Wrangled

Servers come around the room with plates of seasoned grilled chicken, vegetables, and fancy-looking pasta salad, one of which is set before me. I frown at the plate, since I guess I was expecting a menu first, at the very least. I guess this is sort of a “eat what we give you” situation.

You know, exactly like a high school lunch.

Except hopefully tastier.

The other guys at the table (plus Bonnie, who practically acts like just another dude when around them) seem to have moved on to other stories, but I’ve more or less fallen behind ten steps ago. I just cut my chicken in silence and eat while pretending to listen. Since Chad roped me into this social situation whether I liked it or not, I figure it’s the polite thing to do: acting like I’m, at least in some minimal way, caring.

Even if I’m fathoming ways to suddenly vanish.

I could excuse myself to the little boy’s room.

I could pull the fire alarm.

I could spontaneously decombust. That might be fun.

Instead of any of those things, I turn my head, peering out at the rest of the room. The first thing I catch sight of is Billy and Tanner’s table. The happy pair of men seem to be having a lot of fun, with Mindy in the middle of telling some animated story that has all their attention. Her husband Joel, gangly and messy-haired, listens with a lopsided smile across his face, chewing.

Billy is, of course, slathered in a tragic combination of plaid and khaki. He clearly ignored all of my well-intended advice.

Sigh. A miracle worker like me can only do so much.

My eyes wander to another table, where I notice Cody Davis, the scary brute with the big bad muscles everyone avoided in high school, sitting with his arm around a cute-faced, almost-dainty, slender fellow I have to assume is his husband, Trey Arnold, son of Reverend Arnold. I never once went to church here, so I know next to nothing about the guy. I wonder if Trey will make Cody come to his reunion four years from now, if they’re still together.

I guess Chad wasn’t lying about the two of them.

Those odd two really are a thing.

And opposites apparently do attract.

At a table right next to theirs, I catch sight of Harrison who is, to my surprise, looking right at me. He’s in a fitted green dress shirt with a shimmering golden tie, which looks totally tacky, yet humorous and oddly fitting him. He gives me a cheery wave and flashes a broad, toothy smile my way.

I give him a nod back and a tiny, amused smile.

There is something about Harrison that always appears sweet and excitable, like a big puppy that’s always happy when someone shows him attention, yet also a little shy. Maybe it’s the contrast of his two thick eyebrows that give him such a serious appearance, mixed with his broad, handsome smile and his quiet goofiness.

He’s always been sweet to me—from a distance. And he’s been especially attentive since I came into town, I’ve also noticed.

I think he might be gay.

Just a tiny, unconfirmed suspicion.

I’ll shelve that thought for now.

“Are you going to the party later tonight?”

The sudden question from Chad yanks my attention back to the table. Everyone seems to be listening to a story Owen is telling now, scraping their plates with forks and knives as they eat.

I face Chad. “I wouldn’t miss a big Evans-caliber party for the world. Why?”

“Do you need a ride?”

I hadn’t actually thought about that until now. “I’ll … get an Uber. Or a Lyft. Or a taxi. Whatever the hell is available out here.”

“The Evans’ estate is way out in the country. Farther than the Strong ranch.”

“Sounds like a lovely night walk to me.”

Chad guffaws at that, then nudges me with his elbow. “Nah, don’t sweat it for a minute. I’ll give you a ride.”

He loves telling me not to sweat, apparently. “That’s okay,” I say dismissively, then stab a green bean with my fork.

Chad leans toward me. “We still need to talk, Lance. It’s killing me … that I haven’t said what I gotta say. Can’t you just give me a tiny bit of leeway here? A little slack? I ain’t all clever and quick like you are, all speedy and Hollywood and everything.”

I snort. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I mean, some guys need time to say what they gotta say. A lot of time. Maybe years.”

“Years?” I half turn my face to him. “It’s going to take you years to tell me what it is you have to tell me?”

“Damn it, Lance. You know what I’m sayin’.”

“I have no idea what you’re saying.”

“Spruce doesn’t move as quickly as you do. You remember how it’s like to live here, right? I mean, Spruce is slow. Spruce is easy. Spruce … takes its time.”