Eventually, all the customers in front of me were served. I was relieved when Scotia walked off toward the checkout, seemingly unaware of my presence, and it was my turn.
“Number thirty-six.” Garrison Jr. updated the number on the display behind him as he called out my ticket.
I stepped forward and motioned to the bread on top of the counter. “Could I have a small cheese steak with extra cheese?”
“Sure thing.” Garrison Jr. retrieved a medium-sized loaf of French bread while I rolled my paper ticket between my fingers and waited.
But before he’d cut the roll in half, Scotia appeared at my side and called to the teenager, “You know, I think I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want this turkey breast. Instead I think I’ll have the honey baked ham. And maybe also some of that Swiss cheese.”
Garrison Jr. turned to Scotia and promptly resembled a deer caught in headlights as he attempted to simultaneously stare at us both.
“Uh. . .”
“Is there a problem?” Scotia placed her package of turkey breast on the counter. “I know you have honey baked ham. I can see it right there.” She pointed to the interior of the glass case.
“It’s just that I was already helping the Banana Cake Queen,” he squeaked, tipping his chin toward me.
Scotia glanced at me and did a double take, turning completely on the second pass. “Jennifer Sylvester.” Her eyes narrowed as they moved over me, assessing. “You’ve gained weight.”
I decided this meant that she thought I looked healthy. “Thank you, Mrs. Simmons.”
She frowned, shaking her head slightly as though I were a simpleton, someone to be pitied. I swallowed down, down, down the familiar pangs of embarrassment and discomfort. Instead, gripping my shopping bags, I lifted my chin. A sudden desire to contradict her expectations gripped me.
“Is your momma here?” she asked, as though I weren’t allowed in public without an adult escort.
I lifted my chin higher. “No, ma’am.”
“Oh.” She appeared to be disappointed by this news, but rallied quickly, dismissing me and turning back to Garrison Jr. “Cut me my ham, young man, while I think about the cheese.”
Garrison Jr., still holding my French bread, didn’t move and neither did I. I didn’t know what to do. On the one hand, it wasn’t that big of a deal. What Scotia Simmons thought or didn’t think of me mattered very little in the long run. I should just let the woman order her ham and cheese.
On the other hand, she’d already had her turn. Now it was my turn. She was a line usurper and a bully. I wasn’t in the mood to be bullied or usurped.
Gathering a deep breath and tightening my grip on my shopping bags, my heart racing a million miles a minute, I prepared to speak up for myself.
I hadn’t quite collected my nerves before Scotia sharpened her tone at Garrison Jr. “What is wrong with you?” she huffed. “I don’t have all day to wait for my honey cured ham and Swiss cheese.”
I licked my lips, mentally arranging and rearranging the words I would say, and opening my mouth to begin. Yet it was no use, the objection caught in my throat and with each attempt I grew increasingly frustrated with myself.
Speak up! Say something! You can do this.
And then unexpectedly, a familiar voice cut into our conversation. “Mrs. Simmons, what’s your number?”
I started because the voice sent an electric shock of surprise racing down my spine and a prickle of excitement beneath my skin.
Both Scotia and I glanced behind us and found Cletus Winston standing just a few feet away. He looked remarkably messy in his white T-shirt and greasy coveralls, the long sleeves tied at his waist. But to me, he also looked breathtakingly gorgeous.
Quite literally, the sight of him stole my breath.
His clean white T-shirt was just faintly tight across his impressive chest, hinting at the bulky power beneath. The short sleeves were pulled slightly tighter over the bulge of his biceps, revealing—not hinting—at his impressive strength. The long blue sleeves of his coveralls tied low on his narrow hips emphasized the flat plane of his stomach. The tips of his long fingers were stained gray from a day’s work at the auto shop. His long hair stuck out and up at odd angles and was adorably askew, like he’d been running his big hands through the curls recently or he’d been caught in a windstorm.
I’d like to run my hands through those curls. The thought caught me unawares and drove both the earlier determination and frustration from my mind, leaving me nonplussed and hot under the collar.
He wasn’t looking at me, thank goodness. His attention was affixed to Scotia Simmons, an affable and innocuous expression on his chaotically attractive features.
But I also detected a glint of exasperation behind his eyes, which—by the way—were hazel today.
He didn’t allow her to respond, continuing, “Because I have number thirty-seven, and I just heard number thirty-six being called.”
She frowned at Cletus, then cast an aggravated glower at me. “I was number thirty-five, but I—”
“Oh. You already had your turn? See now, I was wondering if they’d started using numbers with a fractional component.” Cletus stepped forward and handed Scotia his ticket. “Here, you can have my number thirty-seven. That way you don’t have to draw a new number.”
Scotia blinked at him, then at the ticket he’d placed in her hands.
I blinked at him, too. Because he’d managed to grab a ticket and evade my notice until just now.
Meanwhile, Cletus gave me a deferential head tilt. “Do you mind splitting your sandwich? I was planning on ordering the cheese steak as well.”
It took me precisely two seconds to recover. “Oh, no. That’s perfectly fine.”
He then turned to Garrison Jr. and instructed gently, “Please make Ms. Sylvester’s cheese steak an extra-large and wrap the four parts separately.”
Garrison Jr., seemingly relieved, set to work with great haste, making our sandwich with the swiftness of a man on an important mission. After a moment, I felt Scotia peering around Cletus, her eyes affixed to my profile. I ignored her. My heart was now racing for a different reason.
Cletus was standing exceptionally close, his big arm brushing against my shoulder. He still made me nervous, but the nervousness was different than before; based in excitement, not fear.
I’m not afraid of him anymore.
The realization dawned suddenly and sent a lovely warmth to my limbs. I wasn’t afraid of him at all. Although I recognized his brilliance, cleverness, and cunning, he was officially no longer scary.
Something had shifted between us the other night, when I’d brought the compassion cake and he’d somehow managed to arrange things with Billy. Or maybe something had shifted in me when I’d painted my nails yesterday and walked out of the house this morning with no makeup.
“How’s that sister of yours, Cletus? I haven’t seen her since she moved back to town,” Scotia stated out of the blue, breaking the not-quite tense silence that had fallen.
Cletus gave Scotia a benign smile. “Ashley is quite well, thank you for asking.” Then to me, he asked, “Jennifer, did you want potato chips or potato salad with lunch?”
“Um—”
“She should eat a green salad,” Scotia put in, her stare moving over me with displeasure. “I know her momma is worried about her weight.”
Heat climbed up my cheeks and I grit my teeth, my eyes falling to the floor. I hated that my appearance was up for public comment, not just on social media—which was one of the main reasons I hated the million or so followers there—but also with my mother’s friends.
Undaunted, Cletus cut in good naturedly, “Speaking of weight worries, Ms. Simmons, you might want to stick with the turkey breast and skip the ham and cheese.” Then he added on a whisper, as though he were telling her a secret, “Turkey has less calories per serving, and every little bit helps.”
Scotia narrowed her eyes on him, her mouth pinching, and asked with an air of intense irritation, “Is Ashley still living out of wedlock with that Drew Runous? I wonder how your momma would feel about her only daughter living unmarried, with that man in sin, bless her heart.”
Something flashed behind Cletus’s gaze as he glared at Scotia Simmons, something sinister. Meanwhile, Garrison Jr. placed the sandwich on the counter, his eyes wide as they bounced between the three of us. He backed away from our trio like one backs away from a rattlesnake.
Cletus collected our sandwich, the flash of sinister now completely hidden.
He turned from the counter, placed his hand on the small of my back, and responded to her rude question with an air of thoughtfulness. “Now that I think on it, I’m not surprised you haven’t seen Ashley since she returned. We do our best to shield her from ignorant, judgmental folks. After all, we want her to stay in town, don’t we?”
Not waiting for the woman to respond, he guided me forward. I moved where he led, too surprised by the audacity of his insult to say anything at all. He stopped us when we were across the store.
Pulling a twenty from his pocket, he handed it to Mrs. Bradly at the register and called back to Mrs. Simmons loud enough for everyone to hear, “Oh, yeah. Before I forget, Mrs. Simmons, Beau wanted to make sure your daughter Darlene knew he found her missing underwear in his GTO last week. I know she was fretting over the loss. Please let her know he’s just going to mail them back this time instead of swinging by the house.”