“I do my job just fine,” I spit back.
“Yeah, whenever you bother to show up here on-time,” says Anthony. “Or maybe because you’re Mr. Lemon’s little pet, you think you’ve got some kinda right to show up to work whenever you want? Do whatever you want? Your fancy ass is so west-coast now, living away from Spruce for so long—you and your boyfriend Jimmy—I don’t think you even belong here anymore.”
For a second, I have to catch myself.
Boyfriend, he said.
But he doesn’t know, I remind myself. He’s just being an asshole. He doesn’t know. The secret isn’t out. Calm down.
I’m a single breath away from losing my shit and putting my fast-tightening fist right into Anthony Myers’ round, flushed, self-important face. I really could do it. I could do it and just be over with all of this for good. I’m quite sure I wouldn’t feel an ounce of remorse, either, even if I broke the fucker’s jaw. Hell, I might even feel complete and total satisfaction.
Instead, I take one deep, steeling breath and channel some kind of magical fucking nirvana inside me to calm down.
Ignoring Anthony completely, I face Vince. “I’m really sorry for missin’ the trash. And I’ll keep an eye on the compactor from now on. Fifteen seconds. Heck, I’ll even hold the thing for twenty.”
Vince gives me a tightened but appreciative smile. “Fifteen will do,” he mutters back.
I nod, feeling like the situation is handled and, frankly, being damned impressed with my own patience and maturity. I don’t need to mend any fences or right things with Anthony. That boy is a lost cause anyway and isn’t worth the trouble. Just another month or so and I’ll be back at South Wood anyway. Even sooner if Jimmy wants to make an early departure like we did last summer. But only after the Spruce Ball, of course, I tell myself privately, feeling a renewed sense of peace return to me after my chaotic morning.
I gesture at the break room door. “Mind if I clock out for a quick break, buddy?”
Vince steps out of the way with a smile. “Of course, man.”
I ignore the noise of Anthony scoffing as I pass by them, enter the break room (which is more of a closet, really), then clock out and proceed to kick back in a creaky plastic chair by a bucket of soapy mop water, all by myself.
After taking another deep breath, I whip out my phone and start to text Jimmy a quick greeting to see what he’s up to.
Then I stop.
Suddenly it’s the middle of the night and I’m hearing Billy and Tanner talking not-so-privately in the kitchen of the main house.
All over again, worry and doubt and unrest swirl around in my chest.
I’ve been going nonstop since I woke up, raced to work late, and dove straight into my duties. I forgot about what I overheard Billy telling his husband Tanner at nothing-o’clock in the middle of the night from the kitchen.
That it shouldn’t be me partnering with Jimmy for the dance.
That it should be someone more qualified.
Someone like Camille Randall.
“Don’t listen to him,” I tell myself. “He doesn’t realize what’s goin’ on between you. You can’t blame him. He doesn’t know. If he knew, then all of this would be different.”
Would it, though?
Maybe it makes better sense that two professional dancers with years of training ought to lead the Spruce Ball with a number that’s both polished and impressive. That’s more likely to open up wallets than a couple of buddies having fun on a stage.
My face flushes with a whole new wave of insecurity.
I was never a dancer. I’m clumsy when I’m not kicking around a soccer ball. I don’t understand grace; I understand scoring goals.
I sigh, then stare at my half-written text to Jimmy.
Gnashing my thumb, I slowly delete the letters one at a time, then replace them with something else:
ME
Maybe you should do the dance with Camille.
Within seconds, I get the notification that he’s already seen the text. Then I watch him type, stop typing, type, stop typing, and finally there’s nothing.
I frown, curious what the struggle is about.
Then my phone starts to ring.
I answer it. “Jimmy?”
“What the actual fuckin’ fuck is that question about??” Jimmy blurts out at once.
“I didn’t ask a question. I made a statement.”
“Fuck that. I’m doin’ the dance with you. No one else.”
“Yeah, but—”
“What’s got you sayin’ this? Something is makin’ you say this bullshit to me. This isn’t you.”
“I mean …” Billy’s words start coming right out of my mouth. “Wouldn’t it be better to have two actual dancers doing the dance? We’re tryin’ to raise money here for the schools, and—”
“Did you have a cruddy day at work or somethin’? Is Anthony treatin’ you right?”
Strange, how his mind goes straight to Anthony. “Well, after arriving late, it’s been a bit of a stressful day, but—”