I stare at her.
“Or, like, maybe you’re breathing in exhaust out there,” Beau says with a quirk to his lips. Now I know they’re goading me.
Miller, ever the optimist and eternal ray of fuckin’ sunshine, refuses to tease me. Instead (and this is worse), he drops his arm around my back, bringing our sides together. “It feels good, doesn’t it? Being kind?”
I shove him away and shake my arm as if to get the “nice” cooties off me.
“You’re being so nice today,” Delane says, pinching my side as she walks past me to her desk. “We’re just wondering why.”
“I’m not,” Beau says, “because I know it’s not awhy. It’s awho.”
“Ahh,” Delane grins broadly, and nerves flare in my stomach because I don’t have time for this. I’m supposed to be meeting Goldie in ten so I can meet her mom.
“I don’t got time for this shit. I’m going to lunch.”
“Going to lunch,” Delane emphasizes. “You usually stay here. So who are you going to meet?”
“Goldie,” Beau, the fuckin’ big mouth, announces. But you know what? Goldie’s mine now. They’re gonna know her and know her well.
I stare at Delane, then Miller, and bring my focus back to Beau as I shove my wallet in my back pocket. “We’re together now, so get over it.”
Delane’s jaw drops, and their high school gossip begins as I trudge into the bathroom and close the door.
In my reflection, I see what I always see. Uncombed and tangled hair pulled into a bun to keep it off my face. Unshaved for a while, I now have a decent beard with messy edges and uneven growth. My button-up khaki work shirt with my name stitched in cursive over the breast is the nicest thing I have on, and even then, it’s stained with oil and work. My jeans, dark and dusty from spending the morning on my side under a Cadillac, look awful. But they look better than my boots, which kinda look like they’ve been swinging over a telephone wire in the sun for some time.
I drag a cool cloth over my face, getting rid of the sweat and grease. I finger-comb loose hairs into my bun. Good enough. Goldie ain’t expecting to fuck me and then have Tom fuckin’ Cruise show up at her mom’s lunch.
She knows who I am, and I am enough.
I ignore the gossip as I push out of the bathroom and snatch my keys and phone from the counter, getting into my truck in a rush. The town is busy during lunch, but I cruise backstreets to get me there with a few minutes to spare.
Waiting outside, leaning up against my pickup, my heart flickers when Goldie pushes out of the glass-doored building. She’s so goddamn beautiful.
I’m off the truck and pulling her into a hug the moment she’s close enough. She sighs against my chest, and I’ve never felt better.
“Hey baby,” I kiss the top of her head, and she smells even better than she did this morning.
“Hey,” she says, peeling us apart. “You ready?”
Her face is controlled, her words a higher pitch–just slightly–than normal. I think this is… nervous Goldie. And something tells me this anxiety-laced side of her is because of Constance Berry.
I open her door for her, and she slides into the passenger seat with a nervous smile. I reach out and wrap my hand around her throat, and her body softens to my dominant grip on her. I swear my assertion over her body and mind calms her down. “It’s gonna be good, Goldie girl, alright?” Ducking into the truck, I give her a slow, wet kiss which makes her moan and sift her lean fingers through my messy beard.
I let go of her neck, and she smiles lazily back at me as if I’ve broken down at least one layer of tension inside her.
“The day after,” she blurts out as we head toward the restaurant. “After Reynold raped me, I went to lunch with my Mom and… I couldn’t tell her. She wouldn’t allow it, she didn’t want to hear it. And I’ve been mad at her since.”
I don’t ask how she wasn’t allowed because something tells me, Goldie’s mom does a good job at making people feel bad when they shouldn’t. “You have every right to feel that way, baby,” I tell her, because it’s the truth. I drop a hand to her knee and knead her nerves as we drive. “She ain’t gonna hurt you today, alright? It’s going to be okay.”
She’s silent but gives me a nod. We make the short drive to the restaurant, where we take a seat at a patio table. There are heating lamps and a covered pergola, making the outdoor eating experience a lot like inside. But with fresh air.
Somethin’ tells me we’re gonna need it.
I ask her about her day as we wait for her mom to arrive, and I can feel distraction and nerves running through her. Beneath the table, her knee bounces, and on top, she wraps a straw wrapper around her finger repeatedly. When the back door opens, we stand and turn to see Goldie’s mom.
She doesn’t look menacing, and her appearance surely doesn’t match the person I’ve built in my head after listening to Goldie talk about her.
But looks are always unreliable.