Page 16 of Spicy Ever After
And maybe a touch of it on his cheeks.
“You must get plenty of Vitamin D.” Then I glance around at the truck full of sacks and crates of sweet potatoes. “And Vitamin A and Beta Carotene, too.”
When I face him again, I have to catalog another color because he’s smiling wide, and his teeth are a brilliant white.
“Do sweet potatoes have a lot of calcium?” I ask, not even bothering to look away from his teeth, so I have an excellent view when he bites down on the inside of his cheek, and I hear a low chuckle.
“Not especially.”
“Hmm.” I hum over the mystery of his radiant teeth and then sniffle. “Ah, fuck, I can’t stop crying.”
He winces a little. “Yeah, but it’s okay.” And the way he says it, unhurried and easy, I really believe him.
Which is weird. Because other than Margaret, and now Merrick, most people get a little freaked out when I cry.
Because I cry when I’m happy. I cry when I’m mad. I cry when I’m sad. It makes Dad uncomfortable. It makes Mom fretful. It mortifies Grandma Eloise, and even I run out of patience with my crying jags sometimes.
It’s just that when I’m done crying, I. Feel. So. Much. Better!
Yeah, it’s a snotty pain in the ass while it’s happening, but when it’s over, I feel dewy and loose and limp. It's like a spa day, only better because it doesn’t involve strangers touching me.
Except today.
Because Farm Boy is definitely a stranger and he definitely touched me.
Though, I have to admit, I don’t exactly mind.
I think about how I want to tell Margaret about this, but then my chest quakes all over again. Fresh tears gush, and my nose runs. I clap a hand over it.
“Y-you wouldn’t—” I gulp. “H-happen to have… a… a Kleenex, would you?”
Farm Boy pats his front pockets. Then his back ones before he pulls out a faded red, paisley bandana. Like a cowboy.
And it's absolutely filthy.
“Oh, fuck me,” he mutters, stuffing the thing back into his pocket. “Stay right there.”
I watch the backside of those faded jeans—with the tail of a dirty cowboy bandana peeking out of one back pocket—as it disappears into the restaurant’s kitchen. He’s gone only long enough for me to blink and look down at my legs dangling off the edge of the tailgate and wonder why this weird situation doesn’t feel weird.
I mean, it does. But not the weird that’s uncomfortable. More like…
The weird of stepping onto a travelator in a big airport. The tug of momentum under your feet. The sponginess in each step. The zoom.
Farm Boy comes back, holding out one of the restaurant’s black polyester napkins. And, yeah, it’s polyester, but any port in a storm.
I take it and do my best to mop up my face. My eyes are still streaming, and honestly, I don’t know if they’ll ever stop. I’ve never gone more than a few weeks without seeing Margaret. Not even when she was at LSU.
But Denver?
Another wave of sobs crashes over me.
Farm Boy raises his hand, and I think he’s going to touch my shoulder, but he stops a few inches from me before reaching behind him and gripping the back of his neck instead. Muscles and tendons move in a riveting choreography beneath the skin of his arm.
“I’d… I’d ask if you’re okay, but it’s clear you’re not,” he says, his voice a kind of soft that is also rough. But not rough like tulle on my skin. Rough like tweed. Sturdy. Protective.
I sniffle in appreciation. “I’m glad you didn’t. I don’t understand why people ask questions when they already know the answers.”
The corner of his mouth tilts up for just a second before he flattens it. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
