Page 15

I don’t even know where to start.

I’m so disoriented that I try to open the apartment door with the wrong key six times in a row.

Then I’m standing in front of my closet staring at a bunch of shirts with no idea what I’m looking for.

Then I’m in the shower with the water pouring over me and can’t remember if I already shampooed my hair.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Why did I panic like that?

How humiliating, to run away from him like my pants caught fire, giving him that power over me. Now he knows for sure how much he bothers me. I showed my cards. He’s probably smirking proudly to himself right now, sitting in that big house he doesn’t deserve to be in.

Or maybe he’s just hoping I change my mind.

I do gotta ask myself: what harm could hanging with Bridger a little bit really cause? Is he gonna eat me alive? Nice me to death?

The shower curtain sweeps open. “Do you know where I put my pink pussycat curling iron?”

Again, with the boundaries. “Juni, I don’t know where my own ass is. Why would I know where your pink pussycat anything is?”

“Is it true you got fired from the restaurant?”

I glance over my shoulder at her. “Where’d you hear that?”

“From Bonnie, who’d heard it from her husband Kirk, who’d heard it from his pal Harrison, who’d—”

“You’re turnin’ into one of ‘em,” I cut her off. “Stay in Spruce for too long and you start talkin’ about everything and everyone except your dang self. It’s a disease. Besides,” I go on, “don’t trust anything Kirk or Bonnie say. Those two are known for starting all sorts of rumors ‘cause their own lives are boring. You don’t wanna turn into Trailer Park Gossip Barbie, do you?”

“So it isn’t true?”

I sigh and look away, not answering, as I shampoo again. She rummages through the drawers beneath the sink next, humming to herself. I’m no musician, but I know when her melody’s off, and she has no hope or desire to find it any more than I have a hope or desire to figure out what it is about Bridger that has me feeling like a mess no matter how hard I scrub myself with soap.

Next, I’m sitting in a fold-out chair on the gravel outside our apartment with the crickets, an opened bag of Doritos in my lap, and the door behind me cracked and spilling out whatever music Juni’s blasting—some girl-power indie band she discovered a week and a half ago and became obsessed with. Despite my hand being thrust halfway into the crinkly bag in my lap, I haven’t eaten a single chip. I’m just staring off into goddamned space.

Staring off and picturing Bridger’s face.

Hearing Bridger’s words—and hearing them differently.

It’s okay to want to be held , he said. Maybe this is … something you need more of . Being held . No shame, saying that .

I wish I could stop seeing his eyes. Stop hearing the patient, caring tone in his voice. I used to think he sounded like a superior douchebag talking down to me, but it was different tonight. It felt less like putting me down.

More like lifting me up.

Does that even make sense?

What changed?

A balding, freckled head of a man pops out of the unit three doors down. “Please, I don’t want to be a broken record, but turn that racket down! I got a job interview in Fairview at eight in the morning and can’t even hear my own thoughts!”

It’s recently-divorced Mr. Joy whose head that is. “Fairview?” I snort back at him. “Must be scraping the bottom if you’re lookin’ for work in Fairview.”

“Speak for yourself, you bum!”

“You wanna say that to my face?” I shout lazily back with zero intention of getting out of this chair.

“Just turn down the music! I don’t wanna call the cops!”

“They have more important things to deal with,” I shout, “like speeding teenagers aiming for an innocent pedestrian just tryin’ to cross the street on his way home while bein’ pursued by a guy who acts way nicer to me than I deserve and has no dang business bein’ so handsome all the time.”

When my response is met with silence, I turn to find Mr. Joy staring back at me with a baffled expression.

“Is my music too loud?” comes Juni from behind.

Mr. Joy transforms from an outraged neighbor to a flustered schoolboy. “I, uh, I’m, it wasn’t, heh, sorry, I …”

She steps out of the apartment in nothing but an oversized t-shirt hanging off one shoulder barely long enough to cover the tops of her thighs. She caresses her favorite pink feather boa over her shoulders, her eyebrows lifted halfway up her forehead, her lips pouting with curiosity as she tilts her head, awaiting Mr. Joy’s attempt at an answer.

He finally manages to say, “Just forget it. I have earplugs. I can just use my … I can … put them in my … stuff my … inside of my …”

“You want to stuff your what? Into where?” asks Juni in the most excruciatingly innocent voice.

Mr. Joy lets out the strangest wheeze that reminds me of a balloon having its last breath of life squeezed out of it by an angry child. “Goodnight,” he finally squeaks before disappearing into his apartment, and that’s the last I think we’ll hear from him.

Juni sighs. “Why do men always run away from me?”

I look at her. “The heck are you wearing? He probably thinks you’re a teenager throwing a sleepover and it gave him a coronary seein’ you like that. Do you know his ex-wife runs the high school drama department and suspected he was cheating on her with one of her former students? Huge thing last year. Everyone was—”

“Now who’s the gossip?” sasses Juni, cutting me off.

I frown. “It’s not the same as—”

“All I want is a nice and decent man. That’s fair, isn’t it? A nice and decent man. With muscles. And a job.”

“Sounds like Mr. Joy’s outta luck.”

“Job’s optional,” she decides, changing her mind. “I could be someone’s sugar mama. I don’t mind, really. Someone can gold-dig me. I’d probably let them.” She crouches by my chair and hugs her knees. “Everything smells like poop out here.”

“When the wind blows right, we’re all reminded that we’re surrounded on all sides by farms.”

“Were the hunky military guys there at the thing?”

“Huh? Oh, them.” She’s talking about dinner tonight at Trey and Cody’s. “Is that all you care about? Hunky military guys?” I shoot her a look. “What’s going on with you lately? You horny?”

“Literally always.”

I hand my bag of Doritos off to her. She takes it distractedly and starts munching away. “Yes,” I finally answer, slouching back in my chair and causing it to creak, “they were there.”

She fishes for a chip. “And the one who—” Chomp . “—came up to the—” Chomp . “—jukebox that one night?”

I sigh. “Yep.”

“I wish I was invited. I’d love to—” Chomp . “—get to know them more personally .”

I can only imagine how differently tonight might’ve gone had Juni been there. I got the fast impression that Pete was a horn dog himself. He probably would’ve been so distracted by her presence, same as Mr. Joy was, or any hot-blooded man. There never would have been a chance for a weird moment between him and Cody.

“Should we go to the Saloon tonight?” she asks.

“It isn’t even the weekend.”

“Never stopped us before. The dance floor is so empty, too, which is nice, because then I can dance bigger … or something.”

“But it’s way outta town.” I make a face. “Always smells like cat pee there, too.”

“I have a new dress I wanna try on. We can put the cute red-tongue-smiley-face stickers on our butts again.”

“I gotta work tomorrow, door-to-door sales thing for my dad. He thinks I’m pissing my life away. Gotta prove him wrong.”

“I sure could use some stress relief,” she says, and with each word, her clutch on the Doritos bag tightens, crinkling it worse.

Obviously I need to relieve stress, too. Stress caused by Bridger getting up in my face. By him holding me tightly. My heart playing a full damned drum set inside my chest.

“I noticed this weird thing about myself lately,” murmurs Juni, lowering the bag. “Whenever I get a nice thing in my life, I always get scared of it and bat it away.”

“Why?”

“It’s hard to trust nice things when all you’ve ever known is not nice things. Know what I mean?”

I glance at her. “So why do you trust me?”

She peers back. “Because you’re not nice.” She smiles cutely, then digs in for another chip.

Only she can say something like that and make it sound like a compliment.

Maybe it is a compliment.

I wonder if Bridger is drawn to me because I’m not nice.

Or because there’s something about broken people that makes us stumble toward each other even if we drive each other crazy.

Is Bridger a broken person, too, and just better at hiding it?

“I really wanna try that dress on,” she moans sulkily. “Really, really, really wanna try it on.”

I can picture him standing right there in the gravel in front of me, arms folded, shaking his head disapprovingly. You shouldn’t go out tonight , he’d tell me with all his cocky wisdom and stick-up-his-ass authority. You got work to do tomorrow, and remember how I asked you to hang out with me? What if you change your mind? You’ll regret it . He clicks his tongue, shaking his handsome head.

“Fuck you, Bridger,” I blurt out.

Juni stops chomping and turns to me. “Fuck who?”

“Get that dress on. You n’ I are gettin’ messed up tonight.” I’m out of my chair. She ditches the bag of Doritos next to it without a thought. We’re back in the apartment, the music is cranked even louder, and the pair of us get ready to break a dance floor in half somewhere way out of town at a club that’s never ready for us.

Morning sunlight scorches my face off like I’m a vampire.

Every damned sound is a gong in my ears.

Even just the racket of my own knuckles knocking on a door.

“Hello, I’m Anthony Myers with Happy Home Pest Control,” I say, fighting my grogginess every time someone answers, even if they know me. And if they don’t shut the door right away at that, I go on: “Can I share with you five reasons you need us to help keep your home pest-free?”

That’s as far as I ever make it. No one even cares to hear the first reason, let alone all five. “No, thanks.” “We’re just fine, no bugs here, goodbye.” “Give your father my best.” “Nice try, son, but between my cat n’ dog, pests are well in control here.”

It’s not even two in the afternoon when I slump against a tree just for the shade, pop open my bottle of water, and chug it—only to remember I ran out two blocks ago and all I’m chugging is air.

This day sucks so much .

It’s when I come around the corner onto the next street that my clumsy foot catches a crack in the pavement and I go flying to the ground, spilling my flyers. The arm that breaks my fall earns a red, jagged wound I know is gonna sting and pester me for the rest of the damned day. When I get up, I discover my knee took part of the fall, too, all red and ugly and scraped up. I grumble to myself as I collect the flyers off the ground, half of them now covered in granules of dirt and grass and whatever else they picked up. The flyers are so boring, designed and printed in an office of one of my dad’s friends, the dirt probably improves them.

I’m gripping the messy stack of flyers and wincing through the stinging pain as I approach the front porch of the next house.

Then stop dead when I realize what house it is.

Trey and Cody probably have their pest needs taken care of. I don’t need to step foot onto that porch. My dad won’t ask. I’ll lie if he does and say they didn’t seem interested. He’ll never know.

I turn and start walking away.

Then I stop.

No. My dad will know. He and my mom talk to Trey and Reverend Arnold every Sunday. He’ll ask Trey about my visit, and Trey likely won’t have it in him to lie on my behalf, and then it’ll come out that I either skipped or miraculously missed one of my dad’s most valuable potential clients.

But y’know what? I don’t care. That’s how much I don’t need to knock on that door. I continue walking away, my decision made with no chance of unmaking it. “If you wanted him as a client so badly,” I mumble to myself, “then you’d have come out and done this door-to-door nonsense yourself.”

I stop again.

I can already hear my mom’s voice. Anthony, your hardworking father just wants you more involved in his business . He may hand it down to you someday . Wouldn’t it break his heart if you don’t give it your all?

It’s so unfair. How my parents, despite all their failures in life and with me, get a do-over just because they had chats with Trey in an office someplace and found God or whatever.

Not everyone gets second chances.

This day sucks big fuckin’ sweaty balls .

I’m on the front porch the next minute, knuckles raised to the door. Please, Trey, answer . Trey, please answer . Answer, Trey, please, I’m beggin’ you, either answer, or let no one answer this door at all .

Then I knock.

Not two and a half seconds later, without even enough time to draw a damned breath, the door swings open.

And there stands Bridger in a tight white t-shirt stretching over his pecs and a pair of beige cargo pants.

He crosses his arms, as self-assured as a Greek god, and leans against the doorframe. “Can I help you, sir?” he asks.

Sir.

As belittling as it’s likely meant.

I avert my eyes, staring at a spot on the wall. “You answered the door awful fast. Were you watching me like a freak from the front window or somethin’?”

“You intercepted my line of sight when I was in a chair by the side window with a book.” He nods at me. “Come on in. I’ll find the first aid and get you bandaged up. You took that fall pretty hard.”

He watched me trip over myself like a goof? “I don’t need no bandage or first aid kit or … or pity .”

“What do you need then? Nice flyers. Can I have one?”

“No, you can’t have a—” I suddenly remind myself that it’s the reason I’m here at all. “This isn’t even your house. Where’s Trey or Cody?”

“Don’t remember? Told you last night Pete and Cody have plans today. And Trey went into town for something.” He smirks. “There’s only me.”

I lean back. No way I’m letting this guy get close to my face again, not after last night. “Well, if they ain’t here, then there’s no reason for me to be,” I state flippantly, then start to turn.

Only for my flyers, right then, to slip straight out of my grasp and tumble to the floor between us. Lick a dick . I crouch down to pick them up.

Only to find Bridger having done the same.

We both stop, as if surprised at each other’s reaction.

Yet again, his face, right there, right in front of mine.

As if disarmed himself, Bridger slowly hands me the flyers he gathered. I take them distractedly and hug them to my chest as I continue to scrape the rest of them off the floor.

“Pest control?” he asks.

I stop for a second and take a breath. My head is spinning. All the thoughts in my head are stuck together like my brain became a honeycomb. I think I’m still hungover from last night. Should I have listened to imaginary Bridger, stayed in, and ignored Juni? “It’s my … my dad’s …” I’m too tired to fight back. My eyes feel like stones. My head throbs. “My dad’s business. Family business.”

“And you’ve been sent out to spread the good word?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

Bridger nods, then eyes me. “For a second there, I’d thought you come here ‘cause you changed your mind about hangin’ out.”

“Not a chance.”

He smirks. “Figured.” After a second, something brightens in his face. “I got an idea.” He snatches the last flyer off the ground before I can grab it. Both of us rise to our feet. “Go ahead. Give me your elevator pitch. Let’s hear it.”

I wrinkle up my face at him. “Huh? This ain’t your house.”

“So? I’m the one who answered the door.”

“But you don’t even—”

“Let’s go back and forth. You tell me a reason Trey should hire your dad’s pest control business. Then I’ll tell you a reason why you and I should hang out. We’ll see who wins.”

This guy is fucking nuts . “What kinda game is that?”

“Ours. I’ll go first. I think we should hang out because I can be fun when you get to know me.”

Already his first reason has my eyes rolling out of my head. “I am gonna call bullshit on that. You’re about as fun as a doorstop.”

“Reliable enough to do the job, like I am now,” he points out, elbowing the front door.

I sigh with frustration. After a moment, I throw up my hands and give in. “Happy Home Pest Control uses eco-friendly solutions that are pet-friendly and kid-safe unlike most of our competitors,” I recite in the lamest most unconvincing voice—then realize it’s the first time I’ve gotten to state any of the reasons I’d rehearsed.

Bridger hears every word, locked onto me in that intense way he does. He smiles appreciatively. “Believe it or not, despite our … first several interactions … I am genuinely interested in getting to know you with no desire whatsoever to change you.”

I shuffle my feet. “Our company has faster reaction times than the big companies, able to be at any property in the Spruce area within minutes to handle a pest issue you may have.”

“I’m dependable. I’m where I say I’ll be when I say I’ll be. To the best of my ability, I won’t ever let you down or ditch you.”

“You’re halfway to Rickrolling me with that one,” I mumble.

“Rick who?”

No sense of humor, I swear … “My dad will happily re-treat your property— Trey and Cody’s property—for free between his monthly visits, giving … personal, hands-on attention.”

“And I will also give you personal, hands-on attention …” He leans forward, lifts his eyebrows, and lowers his voice. “… as was evidenced by that tight hug I gave you last night.”

Something electrical rushes giddily through me. I squash that down at once, ashamed. “We have flexible and affordable payment plans that beat any competitor.”

“Hanging with me costs nothing at all.”

I didn’t realize my eyes had dropped to his muscular chest, as if hypnotized by the way it gently rises and falls with his breaths. I shut my eyes with a start, annoyed with myself, then turn away. I can’t do this anymore. “Whatever, I’m done with my stupid pitch. Give the flyer to Trey. Burn it. I don’t care.” I head off the porch.

“I’ll more than give it to Trey,” Bridger calls back to me. “I’ll talk him into signing up.”

I stop and turn. “So? You want a thank-you or something?”

“No. Just tell me when and where to meet you tonight.”

The audacity of this guy. I find myself clutching my stack of flyers so tightly, they’re crinkling in half. “You and I are not—”

“You should really let me treat those wounds on your arm and knee so they don’t get infected.”

“I can treat my own f—” I stop myself from cussing. I have no idea why. “… m-my own wounds,” I finish awkwardly.

“Your pitch was great, by the way. Honestly. You did well.”

I stare back at him, furious for some childish reason. I want to be annoyed by the compliment, but in truth, I’m more annoyed at how genuine it sounded—and how it makes me feel to receive it.

“E-Eight o’clock, Spruce Cinema,” I blurt out, stunning myself.