In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(41)

“He’s not a lumberjack. And you should be.”

“Uuunnghhh,” she groans.

“Hey, any highlights from the shop lately?”

“Oh my god, yes. You remember that really tall, skinny guy who had me do the vertebrae tattoo down his spine?”

“Yeah, the one you kept calling Skeletor, thinking you were funny until Megan told you Skeletor is actually big and blue and muscular?”

“Yeah,” she mumbles. “Anyway, he came back in and he wants me to do his whole skeleton. Like, every bone, little by little.”

“That’s awesome,” I tell her. Ginger likes large-scale projects and she loves doing realistic black and gray. “Did you start?”

“Yeah, I did his left arm. It’s gonna be sick. Not sure when he’ll have the cash for more, but I’m totally into it.”

“Sweet. Hey, my brother hasn’t come back in, has he?”

“No,” she scoffs. “Definitely scared him away. Asshole. Have you talked to them recently?”

“It may shock you to know that none of them have sent so much as a text message since I left.”

“Sorry, babycakes.”

“No surprise,” I say. And it’s not, really. It’s not like I’ve been thinking about my dad and my brothers much or anything. I mean, most of my contact with them in the last few years has been cursory and everything before that was them messing with me, since they found out I was gay. No. Before they found out. Still, I hadn’t even realized I was hoping maybe now that we had some space between us, they’d…. What—miss me? Nah. But… wonder if I was okay? Maybe.

“Listen,” Ginger says, “it’s their f*cking loss, you hear me? You just don’t worry about them. You just do your teaching and write your book and forget about them. Go on your date. Talk about whatever you want. Oh, and ask lots of questions. And don’t swear.”

“What?”

“Just, you know, don’t swear too much. It’s not polite on a date.”

“What are you, a f*cking matchmaker?”

“Just, don’t say ‘f*ck’ every five seconds, okay, *? It’s crude. And it shows you don’t have respect for your date.”

“Girl, you’re crazy.” But I like when she tells me shit like that. It feels like the kind of scolding that someone who cares about you gives.

“Where are you going for dinner?”

“Some Italian place near campus. I mean, this town only has, like, four restaurants.”

“Don’t wear a white shirt, in case you get sauce on it.”

“Dude, I don’t even own a white shirt.” Not since the one I bought for my interview got covered in Marilyn’s blood, anyway.

“Oh, right. Well, you know what I mean. When I went to La Dolce with that Andrew guy last year, I wore my white jacket—you know, the cloth biker-style one?—and I sprayed tomato sauce all over it. Looked like I’d been in a shoot-out. Not a good look. Just saying.”

“God, I forgot about Andrew. He was such a tool.”

“True that. Anyway: learn from my mistakes, young Jedi.”

“No white. Check.”

“Hey, D?”

“Hmm.”

“I can tell you like the lumberjack. Just… be yourself, huh? Like, your actual self. The way you are with me. Not the way you are with your brothers. Or with Richard.”

“And how am I with them?” It comes out snippier than I meant it.

“You’re just really… guarded. Quick to throw down. You know.”

“Whatever,” I mutter.

“I’m serious. It may not work out with him, sure. And that’s fine. Just… give him a chance.”

“Message received,” I tell her with a sigh.

“I adore you,” she says in the voice I can never resist.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go draw on someone.”

“Bye, babycakes.”




MY CONVERSATION with Ginger has been on my mind all day, so when I run home to change before meeting Rex, I call the auto shop. It’s about 5:00 p.m., so they’ll probably all be there. I’ll just say a quick hello, check in; no big deal.

“Pat’s,” a gruff voice says on the eighth ring.

“Luther?” I say. “It’s Daniel.”

“Oh, hey, kid. How’s tricks?”

“Pretty good,” I say. “Weird to be out of the city and all. How’s Maria and the kids?”

“Oh, good, good, you know.”

“Great. Hey, listen, are any of them around?”

“Yep, here’s Sam. Bye, kid.”

“Daniel?” Sam sounds a little surprised to hear from me, but not unfriendly. We don’t really have anything in common, but he always gave me the least shit. Most likely just because he’s the oldest and didn’t want to waste his time.

“How’s it going, bro?” I ask.

“Not bad,” he says, and starts talking about some new car he’s working on. It’s like I never left. My brothers all do this. They know I don’t care about cars but they don’t have anything else to say. So I let him talk while I pull on jeans and change my shirt.