In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(100)

Fuck. When he puts it like that, I guess Rex really did only tell me about his dyslexia because of our shitty date. Was it not actually a sign that he trusted me, but just a sign that he felt sorry for me? Would he have told me otherwise? I don’t know.

And even though I should be furious at Will for what is clearly his low opinion of me, the way he told me off reminds me so much of Ginger that I’m filled with a rush of warmth and longing. Longing for Ginger, but also the briefest thought that maybe Will and I could be friends.

“Do you want to come to Rex’s for Thanksgiving?” I ask him. And I allow myself a brief moment of satisfaction as his self-possessed mask falls away and he looks genuinely surprised and, I think, a bit pleased.




“DANG, I like this Will guy—sorry, pumpkin. He’s so got your number.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“So…” Ginger pauses. “Are you going to stay? I know you didn’t want to at first. You said you were going to go on the job market again.”

“I dunno, Ginge.” I’m sure she can hear the conflict in my voice. “I mean, I’ll definitely at least look at the job list when it comes out. See if there’s anything too good to pass up. But… f*ck, I really don’t know. I just never thought I’d be in this position. God, I used to pity the people who had partners they had to take into account when they were on the job market. It just makes everything harder.”

“Partners, huh?”

“What? No, I just meant—”

“I know what you meant; don’t hurt yourself.”

“So, we’re having Thanksgiving. Me and Rex.”

“That’s great, sweet cheeks. I’ll be eating The Burrito with my window open, so if I choke while I’m alone then the smell of my rotting corpse will waft out the window and I’ll be found more quickly,” she says dramatically.

“I think having the window open in November would make it so your corpse didn’t really smell that much, actually. Seriously, though, you’re not going to your parents’ at all?”

“Psh. I might stop by,” she says. “Of course, it’s not much use trying to go to dinner at the house of someone who sucks up all the oxygen in the room. Makes it kinda hard to eat, ya know?”

Ginger’s mother is the kind of nervous, hovering woman who counts how many glasses of wine Ginger’s had and tells her about all the neighbors’ children’s accomplishments but never acknowledges Ginger’s. It doesn’t help that Ginger’s older sister is certifiably off her nut and always needs to be the center of attention, or that her parents refuse to say her older brother’s name and pretend that they never had a son.

“Christ,” I say. “Do we know anyone with a normal f*cking family?” There’s a charged silence on the line. “Ginge?”

“Well, actually….”

“Actually…?”

“I kind of… met someone. And his family seems about as normal as they come.”

“Holy shit, you already met his family? Tell me.”

“Well…. You know him, actually. You remember that sandwich place that opened down the street from the shop at the beginning of the summer?”

“The one you said had real bagels?”

“Yeah. Anyway, you remember the cute guy who worked there?”

“Uh, dude, not to judge, seriously, but that guy’s like eighteen.”

“No, not the kid with the glasses! The redhead.”

“Oh shit, right. He’s hot, in a Josh Homme kind of way.”

“I know, right? That’s exactly what I thought. I went in there for a bagel and cream cheese a few weeks ago before I opened the shop. I was half-asleep—you know how I am before I’ve had my coffee—and I dropped the bagel on the floor as I was putting cream in my coffee.”

“Uh-oh. Thou hast not seen rage like the rage of a Ginger sans bagel and coffee.”

“Seriously. So, I drop the bagel and I’m just like swearing a blue streak, right? And that’s when he comes in the door. And he looks at glasses guy behind the counter in horror—like, what the hell did you do to make this lady lose her shit. Glasses guy’s kind of terrified, so I say, ‘Oh, no, it was my fault; I just dropped my bagel,’ thinking he’d nod and smile. But he walked behind the counter and made me another bagel and cream cheese, then put it in a bag with three other bagels and filled up a to-go container of cream cheese—that awesome chive stuff. And he hands it to me and says—get this: ‘Just in case the vagaries of your day find you needing another one.’ I mean, who the f*ck says that? At first I thought, ruh roh: potential overly sincere Renaissance festival douchebag? But then he winked at me. A really filthy, flirtatious wink. And, of course, I went back for another bagel the next day.”

“That’s hot, Ginge. So, you’ve met his family?”

“Oh, not intentionally. Turns out glasses guy is his cousin and his dad comes by to fix stuff in the shop all the time. His mom sometimes brings him lunch. It’s hilarious. Every time he’s all, ‘Mom, I make food here,’ and she’s like, ‘give your mother a kiss and shut your mouth.’ Priceless, babycakes! Anyway, they’re so nice.”

“So, why don’t you have Thanksgiving with him? What’s his name, by the way, so I don’t just think of him as Josh Homme—or as The Ginger, which would be confusing.”