Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Under the table, Thrasher’s hand found mine. He didn’t even look down. Fingers threaded through mine, palm to palm. He held—not tight, not possessive. Present. When he talked, his thumb rubbed one line across my knuckles like he was marking time. Every so often he’d give that tiny squeeze that says, you still with me? Every time, I answered the squeeze back.
The food came hot and sizzling—the steak whispering to the plate, my chicken sandwich dripping just enough to be worth a napkin. Conversation didn’t stop. It turned into the kind where you pass things you think the other person will like. Tiny cut off a corner of his steak and set it on Lyric’s plate without asking. She did the same with her potato when he admitted he never remembers to order one. Thrasher pushed his fry boat toward me after my eyes lingered one beat too long. I took two. He smirked and pushed it closer like he knew I’d reach again.
“Club needs?” Tiny asked Thrasher at one point, tone neutral like he didn’t want to bring business to the table if business didn’t want to be there.
“Steady,” Thrasher said. “Nothing on fire this week.”
“Good,” Tiny said, and his hand skimmed Lyric’s back where her dress dipped, the kind of touch that was more about him grounding himself than checking on her. I recognized the move. I felt it mirrored in the way Thrasher’s thumb traced my knuckles again.
“Shared with some, but I’ll announce to them all next church, Lyric is mine.”
Thrasher nodded. I waited with baited breath for him to share that I belonged too. Only it didn’t come. I pushed back the hurt I felt.
Lyric’s mouth trembled in that happy way it does. “I keep being scared I’m going to ruin it.”
“You can’t ruin a thing by living inside it honestly,” I said before I thought about whether it was true. It felt true. Thrasher’s hand held mine like a period at the end of the sentence.
At some point, Thrasher brought up a fall festival one town over—fried dough, terrible cover bands, a pie contest that got vicious. “Elaina used to make me go because there was a booth where you could smash old plates with a hammer for a dollar,” he said, and I heard the twist of affection under it like a ribbon.
Lyric lit up. “I love that idea! The smashing. It’s cathartic.”
Tiny gave her a sideways look. “You need to smash something, you tell me.”
“I will,” she said with a grin.
The talk bumped to plans. Maybe we’d go. Maybe we’d ride out early, park behind the firehouse where it’s easier to slip out. I tried to picture walking down a row of tents and not feeling watched. The picture didn’t hurt.
The door opened again, and two locals came in—the kind who wear work boots and look like they were born with poker faces. One of them clocked the patches, eyes flicking fast to our table, and took a table away from us instead of at the bar. It wasn’t hostile, but it was wary. I felt it. The old reflex in me tried to jump to hypervigilance.
Thrasher’s hand squeezed mine once, twice. The pressure said what he didn’t: I see it too, you’re fine. My shoulder went down half an inch. He didn’t take his hand away when the men looked again and realized we weren’t looking back. Tension wandered off like a dog that hadn’t been fed.
We ate until we were full in that easy, satisfied way that settles in your bones. The guys paid in that quiet way men like them do—no theater, just check taken, bills put down, a nod to the waitress that meant “we appreciate you.” On the way out, the waitress called Lyric “pretty girl” and told me to come back for the peach cobbler next time because “we only have it when Brenda’s in the kitchen and she’s in a mood today, honey.”
I promised I would. Being relaxed in town like this was a new feeling. Where we came from everywhere had someone watching and waiting for you to mess up.
Outside, evening had slid into the sweet spot: sky purple at the edges, air not yet sticky again. The crickets had the lot. A moth banged itself against the neon OPEN sign like it believed in it. Tiny’s truck sat two spaces over from Thrasher’s bike. His hand found Lyric’s. They looked like a picture I wanted to keep in my mind and heart forever.
“Text me later,” Lyric said, tugging me in for a fast hug. “Tell me what the wind felt like.”
“Like breathing all the way down,” I said, which made her smile and press her forehead briefly to mine in that old childhood gesture we fell back into when words were too small.
Tiny gave Thrasher a look I assumed was about logistics and men things. It looked a little like respect, a little like the gratitude of someone who had more to lose these days and liked that his friend saw it. Thrasher dipped his chin once. That was enough for both of them.