Page 60 of Hot Mess Express
“You’re halfway to Rickrolling me with that one,” I mumble.
“Rick who?”
No sense of humor, I swear…“My dad will happily re-treat your property—Trey and Cody’sproperty—for free between his monthly visits, giving … personal, hands-on attention.”
“And I willalsogive you personal, hands-on attention …” He leans forward, lifts his eyebrows, and lowers his voice. “… as was evidenced by that tight hug I gave you last night.”
Something electrical rushes giddily through me. I squash that down at once, ashamed. “We have flexible and affordable payment plans that beat any competitor.”
“Hanging with me costs nothing at all.”
I didn’t realize my eyes had dropped to his muscular chest, as if hypnotized by the way it gently rises and falls with his breaths. I shut my eyes with a start, annoyed with myself, then turn away. I can’t do this anymore. “Whatever, I’m done with my stupid pitch. Give the flyer to Trey. Burn it. I don’t care.” I head off the porch.
“I’ll more than give it to Trey,” Bridger calls back to me. “I’ll talk him into signing up.”
I stop and turn. “So? You want a thank-you or something?”
“No. Just tell me when and where to meet you tonight.”
The audacity of this guy. I find myself clutching my stack offlyers so tightly, they’re crinkling in half. “You and I are not—”
“You should really let me treat those wounds on your arm and knee so they don’t get infected.”
“I can treat my own f—” I stop myself from cussing. I have no idea why. “… m-my own wounds,” I finish awkwardly.
“Your pitch was great, by the way. Honestly. You did well.”
I stare back at him, furious for some childish reason. I want to be annoyed by the compliment, but in truth, I’m more annoyed at how genuine it sounded—and how it makes me feel to receive it.
“E-Eight o’clock, Spruce Cinema,” I blurt out, stunning myself.
15
BRIDGER
Sitting on a cement stump by the wide, broken sidewalk.
Night breeze playing with my hair.
Exercising every last ounce of patience I got left in me.
He’s not a minute late. Not five minutes late. Nor ten.
I wait here for fifty-four minutes, just shy of an hour, before I finally spot him stumbling his way around the corner. He chose a plaid shirt unbuttoned and flapping open over a loose white tank top, jeans, and those same boots he wore working at the church.
But the closer he gets, I notice his posture seems off, as if he’s lugging a heavy backpack over his shoulders even though nothing is there. His expression seems softer, too, almost timid. I wonder if he struggled long and hard before leaving his place on whether or not to show up at all.
The closer he gets, I realize it doesn’t matter how late he is. Just that he chose to come. He’s forgiven for making me wait.
Then he stops, makes a face at me, and barks, “What?”
Okay, maybe not so easily forgiven. “You’re late.”
“Just a little late, calm down.”
“Almost an hour,” I correct him.
He looks surprised as he pulls out his phone to check, and lets out a sigh. “I had to walk.” He stuffs his phone away, lips twisting as he stares off down the street. “This ain’t exactly nextdoor.”
