No more nice girl act for me. Meemaw had proven she was no better than Waylon yesterday. Worse, actually. She was one of those foster parents who pretended to be nice, acted like they wanted to help you but betrayed you in the end.
I ignore her completely and walk straight over to Waylon.
“I need money to buy myself something to eat at the general store.”
Waylon shifts his gaze to Meemaw, who immediately responds with, “I'm making Belgian waffles for your breakfast date right now. You don’t have to go to the store. Just give me a few minutes.”
I keep my eyes on Waylon and repeat, “I need money to buy myself something to eat. Are you going to give it to me? Or do I have to submit by doing something horrible like sucking your dick just so I won’t starve?”
Meemaw gasps behind me. “I would never let you starve!” she sputters.
But Waylon simply holds my gaze with those two icy lakes he calls eyes.
After a few beats, he pulls out one of those five thousand dollars bundles and gives me the top one-hundred-dollar bill. “You can keep the change.”
The only polite thing to say here would be, “Thank you.”
But I'm done being polite.
I snatch the bill from his hand and head out, ignoring Meemaw’s protests about how breakfast is nearly made.
“I can't believe she's going to get something junky at the general store when I'm making her a homemade meal,” she says to Waylon, her voice laced through with exasperation.
“She grew up hard without anybody she could trust,” Waylon explains, his voice flat, like he’s just giving information. “You were right to text me, but it's going to take her a while to forgive you for that.”
His words make me pause in the doorway. He’s right. That's exactly how I feel—betrayed like in my foster days. I mean, just all kinds of triggered.
I don't know what's more disturbing…
That Waylon is here and making excuses for me after everything he did to me—what he’s still doing to me by keeping me here.
Or that he can read me so well.
CHAPTER 10
Charlie, the barrel-chested older man who runs the general store, frowns at the pile of groceries I place beside his register, then back up at me.
“Is Meemaw all right?” he asks. “I thought she was making you and Waylon Belgian waffles for your breakfast date this morning. Lucinda came in here special yesterday for bacon.”
Wow. Does everybody in this start-up town know everybody’s business?
“I decided not to play their little game anymore,” I answer between clenched teeth. “Can you just ring me up?”
Charlie snaps a brown paper bag open and begins to put my stuff inside it. But he gives my perishable items the stink eye: fruit, a ton of frozen dinners, bagels, and some cream cheese I scored from the store’s large but single refrigerator.
“Bagels!” he spits out like I’ve included rat poison in the collection of things I plan to eat. “I don’t know why you’re eating these cut-rate things. That woman makes the best Belgian waffles in Iowa. Used to be a time when me and the other guys would get into fights over who would get her on Saturdays for maid service, just because we knew she'd be making us Belgian waffles if we asked her nice. Also, she was a fucking spark plug in bed. Crazytown Sr. eventually won that fight permanently when she let him move in. Lucky bastard. I wouldn’t have minded dying between those sweet thighs.”
I glance from side to side. Edit my original question. Does everyone in this start-up town know everyone else’s business and spill all the tea? That was way, way more information than I wanted to know about Meemaw. Or Charlie.
“Just ring me up, please.” I bring out the one-hundred-dollar bill Waylon gave me. “How much do I owe you?”
Charlie sets the bag full of my stuff on the counter but waves his hand at me when I push forward the bill. “Your money’s no good here—or anywhere else in town, you'll be finding. Waylon doesn't get charged for nothing, and you’re Waylon’s woman.
“I am not his woman,” I insist, thrusting the dollar toward him again.
Charlie just slides the bag forward. “Well, if Waylon tells me that, I’ll believe you. Till then, I'm not charging you a dime. So you can either take this bag or leave it here and eat those Belgian waffles Meemaw made for you—from scratch, by the way. Who turns down Belgian waffles made from scratch?”
I sigh and take the bag. Maybe I won with Waylon this morning, but this feels like another defeat.
“And hey, while you're here, could you take a look at these dark spots,” Charlie says, holding out his right hand. “You think it's cancer? The internet says it might be cancer.”
Oh, the good old, needlessly scary internet. The bane of every medical professional’s existence.