Colt #2
Jonas makes a weird little noise—half scoff, half sigh—under his breath. Whatever that means. And still, neither of them says anything. Though at least Whit’s looking at me, mulling over my suggestions.
Finally, she nods. “There’s a food truck that usually parks over on Oak Street. That’ll be quick and easy.”
Minutes later, the truck drifts off the pavement into the gravel parking lot.
Dust billows up from the tires and I pull in next to the only other vehicle in the lot.
Presumably it belongs to the family with four kids who appear to be playing tag around a group of picnic tables haphazardly arranged on a small patch of grass.
Even before we open any doors, the smell of grilled meat infiltrates the cab and makes my stomach growl.
This was a great choice, even if it means sitting in awkward silence while we eat dinner.
I’d still rather that than the alternative of dropping Whit and Jonas off at home and hightailing it to Anette’s to eat alone.
The gravel crunches under my boots, and I sling an arm across my chest to stretch with a loud yawn.
The only way Jonas could move any slower is if we tied a boat anchor to his ass, so for a moment, Whit and I are alone and backlit by the evening sun.
We stand a hair’s width apart, and I feel the brush of her hand on my thigh, drawing my eyes to meet hers.
“You okay?” I mouth silently.
She pops one shoulder and her lips curve into something that’s not quite a smile, but trying to be.
My hands jam into my pockets for the slow meander toward the bright-red Mexican food truck, and I squint at the handwritten chalkboard menu.
The thing looks like they chose to write on it while driving down a pothole-filled road.
Letters are crooked, looping together in places I’m not sure they’re supposed to, and the doodles filling every possible empty space aren’t helping my confusion.
And then there’s the pressure of Whit and Jonas standing next to me.
I stare.
And stare some more.
Tilt my head to make it look like I’m merely struggling to decide what I want.
In a typical restaurant situation, I’ll play menu roulette and point at a random item when the words aren’t coming as quickly as I’d like them to.
But that’s not an option with a chalkboard suspended eight feet in the air.
God, I hate this part. The familiar, itchy frustration in my skull. My heart pounds as if I’m twelve years old again and being asked to read something aloud in class.
I turn to Whit. “What are you getting?”
“Ceviche tostadas,” she replies easily.
I blink at her. Surely those aren’t real words. Or maybe my inability to comprehend the menu is because I’m having a stroke.
Reaching up, I scratch the back of my neck. “What’s in that?”
“Um, it’s like a fish salad on a corn tortilla.”
The retching noise that flies out of my mouth can’t be stopped, and Whit laughs. So, honestly, it’s a win, even if I’m no closer to deciding what to eat.
“No, thank you,” I say, scrunching my nose and trying to decode the menu again. “Seafood and I do not get along. Do they have like…tacos here?”
“They do.” With a soft laugh, Whit sidles up next to me and points at the wall of text, allowing my eyes to follow the length of her arm. “Basically half the menu is tacos.”
She’s close enough that I can smell her perfume and imagine brushing her hair off her shoulder so I can kiss her skin. Bury my face in the crook of her neck and breathe her in.
Fuck. That’s not making this any easier.
“Sorry, it’s uh…been a day.” I gulp, rolling my neck and suddenly wishing I hadn’t suggested grabbing food. “Mind reading out the options to me?”
“You can’t read that?” Jonas chirps. Naturally the first time he says anything is to roast me. “Time for some glasses, bro.”
Whit side-eyes him but doesn’t miss a beat. “You want all the options, or just the safe bets?”
“Safe bets. Not looking to gamble with my intestines tonight.” God knows they’re in enough knots as it is.
She rattles off words I’ve never heard before, which makes me feel better about not being able to read them.
And follows up each menu item with an explanation, until I settle on a couple beef tacos and a couple chicken.
I let Whit do the ordering, even though it means I practically have to wrestle her away when it’s time to pay.
I’m sure Alex is the type of guy who doesn’t even suggest that he buy dinner, but if there’s one thing I want to prove—today more than ever before—it’s that he and I are as dissimilar as two guys can get.
Arms loaded with food and glass bottles of a pop brand I’ve never heard of, we settle onto a rickety wooden picnic table.
It’s nothing like meals I’ve shared with Whit and Jonas before, and not only because of the mariachi blasting from a Bluetooth speaker.
We pick at our dinner in terse silence, until it’s so unbearable I find myself studying the table’s wood grain between bites of the most incredible taco I’ve ever had.
Betty’s muzzle rests on top of my thighs, waiting for crumbs to fall into my lap in the same way I’m hoping for any morsel of conversation.
I’m dangerously close to making an inappropriate taco joke to lighten the mood, and at the last second my brain opts to overexplain the menu situation instead.
“So I don’t actually need glasses—I can see for miles, man.
So good, I’m pretty sure my eye doctor decides if people need glasses based on how their vision stacks up to mine.
But anyway, I—well, I have a hard time reading when it’s all scribbled and smushed together like that.
“To be fair, I have a hard time reading, in general. I can read, it just takes a bit more focus because of my dyslexia. So like…yeah, I could read the menu if I really tried, I’m sure. But it doesn’t come to me fast enough. Then there’s pressure to order and that makes it even harder.”
Jonas gnaws on a two-handed burrito, raising his eyebrow in confusion. And when I brave a glance at Whit, I’m met with soft, kind eyes. No pity or judgment. She’s all warmth.
“Honestly, I think it’s the universe’s way of humbling me. Can’t have me being this damn attractive and good at everything.”
“You suck at fishing, too.” Big sass coming from a guy with a dab of guacamole on his cheek. “And that green shirt makes you look like an M&M.”
Now hold on—isn’t the green M&M a girl?
“Jonas.” Whit knocks him down a few pegs with that razor-sharp stare of hers, doing more damage than any response I could formulate. “Enough.”
He rolls his eyes with a huff before returning to dinner. Whit’s foot taps against mine under the table. And I spend the rest of my meal fighting back a smile.