Page 9

I can’t believe my first instinct is to hide my face behind the menu.

As if that’ll stop the train wreck that’s about to happen.

Sure, I know the odds of running into someone multiple times is relatively higher in a small town. But there are still many other people left here to run into, right? Hundreds more I’ve never met. Statistically speaking, it is absolute madness that I am once again coming face-to-face with this motherfucker.

I would say he’s stalking me.

If it weren’t for the fact that the bitter look on his face right now tells me he’s as disappointed by this encounter as I am.

Anthony’s in a plain black t-shirt with a nametag tacked onto the chest—a correct one this time: Anthony —tucked into ill-fitting, tight slacks that were probably black once but are faded now, like he’s wearing the same ones he’s had since high school and won’t let go of them to get a new pair, long since outgrowing them. A short maroon apron hangs from his waist stuffed with straws, a pen, a pad of paper, and a random-ass fork I can’t explain. His hair is less tidy than it was at church this morning, his bangs flipped the wrong way, like he fixed his hair then drunkenly ran a hand through it forgetting he’d fixed it at all.

And those baby blue eyes of his are stabbing me right now.

Stabbing me like a steak knife.

Wishing I wasn’t here.

You and me both .

“Welcome to the Kitchen.” Anthony wrinkles his face up, then shakes his head. “Uh, sorry, no. To Gran’s Kitchen. Gran’s Kitchen House. K-Kitchen Home. Home Kitchen— fuckin’ hell —Gran’s Home Kitchen.” His eyes flash when he belatedly notices I’m not, in fact, here all by my lonesome. “Trey, Cody … Reverend Arnold, Ms. Davis …” His face goes red. Did he just realize he cussed in front of both the current and past reverends of Spruce? “Sorry about that. Fillin’ in for someone. I’m happy to see you all here. Hello. H-Hi.”

“Evening, Anthony,” says Trey, the first to acknowledge him, in his warm and all-forgiving tone. He sits in the middle across from his husband, with me and Pete on one side at this end of the table, Reverend Arnold and Ms. Davis on the other. “Was very nice seeing you again this morning.”

“Oh, yeah, I was there. Of course I was there,” Anthony repeats with emphasis. “I never miss a sermon of yours. Your words, they always … they always inspire me and … and seem to … to …”

“Put you to sleep?” I offer helpfully.

Anthony’s cold gaze strikes again.

I return his glare with a hardened look of my own, enjoying his torment despite showing nothing on my face at all.

“Have you met our friends here from out of town?” asks Trey. “This gentleman, Pete, he served alongside Cody in the Army, now discharged.”

“You look familiar,” says Pete, squinting an eye as he points a finger at Anthony.

“Thanks for your service,” says Anthony, not addressing that.

“And across from Pete is Bridger,” finishes Trey, “his friend, also recently discharged.”

Anthony looks me over. “Bridger,” he mutters, as if trying my name out like some shirt off a rack at a store. “Bridger … Bridger .” Each time he says it, he says it weirder. “Bridger, Bridger, Bridger . Don’t look much like a Bridger to me.” Under his breath he adds: “ More like the guy who burns bridges .”

“I meant to ask,” Trey goes on, arms folded on the table, his voice warming with concern, “how’s your mom doing, Anthony? I heard about her little fall from Dr. Emory and the ladies. Glad she didn’t break anything, seemed to bounce right back up.”

When I look up at Anthony, his face is frozen. “Uh … yeah.” He shrugs, then fumbles with the pad and pen he just pulled out of his apron. “Y-Yeah, she’s … she’s doing fine. Just spoke to her an hour ago, actually, yeah, doing great. Thanks for asking.”

That faraway glint in his eyes. That split second of confusion.

He’s lying. I can tell. I’ve seen it a hundred times in a hundred sets of eyes.

I wonder if he even knew about his mom.

The next instant, I wonder why I care. Am I forgetting who in the hell this bozo is?

“Such a sweetie,” says Cody’s mother from the other end of the table, smiling so big her eyes go away. “Tell your mom I said hello, would you?”

Anthony nods stiffly, chokes on a few words stuck deep in his throat—I think they’re “yes, ma’am”—then nods at the table. “Do you guys know what you want yet?”

“Drinks would be nice to start,” says Cody, slapping a hand playfully on the table. “Our glasses are empty.”

“They are,” notices Anthony. “What, uh … uh, what would you like to—”

“I think we can order our food, too,” says Trey. “If I hear my father’s stomach try to talk at me one more time …”

And just like that, everyone gets to throwing their orders at a very overwhelmed Anthony, whose face retains a scrunched-up, uncomfortable expression the whole time, like he’s constipated, his pretty blue eyes in a permanent squint. “You want what now?” “Uh, yeah, I can get you that, I think.” “Sure, on the side? Uh …” “Right, how do you want that cooked or whatever?” “No, I dunno any special discounts for that, I gotta ask.”

I watch Anthony shifting his weight from leg to leg, over and over. He keeps taking breaths, wiping imaginary sweat off of his forehead, scribbling away on the pad, scratching out things, then squinting some more. Everything is confusing and too much.

“Alright, got it, get all that out for you soon,” says Anthony in a state of bewilderment, then turns to head off.

Until he realizes I’ve gotten hold of the corner of his apron, stopping him. “Forgot one.”

Anthony slowly turns back around.

Was he purposefully avoiding me? What was his plan exactly when he did bring out the food and realized I had nothing in front of me? He doesn’t really think things through, does he?

And when his eyes meet mine—wow, those icy weapons in his face could set me on fire if he glares at me like that long enough.

He readies his pad once again and doesn’t bother to prompt me for my order, his eyelids half-closed as he stands there, stares at me, and waits for me to just speak. Really? This jerk is gonna hold this immature grudge with me until the end of time?

I close my menu. “I’ll take the 10-ounce sirloin.”

He scribbles on his pad, then eyes me again, waiting, silent.

I lift my eyebrows. “What? Did you hear me?”

“I got ears. I heard you.”

This fucking guy … When I glance at the others, I realize Cody and his mom launched into a hilarious story together that they’re tag-teaming in telling the others—mostly for Pete’s benefit—with Trey and his dad wearing smiles stretched ear to ear.

I guess that explains Anthony’s audacity; no one’s listening.

I face him. “So why’re you standing there staring at me like a bored orangutan?” I ask under my breath.

“Waiting on you to tell me how you want your meat cooked.”

“Medium rare.” My eyes narrow. “I like it bloody.”

“And I wouldn’t be standin’ here like an orangutan if you knew how to put in your full-ass order in the first place ,” he mumbles back at me.

Our exchange has quickly descended into hushed insults only the two of us hear. “Then I’d better be extra clear so my words get through your thick head. What else you wanna know? That I need a dish to put my steak on? That I may need utensils to eat it with?”

“Good thing you told me that, or else I might’ve served it onto your lap along with a helpin’ of gasoline , you knob .”

“You’re seriously still raging about that?”

“I seriously still smell it on me.”

“It isn’t gasoline. It’s your juvenile attitude seeping outta your pores like B.O .”

“Better than an uptight attitude seepin’ outta my pores like a … a …” He can’t seem to think of anything. “Just tell me what sides you want so I can stop lookin’ at your ugly face. You get two.”

“How about a side of knuckles into that smug mouth of yours?”

Anthony leans in, growing even quieter. “How about a side of whatever stick you got up your ass?”

I lean in closer. “I thought I get two sides.”

“Two sticks, then.”

“You sure are rude to your paying customers.”

“Sorry if my attitude is twistin’ your manties .”

“Maybe I’ll leave a comment card on my way out.”

“What … the shit … is a comment card? ” He’s so close now, I feel his breath on my eyelashes.

I squint at him. “You don’t know what a—?”

“I’ll comment card your ass,” he cuts me off. “Tell everyone in the comments section what a piece of … what I think of you. We’ve got the social medias. I got a friend who works for the paper. Make that two friends. Headline: ‘ Loser Named Bridger Gets His Manties Twisted At Local Restaurant Over Sides’ . People pay attention.”

“What are you? A ninety-year-old keyboard warrior?”

“Bitch, try twenty-four.”

“I—” That catches me by surprise. I expected older. “Really?”

Anthony frowns, confused by my reaction. Then apparently he decides he’s finished with me, because he shoves the pad and pen into his apron and heads off abruptly toward the kitchen, his tight ass dancing distractedly in those slacks of his, pulling on my eyes as if getting the last word in without any words at all. He shoves into the swinging kitchen door on his way out as if it did him wrong.

“Ah, how the Lord unites us in mysterious ways,” says Trey’s father in his calm, reserved tone, something to do with whatever story they were sharing, and the others laugh lightheartedly.

And I’m left sitting here staring down at a dark spot in the tablecloth, all of my ire buried deep, yet seething and building pressure, like a volcano at the bottom of the ocean, writhing with unchecked power ready to break open the world.

Pete kicks me under the table, then winks. I look up at him and squint questioningly. He chuckles, shakes his head, and then returns his attention to the others, wiggling his way right back into their conversation like he never left it.

I have no idea what that was.

All I know is that my foot is bouncing in place under the table, and it never does that. I’m picking at a loose thread at the end of the sleeve of my denim jacket, wondering what my dad would do in a situation like this. Not that he’d ever get into a situation like this. Is that what’s eating at me? That I let myself get like this?

Is this my fault?

“Excuse me,” I say, though no one’s listening, as I get up from the table and head down the aisle, eyeing the restroom sign in the back corner of the room.

Once inside, the loud noise of the restaurant fades behind the slowly closing door, and then it’s just me and my reflection in the restroom mirror. The two lonesome urinals and single stall behind me watch as I run water over my face and ask myself the same damned question I’ve asked since stepping foot in this town.

Why am I letting that guy get to me so easily?

Why can’t I stomach just laughing him off, breaking all of this tension between us, and enjoying my time here with Pete and his old buddy and their family? It would be the mature thing to do. To rise above. To keep my composure, exude a sense of control over the situation, and let it roll off my back.

Instead, it’s downright clinging to my back, like a rowdy six-year-old nephew I didn’t know I had, demanding piggyback rides every couple of minutes and tiring me to the damned death.

I agreed to come here to Spruce because I wanted calm.

I needed calm.

The last decade of my life has been a warzone in far too many ways, and most of those ways don’t even have a thing to do with the military. It was my way-too-intuitive brother who first noticed this about me, this way I can get when my life starts to feel like it’s under others’ control, my every decision robbed from me, like my days aren’t my own, my hours between that sun rising and setting, none of it belonging to me. I need to feel like I’m in control, that I have authority over my own life. It’s why I go jogging before that sun comes up every morning—something I can control, something that’s all mine, untouchable, a perfect peace.

I think I came here to Spruce to prove I still have control.

To prove to myself that I’m free.

But there’s this thing that keeps scratching under my skin. A craving for the routine again. Like my day-to-day habits are some kind of addiction I developed—being told what to do, having and following a schedule, keeping to it by the minute—and without all that guidance, I’m left floating in space, purposeless, uneasy.

All that calm I thought I was coming here to find, it’s starting to get to me instead. Starting to make my foot bounce in place under tables. To make my right eyebrow twitch all on its own. To make it damned near impossible to sit still.

And this motherfucker Anthony is the fire under my tight ass, making all of this twenty times worse.

And laughing about it.

The restroom door flies open. Someone stumbles in and goes straight to the urinal. “ Lick a dick ,” he grunts to himself, unzipping his pants, “ if this day won’t fuckin’ end .”

Anthony. It’s goddamned Anthony.

Of course it is. Who the hell else would it be?

I say nothing as I run water over my face again. Even through the faucet running, I hear the full, surround-sound symphony of Anthony’s process of urination. No scientist on earth will be able to explain how that guy can achieve a stream of piss so obnoxious that I can hear it clear through the faucet at full blast. And damn, if it doesn’t go on for an entire minute, that guy releasing enough piss to rehydrate the Sahara into a jungle.

And then he starts moaning. Straight-up, from the deepest bowels of his soul and out of his mouth, moaning with ecstasy as he urinates. Like this is the highlight of his day.

Be that as it very well may, I suddenly can’t take it. “The hell you doing back there?” I ask at the mirror. “Shooting a porno?”

He stops at once, his pissing pleasure cruise ended. He twists around to peer over his shoulder. He spots me, rolls his eyes, and says, “Y’know, I’m gettin’ goddamned sick of seein’ your face.”

“Careful,” I taunt him, “cursing like that on the Lord’s day.”

He zips up so fast, it’s a wonder he doesn’t catch his dick. “You’re one to talk,” he says, doing his belt as he comes up to the counter, then twists on the other faucet with such force, the pipe groans, “schmoozin’ with the reverend’s family like you got any business sittin’ at that table.”

With every word he utters, I grow pettier. “I’m surprised.”

He scrubs his hands aggressively at the sink. “Why? Surprised I haven’t knocked out your teeth yet?”

“That someone like you actually washes his hands.”

He shuts off the faucet, flicks his wet fingers at the sink, then faces me with an unexpected smile. “Tell me, did you enjoy gettin’ yourself fondled by a big hairy beast today before lunch?”

The question is so out of left field, I space out for a second.

Then it clicks like an electric shock. “That was you?”

“Wow, the look on your face right now.” Anthony giggles—he literally fucking giggles. “Look at yourself, right there in that huge mirror, look at the face I just made you make. It’s—” His giggles become a laugh of pure delight. “It’s just perfect.”

“ You were in that costume? You squeezed my ass?”

“You bet I did. What?” He takes a step closer to me, his chest pressed to mine, his breath in my face. “You mad? That a big hairy beast just squeezed that tight, military tush of yours? It’s a pretty impressive tush,” he teases, goading me. “I would bet you’ve done an awful lot of squats over the years in those long afternoons of hard and brutal training. Paid off. Felt like squeezing a rock.”

“You trying to piss me off or flirt with me?” I fire back. “Can’t tell. You’re sending an awful lot of mixed signals here.”

“Bridger … Bridger, Bridger, Bridgerrr .” He’s back to toying with my name in his weird voices. “Think I’m one of those guys whose skin you can get under with a question like that? I don’t care if you think I’m flirtin’. Don’t you know where we are? Spruce, Texas. We got gay guys growin’ on trees in this town. You’re livin’ with a pair of ‘em. If you can’t take a big hairy monster squeezin’ your booty, maybe you shouldn’t be in a town like this at all.”

I stare him down, long and hard.

Then a smile creeps over my face.

He notices. His own eyebrows pinch together questioningly.

“Anthony,” I say right back, “Anthony, Anthony, Anthonyyy . I’m starting to think the joke’s on you, pal. Those gay guys you say inhabit this town?” I put a finger on my chest. “ I’m one of them .”

His lips twitch, not quite closed, eyes unblinking.

I’ve caused his brain to reboot.

“You think I’m offended you grabbed my rock -hard ass?” I ask, then shake my head and click my tongue. “A proper gentleman, a real gentleman, he asks permission first. And you?” I let out a snort of a chuckle, eyeing him up and down. “You’re no gentleman.”

I think, of all the words I’ve said, those hit him hardest. Right in his gut, cutting to his core, a humiliation worse than gasoline saturating him to his underwear.

“And it’s too bad,” I say, finally stepping back from him, our chests separating, as I grab a paper towel out of the dispenser to dry my hands. “Because had you treated me with respect when we first met and I thought your name was Duncan, and all of this had gone down differently … I might’ve given you that permission … if you wanted it so badly.”

Anthony’s eyes sharpen like icicles.

Resentful, threatening, pretty blue icicles.

I relish it.

“Call it instinct,” I finish, “or life experience, or a conclusion after dealing with you for barely a day and a half, but something tells me … you aren’t the permission-asking type.” I lift my chin as I stare him down. “And that, above all else, is what I find to be the most disappointing thing about you.”

I crumple up the paper and toss it at the trashcan.

It makes it in with ease.

“That’s how you do it,” I say, smirk, then see myself out.