I drag in a deep breath.
And then exhale as he stretches past me to flip the lock on the delivery door. “Ron’s out sick, so it’s just me, you, Marcus, and Lydia. I guess she got stuck working a double today, so ya know, heads up.”
“Thanks. School’s out for you, I guess?”
“Yep. No more classes,” he says.
“I like that you say classes and not school. It’s like you’re in college and only go to class a couple times a day in between sleeping on couches or”—I catch myself—“I’m gonna go put my stuff up.”
He presses his lips together, holding them in an almost smile. “Sure.”
I split off into the break room and stuff my purse in my locker.
It’s not like I’ve ever been extra eloquent or anything, but what comes out of my mouth in front of Bo Larson doesn’t even qualify as verbal diarrhea. It’s more like the verbal runs, which is gross.
The first time we met, when he was still a new hire, I held my hand out and introduced myself. “Willowdean,” I said. “Cashier, Dolly Parton enthusiast, and resident fat girl.” I waited for his response, but he said nothing. “I mean, I am other things, too. But—”
“Bo.” His voice was dry, but his lips curled into a smile. “My name’s Bo.” He took my hand and a flash of memories I’d never made jolted through my head. Us holding hands in a movie. Or walking down the street. Or in a car.
Then he let go.
That night when I replayed our introductions over and over in my head, I realized that he didn’t flinch when I called myself fat.
And I liked that.
The word fat makes people uncomfortable. But when you see me, the first thing you notice is my body. And my body is fat. It’s like how I notice some girls have big boobs or shiny hair or knobby knees. Those things are okay to say. But the word fat, the one that best describes me, makes lips frown and cheeks lose their color.
But that’s me. I’m fat. It’s not a cuss word. It’s not an insult. At least it’s not when I say it. So I always figure why not get it out of the way?
TWO
I’m scrubbing down the counter as two guys and a girl walk in. Work is so slow that I’ve damn near wiped the enamel off. “What can I get y’all?” I ask, without looking up.
“Bo! Starting point guard for the Holy Cross Bulldogs!” yells the guy on the right in an announcer’s voice with his hands cupped around his mouth.
When Bo doesn’t immediately appear, both boys bark his first name over and over again. “Bo! Bo! Bo!”
The girl situated between them rolls her eyes.
“Bo!” yells Marcus. “Get out here so your asshole friends will shut up.”
Bo rounds the corner as he stuffs his visor into the back pocket of his pants. He crosses his arms over his puffed-out chest. “Hey, Collin.” He nods to the girl. “Amber. Rory.” He leans back against the counter behind us, widening the space between him and his friends. “What’re y’all doing on this side of town?”
“Field trip,” says Collin.
Bo clears his throat, but says nothing. The tension between them vibrates.
The other guy, Rory, I think, studies the menu on the counter. “Hey,” he says to me. “Could I get two dogs? Mustard and relish only.”
“Uh, yeah.” I punch his order into the computer as I try not to let my eyes wander.
“Been a long time,” says Amber.
How is that even possible? There are maybe thirty people in each graduating class at Holy Cross.
Collin drapes his arm over Amber’s shoulder. “Been missin’ you at the gym. Where you been lately?”
“Around,” says Bo.
“Do you want a drink with that?” I ask.
“Yeah,” says Rory and holds a fifty-dollar bill in front of my face.
“I can’t break anything bigger than a twenty.” I point to the small handwritten sign taped to the front of my register.