The Nice Guy Next Door (When In Waverly 1)

Millie

I’m so glad Jameson agreed to take me out tonight. Lo has been a stereotypical angsty teenager the last few days. It’s completely new territory for me. I know starting a new school has been hard on her, so I’m trying not to lose my temper. Maybe I’ve forced too much change on her after an already difficult year.

No matter what the cause of her attitude is, I need to be away from her for a little while. A girl can only handle so many scoffs, dirty looks, and slammed doors before she snaps.

I step into the living room to wait for Jameson to arrive, and Lo is in the kitchen, drinking a soda. Her eyes narrow at me, and she asks, “Is that really what you’re wearing on a first date?” Her voice is dripping with disdain, and I count to ten in my head to remain calm.

“It’s not a date, and yes, this is what I’m wearing,” I respond and look down at my clothes. I like my outfit. Perhaps it’s not the height of fashion for a sixteen-year-old, but I’m a grown woman. Twenty-six. My jeans are stylish enough, and my loose-fitting black t-shirt hangs perfectly from my shoulders. My long hair is pulled up with a leopard print scrunchie. It’s casual. It says, I’m going to get burgers with my friend on a random Tuesday. It’s exactly what I was going for.

“Whatever. You should still try harder,” she says and stomps back to her room. I take a deep breath to calm myself before he arrives. My blood pressure has skyrocketed this week, and it’s only Tuesday. People are supposed to be eased into taking care of teenagers, not have it suddenly thrust upon them, right?

Something else must be going on that I don’t know about. This all can’t be about her being late for school. She was so happy over the weekend. What happened in the two days since then?

The sound of tires on gravel hits my ears, and I run to the bathroom to check my hair and makeup one last time. No, it’s not a date, but I still want to look good because, Lord knows, Jameson is sure to look good. I’m now convinced he’d look good in a feed sack.

I run back out and see him stepping out of his truck. It’s the monstrous Ford F-250 I’ve seen sitting in his driveway for the last six days. It makes sense that he’d drive a massive truck since he’s a massive man. I step outside before he has a chance to come to the door, and he freezes in surprise.

“Trust me, you don’t want to go anywhere near that house.”

He raises an eyebrow and asks, “Is everything okay?”

“Just an angsty teenager who won’t tell me what’s wrong with her. I ask her what’s going on, and her response is, ‘Ugh, just leave me alone.’ We’re making progress,” I joke. He nods his head, and I worry I’ve said too much. I should ease him in before I reveal how much of a train wreck my life really is.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have unloaded on you like that.” I look toward the house where I know the window to Lo’s room is. The blinds are closed, but I can picture her sitting on her bed, curled up in her fluffy blanket, reading a book, and hiding from whatever is bothering her.

“It’s okay. Come on, let’s go get you that burger, and you can rant to me about more of your problems,” he says as he motions to his truck.

“I’m going to need a running start to get in that thing.”

“Nah. A step comes down when you open the door.” He walks to the passenger side and opens the door for me. The step comes down, and I’m able to climb into the truck easily. I look around the huge cab of the truck and get comfortable on the soft leather seat. He scoots into the driver’s seat, and we pull out onto the road.

“So, where are you taking me? Please tell me they have amazing fries,” I ask.

“Bob’s Burgers,” he says, and a smile spreads across his achingly handsome face. “I would be a fool to take a woman to a restaurant that doesn’t have amazing fries.”

“Oh, you’ve made that blunder a few times, I take it,” I say with a laugh.

“Some of the worst dates I’ve ever been on, but I only have myself to blame,” he jokes. “But fortunately, this isn’t a date, so I’m not trying to impress anyone. If you hate the fries, I don’t have to worry about you breaking my heart for it.” He looks over and winks at me, and I have to steady my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. It would be easier to be his friend if he weren’t so charming.

We arrive at the restaurant, which is pretty dead thanks to it being a Tuesday night. Every head in the room turns to us as we enter. One woman smacks her husband’s arm to get him to look at us. I start backing toward the door to escape the attention. He takes me by the wrist to stop me and says, “It’s fine. It’s just been a while since they’ve seen me out and about with a pretty woman.”

The hostess saves me from having to respond when she appears to show us to a table. I glance around the room as I walk. Booths with red seats and wooden tables line all of the walls. Red tables that look like they’re from a fifties diner are spread out in the center of the room. Country music is playing from an old jukebox, but not the horrible new stuff. It’s old country from the nineties and before. The waitresses are all wearing black or red t-shirts and jeans, and they chat happily with the diners. It looks like everyone here is on a first-name basis. Everyone except me.

I sit down in the booth across from Jameson and smile, feeling relaxed. The hostess places menus in front of us, but I already know what I want: whatever burger is on that man’s plate a few feet away from me. It has bacon and avocado on it, and I need it, pronto. We order, and the waitress takes our menus, leaving us in silence.

“What kind of stuff do you do as a state trooper?” I ask him, desperate to make conversation. He crosses his arms on the table and smiles at me.

“I change a lot of flat tires,” he says with a laugh, and I roll my eyes. I act annoyed, but truthfully, he saved my hide the other day. It would have taken me forever to get it figured out. “I help people when they run out of gas or break down on the side of the road, work crashes, pull people over for speeding or other things. One of my favorite things to do is pick up hitchhikers.”

“Really? Hitchhikers? Why?” I ask, my curiosity piqued. The idea of picking up a random stranger on the side of the road has always freaked me out. What if they’re a psychopathic axe murderer who wants to lure me somewhere deep in the forest—I watch a lot of true-crime videos online, but my daddy did warn me against hitchhikers.

“I like talking to them. A lot of them are people who have fallen on hard times, and they just need someone to talk to. Something about riding in a car makes people open up, you know? I’ve noticed that when they get in my car, they seem sad, but when they get out of my car, they usually have at least a small smile on their face,” he says. It’s a sweet thought: giving people rides to help them but also knowingly giving them someone to talk to when they need it.

I remember, when I was a teenager, Daddy would always take me out for ice cream when something was bothering me. Somewhere between home and the ice cream parlor, I would start spilling my guts out to him, and things wouldn’t feel so bad anymore. The car rides must really work. I wonder if he did that with Lo too.

His deep voice draws me out of my musings when he asks, “What kind of stuff do you do as a librarian?”

“I’ve only been a librarian for two days. I think ol’ Gertie, as you call her, was a little desperate for someone to hire, seeing as Tess is about to pop with that baby and not many people are clamoring to move to a small town like Waverly,” I say.