Page 333 of Bitter’s Sweet

“Looks like a man who'd complain if you charged him for parts.”

I laugh. “He repaired tractors.”

“Knew it.”

“You absolutely did not.”

“Got instincts.”

“Sheriff has instincts too.”

“That bird stole your lunch again?”

“He is a menace.”

Bitter reaches into the paper bag and pulls out a second sandwich.

I stare. “You bought two?”

“I know the enemy.”

Mercy points at him. “Do not encourage war with livestock in my school.”

“No promises.”

My eyebrows go up.

Bitter catches himself.

“I will make responsible poultry-related choices.”

“Better,” I say.

Mercy looks disgustingly pleased.

Bitter hands me the sandwich, and our fingers brush.

Three months ago, every touch between us came loaded with questions. Some still do. Most do not.

Trust did not return in one giant romantic moment.

It came back boring.

That surprised me.

It came back when Bitter asked before giving the club my new phone number. When Hyde asked for it and Bitter said, right in front of me, “Ask Sweet. Her information ain't mine to volunteer.”

It came back when Bitter got angry because I wanted to drive home alone after dark, swallowed the anger, and asked whether I wanted somebody to follow at a distance.

I said no.

He said okay.

I changed my mind ten minutes later because the road was icy.

He did not say I told you so.

I almost proposed marriage on principle.