Chapter 24
Theo
“She’s probably just trying to convince you she needs a second dinner,” I inform Mom.
Her voice crackles through the phone as she checks with her boss for the night. “Are you still hungry, Layla girl?”
This happens every time Mom babysits, and I’m starting to wonder why Layla even wants to come home with me after. She gets new toys, extra treats, and apparently a second dinner at Mom’s house. Mom sighs.
“She looks awfully sad.”
“That’s because she knows you’re a softie.” I round the corner to the concession stand, and Fable comes into view. She’s ordering our food, her head tipped back laughing.
“I’ll just give her a half serving. It’ll be like dessert,” Mom decides.
“I’m sure she’ll love that. Give her a kiss for me. One for Mr. Maxwell too.”
“Have fun. Love you.”
“Love you too,” I tell her before tucking my phone away and walking toward Fable.
I expect to find the owner of the concession stand, Fran, on the other side of the glass, but instead it’s her son, Tony, and the way he’s looking at Fable with hearts in his eyes right now . . . well, I’m not proud of that little stab of jealousy. But it’s there nonetheless.
“How long are you in town?” Fable asks. I set our beers down on the small counter and pull out my wallet.
He types a couple things on the register. “Only the weekend. Wanted to help out with the fundraiser. What are you up to these days?”
“Just working at Hawkins Hardware,” she replies.
“Oh, I’ll have to stop by tomorrow,” Tony says, a bit too excited for my liking. “You visited me, I’ll visit you.”
Fable laughs softly. “Please. It gets boring around there sometimes.”
Tony types a few more things. Shuffles some napkins around. Clears his throat. “Well, you look really good. Really happy.” He scans her face, his eyes doing a hopeful, flirty thing.
“Thanks. You too.” Fable’s eyes do it back, and I grind my teeth. “And do you mind making the fries extra crispy?”
He grins. “My pleasure.”
I bet it’s his pleasure. That’s enough of that. I toss my arm around my girlfriend’s shoulder and pull her closer. “Mine, too, please.”
“How much do we owe you?” Fable asks, her fingers coming around to pinch my side playfully.
He waves that off. “Nothing. On the house tonight. For an old friend.”
“Nope. No.” I hand him a twenty-dollar bill. “Isn’t this supposed to be a fundraiser?”
His cheeks flush. “Right.” He takes the cash and pops the register open. “It’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
“Thanks, Tony,” Fable calls as I shepherd her away.
We pick a spot at the edge of the crowd to wait for our food.
“What was that?” she asks.
“What?”
“That thing back there. You were getting a little caveman.”
An annoyed grumble leaves my chest. “I was not.”
“You were.” The opening scene of Scream is playing on the big screen behind her, and she glances over her shoulder for a moment.
“He was flirting with you. Right in front of me.”
A disbelieving laugh bursts out of her. “He was not.”
“And you were flirting back.”
Her arms cross, the beer bottle dangling from her fingers. “Who gave you the right to get all possessive about me talking to men?”
I ignore that. “He’s practically a child.”
“He’s only two years younger than us!”
“Really?!”
“Yes!”
A noncommittal hum is all I can muster.
“You know, one day, this’ll be over, and I’ll be back on the market, dating whoever I want.”
There’s an awful, bitter taste in my mouth. I take a swig of my beer, hoping it’ll wash it away.
Tony saves me from having to reply when he calls, “Fable! Order up!” from the window.
With our food and beers in hand, we make our way through the grass toward my truck in the back corner of the lot.
It’s not the ideal spot for movie watching, but we got here a little late.
After Fable’s shift at Hawkins, she wanted to run home to change into something comfortable, which turned out to be an oversize Arctic Monkeys tour hoodie and a pair of navy sweatpants.
“Have you uh . . . been dating a lot before this?” I ask, hating myself even as the words are still tumbling out.
Fable rearranges the items in her hand to grab two french fries and shove them in her mouth.
Ominous music filters from the movie as we weave between two cars.
“This is the first date-date I’ve been on in a long time.
” She lowers her voice to whisper, “Even if it’s fake, it’s the closest I’ve gotten.
” She tips her beer back for a sip. “By the way, this is our last free space.”
Wait. “Really?” I’d apparently lost track.
“Unless you’re looking to add some more renovations.” Her gaze cuts to me, a question in her eyes.
“There is some siding that needs to be replaced,” I offer, dipping my voice into something very businesslike.
She plays along, copying my tone. “And the washing machine is having trouble draining.”
“Of course.”
Her lips twitch. “We need to make sure Arthur is convinced.” But I think her eyes are saying, I’m having fun with you.
“Wouldn’t want you to run into any more problems with the A-frame.” My eyes reply, I’m having fun with you too.
When we reach the back of the truck, we set our food on the tailgate. It turned out the air mattress I had fit perfectly in the back, so I set that up with a few quilts and a bunch of pillows, and quite frankly it looks like the coziest movie-watching experience in the world.
Fable climbs up first. “When was your last date?” She gets herself settled cross-legged on the mattress before I hand her our food.
“Well, we went to Maddox and Vivian’s,” I remind her, lifting myself up into the truck.
“You know what I mean. Before me.”
“I’m pretty sure the right boyfriend response is to say, there was no one before you, pookie,” I tease, avoiding the question.
My dating history (if you can even call it that) isn’t exciting or noteworthy.
I’ve been on many dates in my adult life, and all of them were for one purpose—a hookup.
It’s not a very interesting story to tell.
“No, the right response is the truth. Or your pookie is going to hit you with a pillow.” We shift the blankets and food around so we can both get comfortable leaning against the cab’s back window. She tips sideways, bumping her shoulder into my bicep. “I’m genuinely asking.”
“I’ve been on dates, but it’s always very casual,” I explain, unwrapping my burger. “Never more than one evening, really.”
“So, hookups.” She opens her ranch and dunks three fries.
“There was one woman I . . . met up with regularly for a little while. We were both looking for”—I take a sip of beer to wet my throat—“physical release, and we provided that for each other. No guilt, no emotions. It worked out perfectly until she met the love of her life at the laundromat one day.”
“Friends with benefits?” she asks.
“Minus the friends. We didn’t really spend time together outside of sex.”
Her thoughtful hum threads between us. “My last relationship—or situationship, I guess—was Philip.”
Surprise jolts through me. “Philip?! The same one who knocked you into me at the Branch?”
“The very same.”
“The one who didn’t even acknowledge you?”
She grabs a chicken tender. “We were together-ish for about four months, but he wanted it kept a secret the whole time.”
The rage that fills me is instantaneous and hot. “What the fuck?”
Fable swallows, staring down at her food. “I’m over it. Really. The other night confirmed he was such a waste of time and emotional effort. No point in letting it bother me.”
I scrub a hand over my jaw. “We really should’ve slashed his tires, Fabes.”
“Yeah,” she sighs. “It would’ve been fun.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes, watching a particularly creepy scene on the screen. She shivers and I scoot closer, bringing my side up against hers.
“Anyone serious before Philip?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.
“Not really. I always seem to hit a wall around the two-month mark and lose interest. Some random thing gives me the ick. Or I’m bored.
Or I’ve found myself not caring whether I see them or not.
Broke up with someone because he didn’t believe in climate change.
Another when they were rude to our waiter.
” She huffs a laugh. “One guy hated animals.”
“Ultimate red flags.”
She stays quiet for a minute, twirling a fry in her ranch. “It’s possible I wasn’t giving those relationships enough time to really mean something.” With a soft huh, she sits back. “I guess I’ve been quitting those too?”
I plant a hand on her bent knee, pulling her attention to me. “Realizing you deserve better doesn’t make you a quitter. If you open a door, and it doesn’t feel right, don’t stay in that room. Turn around and look for the next one. The one that’ll make you happy.”
Her eyes search my face. I’m not sure what she’s looking for, but my skin warms under her gaze. Softly, she asks, “Why are you against relationships? Why do you not trust yourself?”
Something turns in my stomach, forcing me to set the rest of my burger down. I watch the screen for a moment, debating how extensively to answer her question.
A part of me wants to brush it off. Distract and deflect. Crack a joke to ease the tension.
But when I look her way, her expression is so open, so tender. She has trusted me with a lot over the last few weeks—left tears in my shirt and let me see the soft, vulnerable parts of her that I suspect not many people get to see.
And in the face of that, I can’t bring myself to be anything but honest.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I start with, “I’ve always had this . . . fear lurking in the back of my mind that anger is sitting right below the surface of my skin, waiting to jump out at any moment.”
Her hand curves around my wrist. “Theo,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re not an angry person.”
I almost laugh. “Fabes, you were there the first time. You saw me in high school—in fights on a regular basis. I was an angry kid.”
Her forehead scrunches. “That was a long time ago.”