Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
A dead stop.
Seated there, right the fuck there, like a king on his big stupid throne he doesn’t deserve, wearing a denim jacket and a smirk the size of Texas, sits the jack-off wagon himself, holding a menu at table number fucking 8.
8
BRIDGER
I can’t believe my first instinct is to hide my face behind the menu.
As if that’ll stop the train wreck that’s about to happen.
Sure, I know the odds of running into someone multiple times is relatively higher in a small town. But there are still many other people left here to run into, right? Hundreds more I’ve never met. Statistically speaking, it is absolute madness that I am once again coming face-to-face with this motherfucker.
I would say he’s stalking me.
If it weren’t for the fact that the bitter look on his face right now tells me he’s as disappointed by this encounter as I am.
Anthony’s in a plain black t-shirt with a nametag tacked onto the chest—a correct one this time: Anthony—tucked into ill-fitting, tight slacks that were probably black once but are faded now, like he’s wearing the same ones he’s had since high school and won’t let go of them to get a new pair, long since outgrowing them. A short maroon apron hangs from his waist stuffed with straws, a pen, a pad of paper, and a random-ass fork I can’t explain. His hair is less tidy than it was at church this morning, his bangs flipped the wrong way, like he fixed his hair then drunkenly ran a hand through it forgetting he’d fixed it at all.
And those baby blue eyes of his are stabbing me right now.
Stabbing me like a steak knife.
Wishing I wasn’t here.
You and me both.
“Welcome to the Kitchen.” Anthony wrinkles his face up, then shakes his head. “Uh, sorry, no. To Gran’s Kitchen. Gran’s Kitchen House. K-Kitchen Home. Home Kitchen—fuckin’ hell—Gran’s Home Kitchen.” His eyes flash when he belatedly notices I’m not, in fact, here all by my lonesome. “Trey, Cody … Reverend Arnold, Ms. Davis …” His face goes red. Did he just realize he cussed in front of both the current and past reverends of Spruce? “Sorry about that. Fillin’ in for someone. I’m happy to see you all here. Hello. H-Hi.”
“Evening, Anthony,” says Trey, the first to acknowledge him, in his warm and all-forgiving tone. He sits in the middle across from his husband, with me and Pete on one side at this end of the table, Reverend Arnold and Ms. Davis on the other. “Was very nice seeing you again this morning.”
“Oh, yeah, I was there. Of course I was there,” Anthony repeats with emphasis. “I never miss a sermon of yours. Your words, they always … they always inspire me and … and seem to … to …”
“Put you to sleep?” I offer helpfully.
Anthony’s cold gaze strikes again.
I return his glare with a hardened look of my own, enjoying his torment despite showing nothing on my face at all.
“Have you met our friends here from out of town?” asks Trey. “This gentleman, Pete, he served alongside Cody in the Army, now discharged.”
“You look familiar,” says Pete, squinting an eye as he points a finger at Anthony.
“Thanks for your service,” says Anthony, not addressing that.
“And across from Pete is Bridger,” finishes Trey, “his friend, also recently discharged.”
Anthony looks me over. “Bridger,” he mutters, as if trying my name out like some shirt off a rack at a store. “Bridger … Bridger.” Each time he says it, he says it weirder. “Bridger, Bridger, Bridger. Don’t look much like a Bridger to me.” Under his breath he adds: “More like the guy who burns bridges.”
“I meant to ask,” Trey goes on, arms folded on the table, his voice warming with concern, “how’s your mom doing, Anthony? I heard about her little fall from Dr. Emory and the ladies. Glad she didn’t break anything, seemed to bounce right back up.”
When I look up at Anthony, his face is frozen. “Uh … yeah.” He shrugs, then fumbles with the pad and pen he just pulled out of his apron. “Y-Yeah, she’s … she’s doing fine. Just spoke to her an hour ago, actually, yeah, doing great. Thanks for asking.”
That faraway glint in his eyes. That split second of confusion.
He’s lying. I can tell. I’ve seen it a hundred times in a hundred sets of eyes.
I wonder if he even knew about his mom.
The next instant, I wonder why I care. Am I forgetting who in the hell this bozo is?
“Such a sweetie,” says Cody’s mother from the other end of the table, smiling so big her eyes go away. “Tell your mom I said hello, would you?”
Anthony nods stiffly, chokes on a few words stuck deep in his throat—I think they’re “yes, ma’am”—then nods at the table. “Do you guys know what you want yet?”