Page 33 of Peacocks

Pete grinned. “You were going to get him drunk on tots and ask him to go steady, weren’t you?”

I closed my eyes and counted to three. “Not the phrase I was planning on using, but yes.”

He nodded. “I approve. Jay’s a good guy.”

“The best,” I said idly. “But now it’s all…” I let out a breath. “Chad made me sound like an ass. He was judgmental and petty. Rude and snobbish. I can’t even imagine what Jay thought. He was so offended and disgusted he wouldn’t even ride back here with us.”

I’d noticed on my way in that Jay’s truck no longer sat in a spot way off to the side of the parking lot, where he’d parked it so as not to inconvenience anyone. That was how Jay was…unlike the jerk in the Lexus who’d pulled into a handicapped spot without a second thought.

“My plan’s ruined,” I whispered. “I wanted to convince Jay that… that we belonged together. Instead, that lunch showed that I’m an asshole with terrible taste in boyfriends. I wouldn’t blame him if he wanted nothing more to do with me.”

“Ex-boyfriends,” Pete said.

I turned to look at him. “What?”

“Lane, you have terrible taste inex-boyfriends,” he said reasonably. “Lots of us do.”

“Oh.” I considered this. “But Jay was so angry and hurt. I could tell, even though he tried not to make a scene. And he probably blames me—heshould—because it was my fault Chad was even here?—”

Pete raised a hand and cut me off. “Do you think Jay is stupid?”

Riled as I was from the disastrous lunch, I didn’t stop to consider what Pete was really asking. I immediately bristled from head to toe and stood up so fast the legs of the chairscreechedagainst the linoleum floor.

“Are you serious right now, Pete Winchell? Jaybird Proud is maybe the smartest person I’ve ever met! If you think for one second that’s not true just because he doesn’t have a bunch of fucking diplomas on his wall, then you’d better think again. Jay is talented. He can fix nearly everything. And he knows people. Hecares. He’s openhearted, and open-minded, and generous, and…”

I trailed off when I saw Pete’s grin.

“Uh-huh. I know how smart he is, which is how I know he’s not going to blame you for Chad. And… frankly, I think you’re the one who’s a little dense when it comes to Jay. He knows you’re a good guy,” Pete said kindly. “He likes you. Like,a lot. No landlord brings their tenant a snack every single day, Lane. Noteven in the Thicket. Not even if that landlord is Jaybird Proud. I’d bet money he feels the same way you do. You just need to talk to him.”

I flopped back in the chair, completely out of sorts. I couldn’t stop thinking of Jay’s face when he’d gotten up from the table at the restaurant—the tightness of his mouth and the bleakness in his eyes. The idea of Jay being hurt, of me causing that hurt, made me want to vomit. “He was upset, Pete. I’ve never seen him bolt out of a place that fast before. I should have never invited Chad to lunch.”

Pete shrugged. “You’ll explain and apologize. So what if you’re not perfect? Jay’s pretty down-to-earth. He wouldn’t go for someone who wanted to be perfect all the time.”

Pete’s words made something click in my brain. I thought about my time with Chad. Our glossy, picture-perfect life in Athens. From the outside, it had seemed enviable, but inside, it had been stifling.

I’d been running on fumes, chasing a vision of success—a level of perfection—that was as hollow as Chad’s compliments.

“I don’t want a perfect life,” I murmured, processing this new realization. “Perfection’s not attainable or sustainable.”

“Nope. Not any fun either,” Pete agreed. “Jaybird Proud, though. He’s tons of fun.”

I inhaled deeply, remembering the time back in March when the weather was still a bit chilly but with the first hint of spring in the air. Jay had decided to host a “Firepit Feast” in the backyard, complete with a bonfire, homemade chili… and outdoor charades.

“BYOB,” he’d told the guests. “Bring your own blankets.”

When it was Quinn Champion’s turn to play, the man had taken one look at the selection on his piece of paper, shrugged, and immediately started running around the yard while flapping his hands, ducking his head, and jumping over furniture.

“You’re a… a chicken,” Diesel Partridge had guessed. “Throwing a tantrum because the Wi-Fi in the Poultry Palace went out.”

“You’re… Beyoncé’s least-coordinated backup dancer?” Brooks Johnson had offered.

“You’re… little Beau Siegel after gorging himself on leftover Halloween candy,” Brooks’s husband, Mal, had thrown in, laughing when Ava Siegel—Beau’s mom—slapped his leg.

“You’re…you, the morning you managed to buy Taylor Swift tickets,” Quinn’s husband, Champ, had said blandly.

Quinn had stopped flapping and given his husband a raised-eyebrow glare that suggested Champ would be paying for that tease later… though Champ’s answering smirk had said he wouldn’t mind one bit.

“Nah. You’re Indiana Jones when he’s escaping from the Temple of Doom,” Jay had said with utter confidence. “Easy peasy.”

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