Vann drops his last dish into the drainer, peels off his gloves and apron, then eyes me. “Alright. Where’s my paycheck?”
With a peek out through the kitchen window looking into the restaurant, I note all the customers have finally gone, and Mick is out there cleaning up the last tables. I come up pleasantly close to Vann’s face. “You want a form of payment for all that hard work?”
“I mean, it’s the least you owe me, right?”
I pretend to gawk in offense. “Oh, I owe you?? Is that so? I’m the one who turned you into a dishwasher tonight?”
“Well, if I wasn’t here to pick you up, I wouldn’t have been put to work, right?”
I tilt my head coyly. “Maybe.”
“Maybe. Maybe. Yeah, ‘maybe’. And also maybe … you owe me a kiss. Or something.”
My heart skips a beat. “Or something …?”
“Or something,” he repeats.
We have been basically making out for weeks. Tonight is the night of a big school dance neither of us went to. Couples all over Spruce are … doing things. I’m certain of it. Is it time that Vann and I finally … do something, too? In an instant, I can’t think straight. I can’t even focus on his face as my mind races off without me, afire with fantasies, thoughts, fears, worries, excitements, pleasures …
“I’ll go get the bike,” he says. “You can tell Mrs. Tucker ‘you’re welcome’ from me.” With a knowing smirk, he tosses the apron at me and heads out the door, and my eyes drop to his ass in those dark skinny jeans of his and his military-style boots, which he has on tonight. How does Vann make legs look so sexy? “Later, Mick,” I hear him call out, and Mick—who pops out his earbud a second too late—squints in his direction and hoarsely yells back, “Huh?” But Vann’s already out the door. The guy’s probably just surprised Vann remembered his name.
I put the extra apron aside. After double-checking everything in the kitchen, I go to ask Mrs. Tucker if I’m all good to go. At the office door, however, I stop at the sound of Billy’s distressed voice. “—stupid regulations and forms and bureaucracy. I swear, you’d think they didn’t want any children to get adopted.” Mrs. Tucker replies in a struggling-to-keep-positive tone, “Well, that’s Fairview for you. Only so many agencies within reach of here, sweetheart. Have you tried—?” “Yes,” Billy cuts her off. “Whatever it is you’re about to ask, yes, we have tried that, and this, and also that, and everything-else-or-other.”
My knuckles were raised, ready to knock. Now they drop back to my side as I worry whether I want to risk interrupting this chat of theirs. After Coach Strong’s call from Billy, and now seeing Billy here to talk to his mom, I’m putting two and two together. Jimmy mentioned in a random late-night text once that his brother and Billy were “looking to expand their family”. I figured he meant a dog. Not a human being. A baby or a child. Whatever they planned.
Suddenly the door whisks open, and Billy appears there. “Oh, Toby,” he breathes, surprised and flustered. “Did you—ah—Did you need anything? Is the deep fryer doing that thing it does when you try to turn it off?”
“No, I’m fine, it’s all shut down.” I spot Mrs. Tucker in a chair by the desk, looking away. I’m guessing I gave her a moment of reprieve where she doesn’t have to put on a face in front of her son, who I am momentarily distracting. She’s clearly upset. Maybe I should draw this out for a moment longer. “I … just … wanted to check to make sure I could leave for the night. My ride’s been—”
“Waiting,” Billy finishes for me, then nods quickly. “Yeah. If there’s anything else, don’t worry, I’ll get it done. Remember, I ran this place many years before you did.”
“Right. Thanks, Billy.” I loiter at the door a second too long to be natural, squirm, then make up a question. “Is there some sorta reason Coach Strong doesn’t call himself Coach Tucker-Strong?”
Billy, whose mind seems everywhere except here, squints in confusion a moment before he gives a distracted answer. “I guess it’s more like no matter how many times he says it, no one knows him for his new name. I think he’ll be a Strong the rest of his life, whether I’m his husband or not. Hell, I still get called Billy Tucker. Or Mr. Tucker. Or Junior,” he adds with a teasing glance over his shoulder—where he then catches his mother still looking away, her face full of distress.
Crap. “Is, uh, everything okay?” I quickly ask.
Billy, flustered even further, mumbles, “Hmm? Yes. Why?”
Suddenly—and rather belatedly—I wonder if the weirdness here has anything to do with the phone call to Coach Strong. If I get the story from Billy right now, I won’t have to pester Jimmy into spilling the beans later. Besides, I’m not sure I can trust that what I talk to Jimmy about doesn’t just get hot-potatoed right to his big brother. Thanks, Jimmy. “You seem upset. Earlier today—”