figure out who put me in this funk. It was Anthony who did it. Anthony. In the restaurant. With the bite of steak—a weapon no one could’ve possibly predicted.

Morning comes. I do my jog, enjoy the peace and calm, and return before the sun’s even broken the horizon.

We eat a relaxed brunch at the house. Cody goes on bragging about his “grill game”, which he just can’t wait to show off tonight for dinner. We hit the town and meet several new faces, including the town doctor who we encounter outside a clothing store. While Pete and Cody look at boots, I learn that Trey isn’t just the young reverend taking over after his father, but also works at the clinic, having gone through med school to become a nurse. I reveal to Trey that I got a decent amount of medic training during my time in the Army, inspired by watching a particularly skilled nurse save a comrade of mine who suffered a terrible injury in training. “I’m sure it’s a heck of a lot calmer in a small-town clinic than on a field of battle,” says Trey. “Hey, maybe I should introduce you to Dr. Emory sometime. I think you’d like him.” I nod and thank Trey, appreciating that, as I find myself admiring the reverend in a new light. I guess that’s a thing in small towns, to wear many hats—and not in the literal way Pete and Cody are demonstrating through the store window, having moved on from the boots.

The sun’s still up but on its way out for the day, and we’re all gathered back at the house in the backyard as Cody works his magic on the grill. A few friends and neighbors join, including a nurse named Marybeth from the clinic, as well as a couple guys from the church choir whose talents I actually got to hear Sunday morning, Jeremiah and Burton, along with Burton’s new girlfriend Cindy. Reverend Arnold and Ms. Davis decided not to come over, much to Trey’s increased suspicion about what they’re up to.

The eating and socializing carries into the night, and suddenly we’re saying goodbye, and not half an hour after that, Cody and Trey say goodnight, and I’m on the big couch in the dark by myself again, crickets singing their insect songs through the windows.

And the last thought I have before drifting off is what the hell Anthony was up to today. Hiding, I guess .

Another morning. Another jog. I’m getting used to the layout of Spruce already, forming routes in my head as I curve and wind my way around town. This time, I don’t race back. I sit at a bench in the park and watch as the sun breaks the dark sky into bright blue—a bright blue that reminds me too much of Anthony’s eyes.

On my way back in the warm morning sunlight, I jog past the market, and two of the guys there recognize me from before. Then I’m spotted by someone else across the street, someone I think we ran into our first night at Tumbleweeds, and I return their wave. A moment later finds me jogging past the clinic, and there Marybeth happens to be, walking from her car to the front of the building. She gives me a cheery wave, her purse clutched over a shoulder. I wave back, wondering if this is what life in a small town is really like after just a day or two, every person you pass knowing you.

But none of these faces are Anthony’s. It’s like one minute, I’m running into him everywhere. Now, the guy is a fucking ghost.

Seriously, is he hiding?

That evening, after we enjoy a tasty chicken dinner cooked by Trey, Pete and Cody take off together to check out something in town. (I told them to go without me; the two need their own time together.) Soon after they leave, I shrug on my denim jacket and join Trey out front by the colorful flowerbed. He tells me his dad planted the flowers ten years ago after his wife, Trey’s mother, passed away. Now that his dad moved out, it’s Trey’s responsibility to tend to them, though he often catches his father strolling past the house (he lives just down the road, anyway) and he’ll always stop to check on them. Once, Trey even caught his dad talking to the flowers. “I’m pretty sure he believes Mom’s spirit is in there somewhere, dancing in those tulips,” explains Trey thoughtfully. “Looking at the breathtaking colors, I think I believe it, too.”

I gaze at the white cross standing in the center of them with a new appreciation.

“I think he’s at the church,” says Trey.

I’m still gazing at the cross. “Your father?”

“Anthony.” I turn to him, confused. Trey shrugs. “Just in case you thought you might take an evening stroll, since Cody and Pete are off doing their thing, and maybe my company is a bit boring.”

“Why would I—?”

“Anthony had his moments recently, moments of turning himself around. We’ve talked a lot. Like, a lot . I kinda became his parents’ unofficial therapist, too, helping them with their marital issues. But Anthony, he’s a bit of a … one-step-forward, two-steps-back kinda guy. He has no anchor in his life.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You always make up the couch so perfectly every morning before you go for your jog. I noticed.” Trey chuckles. “Must be that military discipline in you, huh?”

I’m still distracted by his volunteering all that info regarding Anthony. “I just like to … respect your space. Leave things better than how I found them. It’s what a guest should do.”

“You’re a great guy, Bridger. I wonder if you’ll leave this town better than how you found it, whenever you go.” He smiles at the flowers, and I wonder for a moment if he’s thinking of his mother. Then he reaches out and gently touches one of them, a red one in the front. “To be honest, I kinda hope you guys stay longer.”

“I would hate to overstay our welcome.”

“Nonsense. You’re welcome here as long as you guys want. Stay for a month if you like. Stay for two.” He pulls back his hand and hugs his knees, crouched next to me. “I think he might be all by himself up there, assuming choir’s finished up their Tuesday night rehearsals by now.”

Is he talking about Anthony again? “You want me to go and see him or something? Is that it? So he can try to choke me again?”

“Ah, I suspected it wasn’t such an accident as you made it out to be.” I freeze. Did Trey just catch me in a trap? “Anyway, I think I’m gonna head inside and read a book. My dad got me into this series he used to read about a princess, a cute sorcerer’s apprentice, and a marble dragon … won’t bore you with the details … but I will say, isn’t it mighty convenient how close we live to the church? Barely a stroll down the street.”

With a smile, Trey gives me a pat on the shoulder, then slowly saunters up the walkway back to the house. I remain there awhile longer, crouching in front of the flowers, eyes on the cross.

Fucking hell, if I’m not the hungry fish, and Anthony, the bait squirming tastily on a sharp, painful hook.

Just as I approach the church, the doors open, and out walk two men, one of them I recognize as Jeremiah from just last night. “Evenin’, Bridger,” he greets me, then nudges the other guy. “Hey, remember the friend-of-a-friend-of-Trey’s-husband I mentioned? This is him. Bridger, this is Robby, also sings in the choir. Probably heard him Sunday morning.” I give the men a nod, surprised—and totally not surprised—that I was enough of a subject of interest to have been talked about. “Did you come by to listen to us rehearse? Sorry we just finished up, last to leave.”

“Well,” mutters Robby, glancing back over his shoulder. “Not quite the last to leave.”

I glance past them toward the church, its front doors left open like an unspoken invitation with its soft, dim light spilling out.

Jeremiah nods at me. “You wanna join us? We’re meeting with some others at Pepperoni Pirate, our post-rehearsal Tuesday night thing. This one’s not-so-secret girlfriend Nessie will be there, too.”

“I’m gonna marry her,” says Robby, full of determination as he stares off, like he can see their wedding day. “No matter what anyone says or does to stop it.”

“He’s talking about Nessie’s parents.” Jeremiah covers Robby’s ears. “They don’t approve.” Robby swats the hands away, scowling.

I give the men a nod of appreciation. “Thanks, but I think I’ll have to join you another night, if that’s alright, gentlemen.”

“We’ll be at Tumbleweeds tomorrow, or Thursday if Robinson cancels rehearsal again. See you there if you’re up for it. Enjoy the rest of your night, Bridger.” Then the two set off down the road, Robby going on about something his girlfriend’s mother said the other day as Jeremiah nods and nods, listening.

Five seconds later, their problems couldn’t be further from my mind. I head up the path to the doors of the church, then step inside. Dim light spills from the annex full of tables, the lobby and main chapel dark. I gently close the door behind me and approach the archway leading into the annex, where I stop.

In the center of the annex among the sea of fold-out tables is a ladder. Barely over halfway up that ladder is Anthony, wearing a pair of low-hanging jeans with the top of his underwear showing, the bottom of his jeans bunched up at the ankles by his brown leather boots. He’s also in another ill-fitting white tank top that doesn’t quite reach his waist, reminding me of how he looked the first time I saw him, minus Duncan’s vest. His movements are slow as he tiredly inspects a burned-out fluorescent light, twisting it one way, then the other, grunting groggily to himself.

He would have an easier time of it if he’d just go up one or two more steps instead of stretching to reach the light like he’s afraid of falling three feet off a ladder. Or is that it? Is he afraid of falling? He appears to be working here all by himself, to be fair.

“Jeremiah?” he mumbles sleepily over a shoulder. “That you? Still here?”

I guess I wasn’t as stealthy as I thought.

Before I say a word, he reaches out behind him. “Can you get me the screwdriver?” When I don’t answer, he turns his head only halfway, annoyed. “Please? Sorry I said you sing like a hedgehog on steroids, I dunno what that even means. It’s been a shit week. All sorts of nonsense flyin’ outta my mouth.”

After a second’s hesitation, I come into the annex. On a table next to the ladder is a messy spread of tools and screws, a long skinny box, and his phone. I pick up the screwdriver and press it into his wiggling fingers. “Thanks,” he says without looking.

I decide to speak. “Why don’t you go up a few more steps?”

Shockingly, he even mistakes my voice for Jeremiah’s. “Why? So I can fall and break my neck? Ladder’s a rickety-ass death trap! Trey or his dad needs to get one that ain’t fifty years old.”

This guy really is out of it. He must be. He’s talking like he’s running on the fumes of fumes in an empty tank, chugging along at barely a mile per hour, and doesn’t realize who he’s talking to.

I come and stand on the bottom step of the ladder, securing it with my weight. “Better?”

Anthony half-turns his head again. “What’re you doin’?”

“You can go higher now.”

“Really? You’re just gonna stand on it like that for me?”

I’m honestly stunned he still thinks I’m Jeremiah. “Yep.”

“With my butt in your face?”

I look away. “Yep.”

“Suit yourself.”

He goes up two more steps. I lean back as his ass, indeed, finds itself right by my face. Even being closer to his work as he is now, he still grunts like every tiny thing is the most exhausting effort.

“Not goin’ out with the others?” asks Anthony.

I turn back to him. He keeps sighing a lot, his butt turning one way, then the other, wiggling unintentionally in my face. “Nope.”

“Why not? Doubt Burton will be there. Didn’t even show up tonight. Bet you fifty buckaroos he’s gonna quit the choir any day now n’ go full-time at the paper ‘cause of his hard-ass dad.”

I don’t know and cannot possibly explain why I’m fighting an instinct to bite his wiggling ass. Why do I want to bite it? Because it’s right there? Why is this even a thought in my mind?

“Of course, he’s got a fancy girlfriend now …” Anthony goes on, his voice slurring every other word. “How a guy like that scores a pretty girlfriend like that , fuckin’ mystery to us all …”

I feel like I’m holding a conversation with Anthony’s butt.

A one-sided conversation, at that.

“Heard you went to Trey and Cody’s last night for a barbecue, one of Cody’s grill things.”

I stare at Anthony’s butt like it’s got me hypnotized. “Yep.”

“You happen to … y’know … meet their out-a’-town guests?”

His voice just went low, like the cheer got squeezed right out. If his exhausted drawl can in any way be interpreted as cheer.

Belatedly, the question pulls me out of this odd butt hypnosis I’m experiencing. Jeremiah was there last night, Anthony knows. He’s getting at something—and I know that something is me.

“Just curious,” he mumbles.

I shrug. “Yeah. You can say I met them.”

“What’d you think?”

Before I answer, he lets out a huff of frustration—I can’t see what he’s doing—then leans back slightly as he tugs at something.

His butt shoves into my face for a second. I frown against it as I try to lean back. “Well, I think they’re good people,” I answer in half a sneer, bearing it because I chose to stand here and help.

“That so?” Strangely, he sounds more curious than anything. “Guess everyone else gets to see the better side of ‘em. Especially that Bridger guy.”

He shifts his weight when he says my name. I lean back even more to avoid getting butt-faced again. “What about him?”

“The guy’s just …” He lets out a sigh. He’s growing more tired. I can hear it in his voice, and his legs keep fidgeting. “I can’t put it into words, what I’ve been feeling.”

I look up at him, up his back. “Try.”

“Like everyone in the world’s on one side, and then there’s me on the other, and … and I can’t seem to … to …” He stops.

“Can’t seem to what?”

“Fuck this. Whole light needs to get replaced, and I ain’t cut out for that, I’m no electrician. No veterinarian, either. No soldier. Can’t even be a decent bachelor guy. All my work’s for nothin’. I’m such a useless p-piece of shit.”

I don’t know how much luck I’ve got left to press before he realizes who he’s talking to. “No, you’re not.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Doesn’t help anyone. And you shouldn’t be doing electrical work, anyway,” I add, getting more annoyed by the second. “You just said you’re not an electrician, so this isn’t safe. What are you trying to prove here anyway?”

“Prove …?” He twists around, struck by something, maybe the tone in my voice—and at last he sees me. “What the f—??”

His hand slips from the light on the ceiling.

Balance is lost.

As his body goes tumbling into me, I fling my arms out and grab hold of him—and down the both of us go to the floor.

I crash onto my back.

Anthony on top of me, in my arms, his fall broken.

We open our eyes together, and our faces are close.

Too close— way too close. Intimate-lovers close.

Yet neither of us move. Neither of us let go.

“Why you always gotta go ruinin’ my damned day?” he moans in my face, his sleepy blue eyes like wet crystals. “What did I do to you? Why do you hate me so fuckin’ much?”

“Why do you hate you so fuckin’ much?”

Anthony stares back at me, speechless.

Barely an inch from my face.

Those frustratingly blue, intensely sensitive eyes I don’t think anyone in this town’s gotten a proper looking into.

Not the way I’m looking into them right now.

“I don’t …” Anthony’s breaths come short. He’s having trouble speaking. “I don’t want … don’t wanna do this. Not again. I’m tired. I haven’t slept in days. And I’m so … I’m … I-I’m so …”

“You’re so … what?” I ask, annoyed.

“Goddamn you, Bridger.”

He grabs hold of my shirt, aggressive suddenly, and I have no chance to prepare for the fist I know he’s about to throw at me.

But it isn’t a fist that comes for my face.

It’s his lips.

Crashing into mine.

Fully and intentionally.

Even while he continues to kiss me deeply, his breath rushing desperately out of his mouth with his efforts, I have to process for a solid ten seconds that he isn’t, in fact, still trying to attack me.

I don’t even realize it’s happening. It was never a possibility.

Not truly.

And now I’m kissing him back. Gripping him by his shirt, too. Fingers tangling into his clothes.

One of his hands gropes me so suddenly, I grunt with surprise. Is he copping a feel? A genuine, committed, five-finger grappling of my junk through my pants?

He’s hard as fuck. I can feel him throbbing as he humps my leg while the kiss intensifies.

What the fuck is happening?

Where the hell did this come from?

I don’t know. I can’t answer. All I can do is scramble to keep up with his sudden, assaulting intensity. I don’t know what it is about the feverishness of this kiss, but it’s pulling out everything from inside of me.

My own needs. My own lonesomeness.

My own desire to get this beastly hunger out of me.

Is this the truth I’ve been refusing to see since first stepping foot in this town? That Anthony is just another lonely fool in need of affection—like me?

The kiss ends so suddenly, I let out a whimper as Anthony rolls off of me like a lump of dead meat. “I’m so … so fuckin’ tired of … of …” His eyes are closed, his head lolled back on my shoulder. “… of your pretty face,” he finishes at last.

Then silence.

Piercing. Breathless. Incorrigible silence.

I lie there, stunned, as I stare up at the burned-out fluorescent light, wide-eyed, Anthony half on me breathing quietly, deeply.

Asleep. The fucker fell asleep.

Not a muscle in his body moves, save for his gently rising and falling chest. Like a baby cradled in my arms. A big, sweaty, messy baby. Face tucked into my shoulder. His weight on me.

Of all the things to possibly notice right now, after the words we shared, and that ridiculously aggressive kiss, my attention is wholly captured by a single, surprising observation.

He isn’t snoring. Sleeping like a goddamned rock.

Above us, the dead fluorescent light buzzes, flickers and spits, then comes on.