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I drop down onto the bench behind the building, pop off the big stupid head, and dowse my face with the water bottle.

“Fuckin’ Christ on a cracker it’s hot as balls in this.”

“Mr. Myers!” snaps the woman next to me with a swat of her hand on my shoulder. “It’s Sunday .”

“Sorry, Mrs. Tucker,” I mumble, then start chugging from the water bottle, finish it, and lean back, savoring the shade behind Biggie’s Bites. “Feels like I’m about to pass out.”

“I told you this was a bad idea. Why don’t you just—” At once, the mommy switch in her flips on. “Why don’t you take all that nonsense off and come inside? I’ll get you an ice cold tea, fix you some lunch. Have you eaten?”

“But I only worked an hour,” I protest, looking up at her. “I need more hours, ma’am. I just need a short break right now, a short break from the heat, and then I can—”

“Mr. Myers, I’m not gonna be responsible for a casualty on my watch, and them devil’s circles around your eyes tell me you are in no state to be in the sun. Record heat and it ain’t even the summer anymore. Now I’m givin’ you a break inside the building where it’s cooler and won’t hear another word. Inside, now, skidoo!”

One known rule about living in Spruce: you don’t argue with Billy Tucker’s mama.

Soon, the costume is off, piled by the back door like a mighty knight hacked that poor monster into pieces, and I’m sitting on a fold-out chair near the accounting office in a sweat-drenched tank top and shorts scarfing down a cheeseburger in my lap, an iced tea on the floor next to me. It’s my second tea. (I sucked that first one down so fast, I nearly swallowed the cup itself.) Mrs. Tucker comes to check on me when she has a break. “Now if you really need the hours,” she goes on telling me, “I think we could use you out there on the floor. I’ve seen you bussing tables at Gran’s Home Kitchen past few Sundays. Care to help bring out some orders, top people’s drinks off and all that?”

I swallow down my bite as I stare across the scullery at the long, skinny window separating the kitchen from the diner where all the noise comes from.

And I know that out there sits Reverend Trey, his husband, their parents—as well as the lucky out-of-town guests.

Including that pompous jukebox-abusing fuck-wad.

God, it was so damned satisfying, messing with him out there in front of the diner. He was so confused. The look in his eyes, that was pure gold—the look of horror mixed with confusion that he just got his ass fondled by a furry burger beast. I bet it turned him on, too, having his tight booty grabbed like that. He deserves it. He deserves every bit of weirding-out I can possibly give him.

But as funny as that was, I can’t go out there and have him see me now. Then he’ll know it was me, and who knows what kind of hell will break loose? Besides, I don’t think I’ve got the energy to handle whatever fuckery that’ll cause. I’m getting tired of dealing with the guy, to be honest. I just want him to go away.

How was I supposed to know he was coming here for lunch?

Now here I am, yet again having to deal with him. I resent it, the fact that I would easily jump on the opportunity to do more work for the Tuckers today, to make as much extra cash as I can.

If it weren’t for that one blockheaded obstacle out there.

“What is it you’re smirkin’ about, boy?”

The smirk drops off my face. I look up. “Sorry, Mrs. Tucker … but I … I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to work the floor. I can go outside again and be the Tackler guy for another hour, maybe even three. I feel great now. This really refreshed me, thank you.”

“You already caught most of the church crowd, which was the whole point. Tackle Monster’s done its thing, let it rest.”

“I can wash dishes,” I go on, trying not to sound desperate.

“We’ve got all that covered.” She sighs, clicks her tongue, and crosses her arms. Negotiating’s a lost cause. “I really have no more work for you if you aren’t able to help with the floor, I’m afraid, and even that’s doable with who we got, least for now.”

She pities me. That’s what this is, even the iced tea, even this burger. And I’m overstepping, pushing her into letting me work.

“I-I’ll pay for my food,” I tell her at once. “Just tell me how—”

“No need. On the house.” She comes close and crouches down, which apparently takes her some effort, considering the grunt she makes. “I know you need money, Anthony … I know you’re runnin’ on hard times as of late. I’d put in a word for you with Billy, but he just cut back on staff at T&S’s for the fall. Have you looked outside Spruce for work? God forgive me for suggestin’ it, but Fairview?”

“I … I’m kinda relying right now on my friend to get around, and I’m not gonna make her drive me out to Fairview.”

“Her?” Mrs. Tucker’s eyes narrow nearly to slits. “You’re still involved with that Jupiter gal, you mean?”

“Juniper.”

“I know her name, I was just bein’ funny.” She doesn’t look all that amused, though. “Anthony, if I may be so bold, and I say this as a mother, I don’t think she’s much good for you.”

That stiffens my spine right up. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been tryin’ so hard to clean up your act. All of these years. Your mom and I, we know each other, not awful well, but we do, and I know all about what you’ve been goin’ through …”

“You talk to my mom?”

“Years back, when you tried out vet school, until you realized it cost three arms and six legs, and ain’t no one got that many arms or legs to spare unless you’re a damned tarantula. Then you went into the Army, but got sent right home after injurin’ yourself in boot camp—”

“Why’d she go and tell you all a’ that? What business does she have going around town spreadin’ my—my business?”

“My point is that you’ve been cleanin’ yourself up over the summer. I see you taking initiative. Or at least … I did until the end of the summer when that lady won a date with you at the bachelor auction, and …” She sighs. “Now, don’t get me wrong, she might be a nice lady, but … I’m seein’ you goin’ a certain way now, and …”

“There’s nothin’ wrong with her. She’s … just eccentric.”

“Eccentric isn’t the first word I’d use.”

“She’s gone through stuff, too. I’m one of her only friends. I … I guess lately she’s one of my only ones, too.”

“Anthony …”

I stand up suddenly, nearly causing her to fall back. “Thanks for the burger and iced tea, Mrs. Tucker, I appreciate it, but I … I think I gotta get home now.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Anthony, really, I just—”

“I just remembered I got a … a thing. I have a thing I need to do across town. Can’t work anymore anyway. I need to do a … need to see a … fix a …” I can’t seem to lie fast enough, so I just end my sentence there and head off through the back door, still gripping the rest of my falling-apart burger. Under the blazing sun, I go on my way, ketchup dripping down my wrist, chewing harder than I ought to, sweating down my back.

“She said I’m a who?”

“Bad influence on me, more or less,” I grumble, drop onto the couch next to Juni, then reach for the TV remote. “Don’t matter, it ain’t true.”

She seems confused by that. “I don’t wanna be a bad anything on anyone.”

“So that was the end of that conversation. Shit, just realized I left my church clothes there, too. Oh well. I’ll get ‘em later.” After jamming my thumb into the remote eight times, the TV finally comes on. I toss the remote back onto the pile on the coffee table, not bothering to change the channel. It’ll be too much work and my thumb is tired. Arms are tired. Everything’s tired .

When I realize Juni hasn’t responded, I notice her looking sad. Oh, shit, did I just mistake her sadness for confusion? “Hey, don’t worry about what she said, Juni-cat. She don’t know you one bit. Neither does my mom. Why do you think I rarely go home to see ‘em? No one gets us like we get us.”

Juni picks at her nails, pouting. “I said goodbye to my daddy a long time ago. He’s probably still just wasting away at the same ol’ trailer park. My momma’s probably working a corner. But not right now.” Her eyes flick to the window. “Not Sundays.”

Juni rarely talks about her parents. After just those couple of sentences, I’m not sure I want her to. “No one’s gotta understand us. We just do our own thing, y’know? Be Independent Barbie …”

“My daddy once said money changes a person, but it doesn’t.” She curls her hair around a finger, staring into space. “It sure does change the people around them, though.”

“Or Money Bags Barbie. The fuck kinda show is this?” I mutter to myself, squinting at the TV. “People actin’ like idiots …”

“Or maybe I’m wrong and it did change me.”

“Maybe no one ever changes no matter what.” I turn and look at her again. “We’re all the damned same from birth until we die. Born a loser, live a loser, die a loser.”

Her eyes darken when she returns my look. “Oh my goodness, what a sad little thought that is. I hope it isn’t true. I think I’d like to change a little.” Then she frowns. “Shouldn’t you be napping? You took on that extra shift tonight.”

I smile. “See? Mrs. Tucker’s wrong. You care about me.”

“Aw, yeah, I do,” she agrees, as if it’s a discovery. “Who’s Mrs. Tucker again?”

“And I don’t think it’s a sad little thought. It’s the dang truth.” I sigh as I lean my head back, giving up on whatever’s on TV. “No one and nothin’ ever changes. Sure as hell not here in this town.”

“Use Roger,” she suggests, grabbing one of her cat pillows and sliding it under my head. “Roger helps me sleep when I’m feeling down or horny.”

“Uh … what do you do with this pillow exactly …?”

“Do you really think none of us ever change?”

I give it a thought. Mrs. Tucker’s words are rolling through my head like tiny cars hissing down a country road, full speed. My failure as a veterinarian. My failure trying to enlist. My failure to make a difference at a stupid bachelor pageant. How many more failures do I have to endure before I stop trying to do anything at all with my life? Who’s even rooting for me anymore? Noah and Cole are up each other’s butts all day long—and don’t get me wrong, I’m happy about that, but they have no time for me. And I doubt anyone’s truly forgiven me for how I behaved at the movie theater, considering Mr. Lemon still looks down on me.

My thoughts suddenly snap to the out-of-towner.

The bastard I can’t stand.

And how he looked at me when I first entered the church this morning, when I was dead-ass tired and exhausted from the walk there—Juni was still asleep and wouldn’t wake up to drive me—I swear it looked like he didn’t even recognize me at first. Like he saw a new person walking through that church door. Like for a fraction of a second, he caught himself admiring me for once.

And how’s that supposed to make me feel?

Grateful?

That he finally decided to see me as a human being?

Even the whole time during the service, I spotted him sitting with Reverend Trey’s husband, looking cozy and proud. Thinking about him sitting there enjoying himself, feeling important, made me want to smack the handsome straight off his undeserving face. I don’t live for his condescending, surprised glances of admiration at me, like he didn’t believe I was capable of looking so good.

I’m a hottie when I want to be. I just choose who deserves to see me at my best, that’s all.

And Sunday mornings at Spruce Fellowship always deserve it.

Maybe people like him never change, either.

He’s just as doomed to be a prick for the rest of his life, same as I’m doomed to never catch more than an hour’s sleep a night. I am a walking, talking example of every damned thing the kids at Spruce High should never aspire to be. And he’s a walking, talking example that some lucky people are given everything in life. Good looks. Successful careers. Promise and fortune and every damned thing they desire. And nothing changes.

God, I wish I could fucking sleep.

Just an hour would do.

Hell, I’d settle for half of one.

“Just close your eyes and picture yourself on a raft counting stars,” says Juni suddenly, reading my mind. “I’ll set a timer on my phone for six o’clock so you wake up in time for your shift. If I can find my phone,” she then adds, fishing for it off the mess on the coffee table, tossing things left and right. I lean back with my head cradled in Juni’s horny Roger cat pillow. All the while, the people keep being idiots on TV. Eventually Juni gets up from the couch to hunt for her phone around the whole place, for some reason still wearing her pumps. I listen to their loud, clumsy thumping with her every footstep while my eyes are shut. I’m on a raft. Counting stars. And not a single fucking wink of sleep finds me.

I wish I knew that guy’s name.

If I bottled up my manager’s sighs of disappointment, they’d power a windmill. “I swear I thought the alarm was set for six,” I start, “but it must’ve been AM and not—”

“You and your excuses,” the manager drones, a woman in her seventies who looks in her forties, athletic, slender, hair dyed a strawberry-blonde color, tall and authoritative. “Anthony, you are on thinner-than-thin ice with me.”

I put on my charm. It always works. “Can’t be blamed for thin ice in this record heat. Isn’t that a tad unfair?” I give her my best smile. “I’ll work hard tonight and remind you why you hired me.”

“A lapse in judgment is why,” she fires back dryly, “and ‘cause I owed one to your sweet dad for dealin’ with a pesky ant problem in my garden. Also for givin’ my dead car a jump on the Strongs’ driveway last Fourth a’ July. Good man.” She lowers her clipboard to the break room table and eyes me over her readers. “A single slip-up, one more, and we’re callin’ this social experiment quits.”

“What happened to three strikes and I’m out?”

“You’re already on strike nine . I’m bein’ generous .”

“You used to be nicer to me,” I tease her, grabbing an apron.

“Sometimes you forget I’m the Gran in Gran’s Home Kitchen . I don’t need to be nice . I just need to be here .” She rights her readers and lifts her clipboard. “Go clock in, and— are you even in the right shoes? —grab yourself an order pad. Walt’s barfin’ in the bathroom and I need someone to take his table.”

I stop tying my apron. “You need what now?”

“Believe it, kid, you ain’t my first choice, either. Short-staffed tonight. Busy.” She takes a look at my frozen face. “Oh, snap out of it, you know how to do the job. Just greet ‘em, find out what they want, and bring the order to the kitchen, simple as that.”

“I know what to do,” I insist, reach for a pad and pen off the small desk by the door, fumble, drop the pen, pick it up, then stuff both into my apron. “You can count on me, Gran.”

“Table 8.” She leaves the break room.

I trip over a cable running along the floor on my way to the employee terminal, nearly crashing my face into the wall next to it. Someone taking his break stifles laughter nearby. “Lick a dick, Larry,” I grumble, which only causes him to laugh even harder as I clock in.

Table 8 , I think over and over after leaving the break room, as I take quick breaths and get ready to take an order. I sure hope this table’s an easy one. If I get one of those fussy Sunday night people, I don’t know if I got the strength in me to deal with it. Table 8, table 8, table 8 . I pull my order pad right back out of my apron and start drumming my fingers on it as I push through the swinging door into the main restaurant. Loud conversation blasts over my face the second I’m in the room. Exploding laughter. The tinkling and scraping of utensils. Just greet them, find out what they want, and take their order to the kitchen . It’s the easiest thing. I’ve watched others do it a hundred times.

It’s halfway down the aisle between tables 10 and 12 that my exhausted ass comes to a stop.

A dead stop.

Seated there, right the fuck there, like a king on his big stupid throne he doesn’t deserve, wearing a denim jacket and a smirk the size of Texas, sits the jack-off wagon himself, holding a menu at table number fucking 8.