“I don’t hate you,” I cut in.
But he isn’t done. “—even back in school, ten whole years ago, you wouldn’t give me the time of day.” He spreads his hands. “You have some kind of problem with me you’d like to share? Were you intensely allergic to other gay guys in Spruce? Held a distaste for aspiring culinary artists? Hated my clothes? What was it, Lance?”
We have the attention of everyone in the store, by the way.
This will probably make a headline in tomorrow’s paper.
I mean, really, what else do the folk of Spruce have to report, other than the hot mess that’s to become of tonight’s reunion?
“None of those things,” I answer him tiredly.
“So what is it? Because, despite your grudge being ten years old, it is clearly still affecting the way you treat me,” he points out. “You totally ignored me during breakfast, and now you—”
“—are ignoring your tragically plaid taste in clothing?” I finish for him helpfully, then glance over at Mindy. “Yeah, you weren’t kidding. A skipping record, through and through.”
Billy’s eyes narrow in anger.
Just then, I happen to spot someone in the street through the tall glass windows at the front of the store.
It only takes another second of speechless staring to realize who it is.
Chad.
And he’s cupping a hand to the glass to get a look inside.
I dart behind a rack, wide-eyed. “Hide me.”
Billy’s anger is fast traded for confusion. “Uh, what …?”
“It’s Chad Landry. Outside.” I sneak a peek through the rack of shirts. Chad is still looking inside. “I need somewhere to hide.”
“Chad …?” Billy peers around the rack to get a better look.
I hear the bells of the front door opening.
I sprint from my spot, winding my way between racks and down aisles to the nearest changing room. Once I make it, I swipe shut the curtains, perch atop a bench inside the room, and wait.
It isn’t long before I hear Chad’s big voice. “Hey there, Mindy. Billy. Ah, Elissa, Whitney, Nadia. How do you do, ladies n’ gent?”
“Oh, we’re doin’ plenty fine,” sings Elissa. “We’re gettin’ some advice on what to wear tonight from—”
“—from me,” Billy interrupts her. He clears his throat, then lets out a laborious, long sigh. “Yeah, me. Of all people.”
“Hmm, okay, okay,” says Chad. “Advice on what to wear. Nice. Well, no matter what William Junior here tells you, you ladies will look plenty fine no matter what you wear.”
“Oh, you’re so sweet!” cries Elissa with a laugh.
“The sweetest,” throws in Nadia, a hint of dreamy longing in her singsong voice.
“So, ah …” Chad’s heavy footfalls seem to shake the floor as he progresses deeper into the store—and his voice grows closer. “I heard that Lance might be here. Is he?”
“Nope,” answers Billy right away.
It takes a second for the women to catch up. “Nope,” answers Mindy as well, followed by, “No, he isn’t here at all,” from Whitney in her squeaky voice, and a, “In fact, he couldn’t be farther from this store, truth be told,” from Nadia, who tries too hard.
Chad’s footsteps come to a stop way too close to the changing rooms for my comfort. He lets out a deep, husky sigh. “Well, well. That’s too bad. And I specifically heard, in fact, that he left Country Lovin’ with y’all.”
“Well, who the heck are you?” Mindy sasses him. “Detective Landry? What do you want with him, anyway?”
“Oh, nothin’ much, really. I just …” There’s a settling of weight against a wall, indicating Chad leaning on it near the curtain of my changing room. Why don’t these flimsy fucking little rooms have locked doors?? “I just was hopin’ I could catch him before tonight. Talk to him. Say a few things.”
“So what do you want to say to him?” blurts Elissa, unable to help herself. “We can relay a message.”
“Nah, I’d really rather—” he starts.
“We can be trusted to relay a damned message,” says Nadia.
I hear the shuffling of everyone turning to Nadia in surprise. Even I stare at the back of my closed curtain, stunned.
Nadia titters nervously before she speaks. “I, um … sorry. I’m just suffering from jitters about tonight. Parties make me nervous. I’m nervous. Lance isn’t here.”
I roll my eyes. She’s a step away from saying: Lance is totally not right there in that changing room right now, behind that curtain three feet to your left.
Chad chuckles. “Of course you can be trusted. It’s more … that what I got to say to him is a private matter. Between us.”
“Maybe you should check the hotel,” suggests Nadia. “Or, uh, another … store?”
There’s a long silence.
I slowly—and with great and tedious stealth—bring myself to the back of the curtain and peek through a crack in it.
Chad is leaning against the wall just outside the entrance to the changing rooms. He’s in a tight white t-shirt, plain as the day is long, and a pair of jeans torn at the knees and frayed at the feet, its loose tangles of thread sitting atop his dusty brown boots. He’s got on his cowboy hat, in case anyone had any doubts that he does hot, hard, sweaty, under-the-sun manual labor on a ranch.