11. You Had Me at What the Hell
11
You Had Me at What the Hell
Customers in the crowd turn to see what’s holding up the line. There is no one left in line in front of Wanda and me.
“It’s going to be ok,” Wanda says as she crouches down to gather the backpack.
“Come on, buddy,” one of the Baroness’s assistants says as he steps forward. “There are people waiting. Don’t take all day.”
I hear murmuring around me and that feeling of people turning to stare that’s become all too familiar lately.
Wanda grabs my arm. She tries to nudge me forward.
“I know him,” I hear from the crowd and turn my head. “He’s the guy from that epic fail video. The broken window guy.”
A murmur begins in the crowd, and I pick out familiar faces among the strangers. Residents of Little Elm. People I’ve helped matchmake staring back at me with looks of sympathy, the same as Truman before he dropped the rose on the fountain’s edge. It’s worse than derision.
Out of the corner of my vision, I see the Baroness wave to one of the staff who leans in so she can whisper in their ear. The staff member starts coming toward me. Wanda eases me forward, but my eyes are now focused on Tru. Behind him is Scott, his boyfriend. I know they see me. Tru walks toward the nearby stairs and descends, looking from the steps in front of him to me and back. I can make out the look on his face, the way his brows bend toward the bridge of the nose, his eyes all intense. He’s in his nice-guy mode and if he launches into that in front of everyone, they’ll see me as poor, unwanted, unloved Bobby Ashton, the chubby gay who helps everyone else find love but gets his own heart broken.
I can taste the fountain water again. I can almost gag and spit it out. I can hear the glass crack, then shatter as it hits the pavement and the water crashes around me.
The Baroness is standing now. “Darling, are you all right?”
I manage to shake my head, eyes still on Truman. My face burns and my heart is beating as if it’s in my ears. He’s moving through the crowd, dodging people. Getting closer. The faces of the crowd heighten with concern.
I can’t be their pitiable loser. Not again.
“I’m so sorry,” I say to Wanda and the Baroness. I don’t think about what I’m doing. Something inside me says go . I dart out of the line toward the exit.
“Bobby, stop,” Truman calls out over the noise of the crowd.
I knock the end cap of a shelf. The display collapses. Books scatter around my feet. People step from the crowd, arms outstretched, ready to steady me but they don’t make it in time.
I stumble over the mess and out the door.
The fountain looms in front of me, spraying water. The cobbles are hard and uneven under my feet.
I duck into an alley between the buildings, not daring to walk down the promenade, not risking Tru’s chasing after me. It’s the type of thing he’d do. That’s one of the reasons I fell for him.
I crouch beside a dumpster to catch my breath. Elbows on my knees, head in my hands, I force myself to inhale and exhale slowly, carefully, regaining control. My heart is still knocking through my ears like it’s trying to escape. There’s no way I can reframe running away from Truman and knocking over a display of books as a comeback.
Someone grabs me. “Are you ok?”
I scream and swat at the person before I see who it is.
Luke’s blue eyes are clouded with gray and concern.
“Luke?” I ask. “What the hell? Are you everywhere now?”
He’s crouched down too, holding on to my shoulder even though I smacked him. “Hello to you too. Are you going to slap me again?”
“Are you going to sneak up on me again?” I counter. I can feel a trickle of sweat run down from my temple. “There are no laws in Little Elm against wearing a shirt when you run, you know.”
Luke lets go of me and pulls his tee on over his head. “Nipple chafing,” he says as if that’s all the explanation required. “Are you ok?”
“I’m fine.” I stand up and begin patting my pockets, searching for my phone and wallet. When I don’t find them, I remember I put them into the backpack. The backpack that is now with Wanda inside Campus Books. I can’t go back to retrieve it. I’ve got no way home but to walk.
“You’re not fine,” Luke says. “What’s going on?”
I walk toward the end of the alley, away from the main part of campus. Luke’s long legs keep up with my quick pace with no effort.
“Why did you ask if you already knew the answer?”
“What would you do if you saw a guy you knew bent over beside a dumpster? You wouldn’t stop to check on him?”
I make sure there’s no one around before I step out onto the sidewalk. My pulse is no longer racing. I plan a route for the quietest way home where I’ll see the fewest familiar faces. “I’d figure he wants to be alone.” I start walking again.
Luke falls in line beside me.
I stop. He stops too.
“I’m seriously fine,” I say. “You don’t need to follow me.”
“Who says I’m following you? My apartment happens to be in the direction you’re going. We can walk alone. Together.”
Luke picks up speed and gets ahead of me. I take a few steps to catch up. He doesn’t push for more conversation. He doesn’t ask me what happened to lead me to hiding behind a dumpster. I know I wouldn’t be so uninquisitive if there was a mystery walking along beside me. I’d get to the bottom of it. But it’s nice not having to discuss the whole long story.
There’s something extra nice about Luke still getting to know Little Elm’s Bobby Ashton. And even if I’m not one hundred percent certain, I would bet Luke doesn’t know about me and Truman. I’ve got a clean slate with him, and it makes walking with him in silence easier. It’s a comfortable quiet.
We match our paces, walking in companionable silence until we reach a bunch of houses designed for boarders and dormers with each floor meant for a different resident, stretching taller than the average house.
“This is me,” Luke says with a nod at the nearest building, an old elm tree rising above us.
“Where do you set up the keg to do handstands?” I say under my breath, but loud enough Luke can hear me.
“Want to come in and watch a documentary on the dark underworld of tickling?” he asks, ignoring me. “You might feel better about whatever went down or at least laugh along.”
“You can’t honestly think that will help.”
“I’ve also got one on competitive professional chicken fanciers.”
“As enticing as those sound, I’ll take a rain check.”
“Suit yourself.” Luke moves up the concrete steps toward the building. “Bobby?”
“Yeah?”
“Tomorrow will be better.”
“How do you know?”
He stands on the path above me. “I should have brought it up the other day, but you were already calling me a love Grinch. My parents have had three divorces between them and are both on to their latest partners. Nothing got ugly or nasty, but people who had said they were sticking around signed some papers and took off. There were days when I felt like hiding behind a dumpster too.”
I watch the clouds reflect in Luke’s eyes and we hold each other’s gaze until he blinks his dragonfly-wing lashes.
“I’m still going to call you a love Grinch,” I say.
“Sounds fair, Casanova,” he says. “The good stuff and the bad, everything passes. I promise, tomorrow will be better.”
“How can you promise that?”
“Being a realist doesn’t mean I’m not an optimist.” He walks to his front door, then disappears inside.
I shove my hands in my pockets and find the penny for a safe return. Maybe Luke’s right. Perhaps tomorrow will be better.