Page 21 of Small City Heart
The Black woman sitting next to him leaned in. “Are you Veronica’s son?”
“Yes. Patrick.” He held out his hand to her, and she shook it with a smile.
“Della. Nice to meet you. I was a grade below your mom. Had to wait until she’d graduated to get a starting spot on the volleyball team. She was a good athlete. Did you play any sports?”
“Athletics weren’t my thing.”
A stiff-looking blonde woman wearing an American flag blouse snorted, and Patrick glanced at her sharply. He couldn’t place the woman.
“Oh, ignore her,” Timmy whispered loudly with a gesture toward the blonde. Timmy’s beard was scraggly, but he had bright, clear eyes.
Della said, “So what do you do? You don’t live around here, do you?”
The way she said that felt off to Patrick. It was like she couldn’t imagine him here in Small City, like he didn’t fit her image of a Small City resident.
Maybe he was being sensitive.
“I currently live in Chicago. I’m a photographer.”
“Oh, how interesting,” she said, and he relaxed because she sounded genuine and the blonde no longer seemed to be paying them any mind. “I got out of town and moved to Seattle after high school. First chance I got. Couldn’t imagine sticking around in this podunk place.” She smiled conspiratorially. “Do you have a partner or significant other with you?”
The blonde woman, who evidentlywaspaying them mind, tittered. “Oh, Della, were you always this PC, or is it from living out there on the West Coast with all those hippies?”
A few people shifted around, evidently uncomfortable with the turn in conversation.
“I don’t have a boyfriend at the moment,” Patrick said, trying to head off the tension.
Della glared at the other woman before turning her attention back to Patrick. “Well, you be careful. If there was one thing I learned when I was younger, it was that everyone tries to marry you off when you come back home for visits. If you don’t watch out, this town will play matchmaker for you. Then you’ll be stuck here.” She gave a fake shudder and a wink.
“That wouldn’t be so bad,” he said. Della and Timmy shared an ornery glance.
“I’d rather chew off my own arm than live here. Everyone would be all up in my business all the time,” Della said.
Timmy chimed in. “It’s not so bad if you like a place enough. But to live here, you pretty much got to be into fishing, hunting, cattle, and small-town politicking, or you’ll be bored silly.”
“Is that what you do in your time off?” Patrick asked. “Fish and hunt?”
“No. I’m a truck driver. I’m out and about enough to get my fill of excitement. Then I play video games when I’m home,” Timmy said, and Patrick laughed. Timmy was the last man he’d expect to be a gamer, but it took all kinds.
“Some people live in small towns because they value family and tradition and faith. Big cities can be cesspools,” the blonde woman said.
Timmy snorted and mouthed, “Yikes,” at Della and Patrick, and they both stifled laughter.
Through the laughter, discomfort wormed its way into Patrick’s stomach. This woman, with her big-as-Texas hair and gaudy patriotism, was such a caricature, but Patrick couldn’t help but wonder if she was the rule rather than exception here in Small City. Maybe his instinct to get out of town as a seventeen-year-old—the same one that had evidently pushed Della to the West Coast and Timmy to video games—had been solid.
His mom returned with a hot dog. He gratefully grabbed it and stuffed it into his mouth, hoping to get out of the talk of cesspools.
A rough hand landed on the back of his neck, and warmth hit him directly in the chest. He immediately knew that hand belonged to Charlie, like their skin was talking, sayinghi, how are you, please keep touching. Patrick tipped his head back to see Charlie and tried not to make moony eyes at him.
Charlie grinned, then squatted down next to Patrick’s lawn chair, his hand trailing off Patrick’s neck slowly and raising goosebumps along his arms.
“Hi, Veronica,” Charlie said as he nodded and smiled at the rest of the group. Before hearing anyone’s response, he turned to Patrick. “I love your hair like that.”
Patrick flushed and held back his delighted smile. He’d pulled his hair into a messy bun on top of his head—it was too humid to have hair on the back of his neck—but tendrils had snuck out around his face already.
“Thank you.”
“You have mustard right … well, let me just …” Charlie reached up and rubbed at a spot on Patrick’s chin. The small touch sent a wave of giddiness through him.
